by Amelia Stone
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amelia Stone
DESIRE
Copyright © 2017 Amelia Stone
All rights reserved
Cover image: Stefano Cavoretto
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or advertisement.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amelia Stone
“What you get is what you seek.”
- Gene Loves Jezebel, “Desire (Come and Get It)”
For Kristi, who believed in Amelia Stone before she even existed. I hope your sassy secretary(ish) meets with your approval. But if not, please don’t come at me with the ninja moves. Or the pepper spray.
Author’s Note
The South Bay Soundtracks series is based around a simple premise – that the music we love provides the soundtrack to our lives. Each book in the series will feature a themed playlist drawn from the characters and the story, and listening to it will enhance the reading experience.
Desire is a love letter to the eighties from the prologue to the epilogue. Larkin and her late husband, Daniel, conceived Soundtrax as an homage to the great record shops of yesteryear, building their business around the decade they both loved so much.
If you want to listen along with the book, check out this playlist, courtesy of Spotify.
“The ocean sang, the conversation’s dimmed
Go build yourself another dream, this choice isn’t mine.”
- R.E.M., “So. Central Rain”
I scrubbed at my hair, working the shampoo in over and over, nails scraping at my scalp until it felt almost raw. I scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed again, angry thoughts streaming through my mind as steadily as the water flowed from the shower head. Lathered, lathered some more, skipped the rinse, and repeated. Then I stood, closing my eyes and letting the steam seep into my pores, flushing out my hurt. Finally, when my legs had turned to jelly and I felt like I couldn’t hold my arms up anymore, I dipped my head under the spray. When the suds had all rinsed out, I sat down on the edge of the tub, staring at my toes.
He left. I told him I was just going for a run along the beach, that I needed to blow off steam. I made him promise we would talk more when I got back. I’d looped all the way around our tiny hometown of South Bay Island for more than an hour, silently howling at the dark clouds in the morning sky until they inevitably erupted with rain. Then I turned and let my feet carry me home.
But when I got there, he was gone.
Daniel and I never fought. This was the first time in almost eight years together that we’d had anything more than a mild clash of words. We were one of those nauseating couples that everyone hated. We agreed on everything, laughed at all the same jokes, held hands everywhere we went, kissed like no one was watching. We even sometimes finished each other’s sentences. We were gross, and we knew it. But we were happy. We were us.
“And we’re still us,” I growled as I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the backs of my hands.
So we didn’t agree on this one thing. We could get through it. We’d just been so stressed lately, what with the grand opening of Soundtrax a couple of months ago. Clearly, we’d let the pressure of starting a business get to us. But we could work this out. We were young; only twenty-three. There was still plenty of time to think about this. One of us could have a change of heart long before it got to be too late.
But either way, we could still be happy. We had each other, and that could be enough for me. It would be enough.
Resolved, I turned the now-tepid water off and stepped out of the tub. I hummed to myself as I dried off, an old R.E.M. tune randomly popping into my head and providing my internal soundtrack. I ran a comb through my tangled hair, threw on the first clean clothes I could find, and toed into my shoes without bothering to lace them up. Daniel had probably just gone for a bike ride on the boardwalk. He did that every now and then, when he wanted some alone time.
Well, I would just have to go after him. I needed to see him, needed to talk it out with him. I needed to know we would be okay.
I glanced out the rain-streaked window, the flash of lightning over the Great South Bay telling me a summer storm was well under way. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I had to find Daniel. I had to reassure him that I was okay with his decision. As long as I still had him, I could be okay with anything.
Grabbing an umbrella from the hall closet, I turned to leave through the back door. But a flash of white in the kitchen caught my eye, and I stopped.
There was an envelope propped up on the counter.
I hadn’t seen it earlier. But then, I’d been a seething mass of anger and pain when I got home and realized Daniel wasn’t there. I’d stormed through the house, seeing nothing but his conspicuous absence, until I ended up in the bathroom. At that point, all I’d wanted was to shower off the stink of sweat and rain and rage until I couldn’t think anymore.
I picked up the envelope, instantly recognizing the familiar slanted block letters spelling out my name. It was the same writing that used to fill the notes he’d pass me between classes back in high school. It was the same hand that had written his vows out on the back of a paper napkin from a fast food chain. The ketchup-stained square was now framed in a shadow box on the mantel, alongside a dried peony and a photo of our first kiss as man and wife, more than four years ago now.
The corners of my mouth tipped up as my fingers ran over the letters. He�
��d written my name out in his careful print, with a little heart above the ‘I.’ He typically wrote all in caps, except for that one letter, and only in my name. That ‘I’ was always lowercase and dotted with, as he called it, the symbol of his heart.
Like I said, we were disgusting.
I took a deep breath, feeling relief wash over me. He still loved me, and it was going to be okay. We’d figure it all out. This was not the end. I flipped the envelope over, digging a fingertip into the flap, eager to read the words of comfort and reassurance, the love letter I was sure would be inside.
But I was interrupted before I could open it. Someone was ringing the doorbell.
“And every time I try to pick it up
Like falling sand
As fast as I pick it up
It runs away through my clutching hands.”
- The Cure, “A Letter to Elise”
I was hiding in my bedroom, buried deep under the covers, when the doorbell rang.
I ignored it, instead reaching for the nightstand and pulling the drawer open. I needed to remind myself why I couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not ever.
Unwilling to lift my head from my soft, comfortable pillow and actually look through the now-open drawer, I searched blindly, nails scrabbling on the smoothly polished wood until I found what I was looking for. My fingers finally closed around the well-worn envelope, but instead of the sigh of relief you might expect, the sound I made was weary. So very weary.
Opening this drawer and extracting this envelope had become a sad, fruitless routine, and I was tired of it. I wasn’t sure why I continued to do it every day, and several times a day at that. I didn’t actually want to read the letter that I knew was neatly tucked inside the envelope. I didn’t want to know what it said, what truths it imparted. I already knew, without even having to glance at them, that the pages would ruin me.
Well, as much as anyone already broken beyond repair could be ruined.
So the motions I repeated time and time again had become a bizarre ritual, equal parts comfort and torture. Torture, because I desperately needed to know what was in the envelope, even as I knew I’d never open it. Comfort, because even just holding it, just running my fingertips over the familiar handwriting spelling out my name, connected me to the man who’d given it to me. A connection I both craved and - when the guilt ran too swift and deep to ford - hated.
I stared at the envelope, silently urging myself to just fucking open it already. Just get it over with. Things couldn’t get much worse, could they?
The doorbell rang again, but I continued to ignore it.
Meanwhile, my roommate Taylor was in the bathroom down the hall, singing as she applied her makeup. Her melodious voice wafted throughout the house and nearly drowned out all other sound. I groaned when I recognized the song she was belting: the latest chart-topping hit from the trendiest pop princess. Which meant she was feeling pretty good tonight. Generally speaking, the better her mood, the more cloying her internal soundtrack became.
I frowned. These days, my internal soundtrack was more of a never-ending loop of songs in minor keys.
The doorbell rang yet again, and this time Taylor’s singing stopped.
“Larkin!” she trilled. “Can you get the door?”
I sighed as I pulled the drawer out again, carefully placing the envelope in the back, behind the never-used remote control and a dust-covered shadow box. I squeezed my eyes shut as I slowly closed the drawer again, letting out a sigh. The internal debate was over; the envelope would remain unopened. For now.
“Larkin?” Taylor called in that same sweet, unruffled tone. A normal person would be impatient at my non-response, but not my best friend. Impatience was not in her emotional vocabulary. She was the human equivalent of sunshine and rainbows.
I grunted out an indistinct reply as I flipped the blankets off and heaved myself to my feet. Could I get the door? Sure. But did I want to? Hell no. Really, the last thing I wanted to do was comply with her request. I could barely get myself to leave the house for anything except work, and even then it had been a long, long time. Come to think of it, I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d been to the shop.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
And anyway, tonight’s outing was about the farthest thing from work I could think of. So much so that I’d been filled with dread ever since Taylor ambushed me with her plans this morning.
Excuse me, our plans.
Still, I got up, because doing so gave me an odd kind of advantage. If I answered the door, I could intercept the man on the other side of it and convince him to go home before this whole shit-fest even started.
Once out of bed, I put my shoes on and headed down the hallway. I frowned as I passed the opened bathroom door, where Taylor was applying what I knew was probably her fourth coat of lip gloss. On top of two coats of moisturizing lipstick in some fresh and winsome shade of pink, of course. In fact, Taylor had plastered her naturally stunning face with what looked like half the contents of a Sephora, and my eyes watered as her perfume assaulted my sinuses.
I waved a hand in front of my face to try to disperse the scent as I took in her outfit. Her little hot pink dress (because Taylor did not wear black) was well, little. It was tight, sleeveless, and its hem was shorter than the cheerleading uniforms she used to wear in high school, leaving her mile-long, tanned legs on full display. She was dressed for July in Ibiza when it was October in New York.
She looked like a runway model on cotton candy-flavored steroids. Which made me even more irritable, of course. If she’d put this much effort into her ensemble, she must really be excited. And excitement of any kind was not in my emotional vocabulary. Not anymore.
“It’s like forty degrees out, Tay. You’re going to freeze in that dress,” I grumbled. “And your hair is going to stick to your face. It’s windy tonight.”
“But I look super cute,” she replied, turning this way and that to look at herself in the full-length mirror next to the vanity. “And it’s important to put your best foot forward on a first date.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I thought this was your third date,” I argued, completely ignoring the rest of her comment. Because we both knew I didn’t have a best foot, tonight or any night. Both of mine had been decidedly underwhelming for a long time.
To be precise, it had been sixteen months, twenty-three days, seven hours, and – I checked my watch – thirty-two minutes since I’d bothered to put my best foot forward.
Since I’d bothered with much of anything, really.
And anyway, it was highly unusual for Taylor to go on a second date with someone, let alone a third. She was a serial first dater. She enjoyed the attention and gentlemanly behavior, the effort to impress, that she received on first dates. She thrived on the whole getting-to-know-you pageant. And though she’d never admit it, she liked the lack of expectations. Taylor was all of the romance of dating, with none of the pesky commitment of relationships.
I found it better to skip the whole dog-and-pony show altogether and just stay at home, where I didn’t have to cater to anyone’s expectations of me. No dressing up, no looking my best. No smiling and pretending it was all okay, that I wasn’t dead inside. When I was at home, safely burrowed under the covers, I didn’t have to pretend to care.
Taylor frowned as she caught my eye in the mirror. The expression looked uncomfortable on her face – probably because it so rarely came out to play.
“It’s still important to look your best,” she countered in a patient, upbeat tone, the way one speaks to a toddler.
I stuck my tongue out and made a raspberry in reply, as a toddler does.
She turned to me, her eyes dipping to give me a thorough inspection. Her frown deepened as she took in the stretched-out leggings, beat-up Chuck Taylors, and ragged, oversized sweater that constituted my outfit for tonight.
“It’s something you really should try, too,” she added, and somehow it didn’t sound like
a dig. She had a knack for making everything she said sound nice. But then, most everything she said genuinely was nice.
Sometimes I wondered how we were even friends.
“I love this sweater,” I muttered, wrapping my arms around myself. Pretending, yet again, that they were his arms instead.
Her frown softened. “I know you do,” she replied gently. “It was Daniel’s sweater.”
My gut clenched, as it did every time someone said his name. I grunted, but otherwise made no reply.
She sighed. “Look, I get it. It’s comforting. You feel safe in it.”
I nodded, looking down at my feet. She knew the score better than anyone. The three of us had been inseparable since high school, Daniel and Taylor and me. The Three Amigos, taking on the El Guapos of the world together. Until one day, when we were separated against our wills.
She knew what I was going through, how decimated I had been. She was grieving, too.
A small kernel of hope planted itself in my chest as I looked up again. Maybe she wouldn’t make me do this tonight. Maybe, just maybe, she’d have mercy on me.
But then she clapped her hands together, smiling brightly, and my hope withered and died.
“But you can’t wear that on a date, silly,” she sing-songed.
I scowled. “I don’t even want to go on this date, Tay,” I argued, for what felt like the thousandth time today.
Actually, I’d said it thirty-three times. I’d counted, because counting was just what I did.
“I’m not ready,” I added.
I’d never be ready. Not tonight. Not ever.
She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s been over a year since Daniel died, Lark.”
I huffed, shrugging my shoulder to throw off her hand. Actually, it had been sixteen months, twenty-three days, seven hours, and – I checked my watch – thirty-four minutes.
But who was counting?