by Sunniva Dee
Not long ago, my Jude would have grinned at this. He’d pull me in, golden bangs falling over me and tickling me while he ran his nose up mine. He’d croon, “Oh and weren’t they right. I found my haven—in you.”
I’d push him good-naturedly, not allowing fear of the future to ruin our love. “But you’d be safe at home with your parents if they hadn’t crushed on the name of our church.”
He’d kiss my nose, groan, and say, “Right, and I wouldn’t have a beautiful wife.”
“A child bride,” I teased once.
“Nineteen is a fine age. Get them early.” He winked, knowing well he only held two months on me.
We were young. Married. And so on the run.
I was born to modest parents in Buenos Aires. Until I was seven, life tore along like a flawless football game. Love abounded, and unlike some of my classmates, I never went hungry.
On weeknights, friends knocked, asking me out to play, and on the weekends, my big, close-knit family on Mom’s side worshipped my cousins and me. I remember laughter. Heartfelt, lingering hugs. Daylong meals and sleepovers with hose-downs in my grandparents’ backyard when we became rowdy from the summer heat. I remember wet smooches from aunts and uncles, my tías and tíos. Secrets shared with cousins, fights when Diego, Mariana, and I disagreed, and smacks from our mothers when the disputes escalated.
We played in tree houses we built and rebuilt in the city park while the public grill simmered, the aroma from our family parrilla the only thing able to draw us away.
My parents struggled to make ends meet but didn’t involve me in their adult concerns. With dedication and modesty, my father paid rent on our home, month after painstaking month. My friends and I all grew up in studio apartments within rundown, wooden buildings on the water, but even the colors of our houses—bright blues, reds, yellows, and greens—hinted at nothing but abundance.
Never did I identify the Vidal family’s poverty. Such a concept, such gloom, exists only when compared to outlandish cornucopias I didn’t encounter in La Boca.
I was an only child for longer than most in my neighborhood and rejoiced when Mom’s belly began growing. To touch it, to see my brother swell into an eight-month piece of art made my child heart inflate with bliss. He ballooned my mother’s shape and caused happy grins on my father’s face. Yes, life was good in La Boca. Life was good.
My parents did not drive a car recklessly to get themselves killed. They took a chance on a quarter-mile crosswalk on an avenida in Barrio Norte, en route for the zoo. The Lord knows why I was not with them. Onlookers said a Coca-Cola truck sped up at the sight of them braving such a busy road. The driver’s plan had been to scare them, but instead it hit… hit—
Grief roars as loudly in seven-year-olds as in adults. I cried for my parents. For Ariel, the baby brother I’d never meet. I sobbed over dress-up games I’d never force him to play, and my tears became the Sin Flood as my grandparents on my father’s side moved me into their house.
Life comes with expenses, the cost sometimes steeper than the reward. I lost my parents and my brother. Then my neighborhood, the contact with Mom’s family—cousins, aunts, uncles, and my grandparents.
Soon, I’d lose my country.
I jump when knuckles rap on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” I breathe to Jude. Silence walls me from the bathroom as I walk into our tiny den. There’s still seventies-style, deep red carpet under my toes. We own our creep-in; Jude bought it outright before his parents cut him off and popped the savings they’d set up for him in a trust fund. “Misuse,” they called it. “Hasty teenagers.
“As much as we love Nadia,” they added.
The carpet stays for now—we can’t afford to replace it. Instead, I’ve painted the walls a matching, faded red and the window frames a warm mahogany. Jude accepted it because “it’s Nadia.”
“I love everything you,” he said back then.
I hear Zoe like she’s inside already. Paper-thin walls and ceilings strip privacy away, leaving only the most laid-back tenants to renew their contracts in the leased apartments.
“Come on, Nadia!” she shouts.
Out of habit, I let my gaze scan our place before I go to open: the bathroom, teetering between the sleeping alcove and the den; the nonexistent hallway; the front door swinging straight into our tiny living room. It’s tidy. Presentable. Just that one sock of Jude’s collecting dust on the bathroom floor. The distance is short between where I stand and the entrance. It takes me seconds to crook my fingers around the chain link. I unhook it and allow her to enter.
Blue eyes dim at the sight of me. “Get dressed,” she says.
My eyes go to the wristwatch I rarely pay attention to. “It’s four thirty in the afternoon—it’s not the morning, and I’m not supposed to go to work.”
“Yeah, sweetie,” she whispers, like she feels bad for me, causing a lump to ferment in my throat.
“Don’t do the pity thing,” I say.
Zoe. When I started working at Scott’s Diner, she quickly became my friend. In the beginning, I was her awkward, inexperienced acquaintance, but we grew close, and she has since picked up the pieces of my sanity in more ways than I could have imagined.
Zoe. She’s always here for me. Sometimes, I wonder about her patience. She’s not a saint, and yet her patience is saintly. Sometimes, I want her to just go away. Like now.
“I’m not coming wherever it is,” I tell her, but she brushes my bed-hair away from my face and nods.
“Yeah, you are. Concert, remember? We’re going to see Luminessence tonight, and even better, the hot Swedish guys in their opening band, Clown Irruption.”
I feel my head move from side to side, rejecting our former agreement. Zoe stops it with both hands, holding my face still, and I close my eyes.
“No, you’re not backing out of this. The tickets are already paid for.”
“We’ve seen both bands before.”
“Precisely.”
I’m not following her logic. Been there, done that is my take on this.
“Plus, you promised,” she says. “It’s in the freaking arena, and they’ll be selling beer and wine.”
“We sell beer and wine at Scott’s.”
“—and work there. And it’s not a concert. Nadia, Nadia,” she tsks.
The sigh sieving out of my lungs depletes me of energy. I want to go back to bed. I shoot a longing gaze behind me to crumpled sheets and indentations in pillows. See the sweet depression in Jude’s where his head should be next to mine right now.
“No, don’t even think about it. Let’s. Get. Dressed.”
“Who says that?” I mutter, trotting back to the bedroom. “Preschool teacher much? No need to include yourself in the ‘getting dressed’ part.”
I shoot her a onceover that reveals studiously straightened, shiny, blonde lengths surrounding her doll face. Nose pointy but small, still powdered to perfection in the blazing L.A. afternoon heat. Pink miniskirt, silk top with ruffles accentuates her boobs in the front, and her stilettos are so tall only Zoe can pull them off. Today, they’re a bright, Melrose Place gold.
“Yay, she’s being testy. Now, we’re talkin’,” Zoe says. We rifle through the small closet I share with Jude. My clothes outweigh his, but neither of us has a lot. I don’t want to think about how beautifully folded his are. My heart drops, recalling how they’ve become fewer, month by month. I make a mental note to keep that from happening.
Jude.
In the end, Zoe and I settle on an outfit she thinks is too dark and I think has a too-deep neckline. My husband bought it for me. I’ve worn it a couple of times, but it’s not me.
“Shut up,” Zoe says. “Your waist is crazy narrow, and this dress really shows off your curves.” Her critical eye scours my backside before she scales to my head. “Okay, so those long, chocolate locks of yours will need a twirling. Hmm.”
I don’t like the look on her face. Zoe pinches her mouth with two fingers and bl
ows air into her hand, getting ready to shoot me The Truth.
“I’m done watching you get thinner. And thinner and thinner. Something has to be done. You don’t have a butt anymore either, and guys love a good butt.”
“Guys? I’m married,” I say.
Zoe’s head snaps up from the shoes she’s holding, and blue eyes ten shades lighter than Jude’s ignite with fury. “But he’s not doing it for you now, is he?”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” Zoe’s pitch slinks low and repentant from next to me in the cab. It took her long enough.
“You’re mean. I should have stayed at home,” I say, but her hand goes out and pets my cheek, fingers feminine-smooth, silky soft and different from Jude’s.
“What good would it do though, sweetie? You need to live a little.” She means well, and I love her. She needs to stop talking.
“You fucking live.” My outburst is unintentional and leaves Zoe momentarily speechless. The taxi driver turns up the radio, some country song melding with the smell of Wunderbaum. Who decided car fresheners were worthy of an invention anyway? I feel sick.
“I am living.” Zoe’s voice lowers through the words. “We’re going to a concert. We’ll have drinks. Dance, Nadia. Remember dancing?”
“I don’t want to dance.”
“Bull. Once we’re there, the crowd will be fantastic. Everyone will be on their feet, probably rushing the front of the stage and mosh-pitting.”
“Oh no,” I mutter as her short, black nails go to her mouth for a quick nibble of happy-jittery energy.
I stare out the window. Let my eyes first fix then give up on each palm tree passing us. Zoe is the life of the party, a quirky, charming blast to be around in this mood. Just—you have to be in the mood too. I hope she calms down.
I should go home.
“Emil…” Zoe hums. “He’s so freaking hot. Kisses like a pro too.”
“Emil who?” I ask because it will make her talk about something besides mosh pits.
Her jaw drops in exaggerated surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the lead singer of Clown Irruption? He squirms up there on stage, all smarmy and slinking around his microphone. All sweaty, and then—”
“Ew,” I say.
“Oh come on, ‘sweaty’ is like sex. Or, like, sex is sweaty.”
I groan. “I’m not comfortable talking about this, Zoe.”
“Which you need to get over and I’m helping. Did you see when he was singing that one song, the super-sad, really beautiful song, how he massaged his bulge on the mic stand? I swear he’s got a full-on joystick. Maybe I’ll volunteer to help him with it.” She yells the last part, because the driver has notched the radio up to concert level, despite the tune being slower than a psalm.
Zoe bounces closer to me. Leans her chin on my shoulder so she’s sure I can hear her when she says, “You notice that? The driver”—she wheeze-shouts now—“is a fellow prude of yours!”
To read more, click here.
I loved writing In The Absence of You. Aishe’s voice, Emil’s story, it all flowed out so easily. It was a blast to hang out with Nadia, Troll, Bo and the rest of the band from Walking Heartbreak again.
Thank you so much to my husband, Michael. This story would have come out quite differently if it weren’t for his almost two decades in the music industry, touring for a living. I love you, baby.
I knew this would be my most shocking book to date, which was reflected in some of the feedback from my author besties. Lynn Vroman, Cheryl McIntyre, D Nichole King, Angela McPherson, and Laura Thalassa: your input, kind comments, and suggestions will never be taken for granted. I appreciate you so much. Without your gushing, your preparing me for the readers’ anguish over such an unpredictable, real story—the final version of this novel would not have become what it is.
To my beta readers, Renee McMillan and April Martin: thank you for always being there for my books and me, even when you’re a little bit worried as you dive in.
To my blogger friends, you story-hungry bees who collect and spread the word about cover reveals, new releases, and sales to the readers: you know your role—yet do you understand how much you mean? I am so grateful for your support.
To my readers: thank you so much for coming back for more of my wild books. I write for you. You, you, you. Tell other readers about my book babies and leave a review if you’re so inclined; it makes us authors very happy.
Until the next book!
Between studies, teaching, and advising, Sunniva has spent most of her adult life in a college environment. Her novels are new adult fiction geared toward smart, passionate readers with a love for eclectic language and engaging brain and heart while reading.
Born in the Land of the Midnight Sun, the author spent her early twenties making the world her playground. Southern Europe: Spain, Italy, Greece—Argentina: Buenos Aires, in particular. The United States finally kept her interest, and after half a decade in California, she now lounges in the beautiful city of Savannah.
Sometimes, Sunniva writes with a paranormal twist, but mostly, it is new adult fiction in its original form: young adult fiction at a more mature level. Books in this style so far are: Pandora Wild Child, Leon’s Way, Adrenaline Crush, Walking Heartbreak, Dodging Trains, and now In The Absence of You. The short story, Karma’s Mistake, is accessible for free only by signing up for her newsletter.
This author is the happiest when her characters let their emotions run off with them, shaping her stories in ways she never foresaw. Like in real life, her goal is to keep the reader on their toes until the end of each story.
Writing this, in Mid-June of 2016, several projects are in the making: I’m currently writing Victor and Helena’s story, another fighter novel based on characters you’ve met in Dodging Trains. There is so much more to their lives than their compulsive hookups at Stripes.
I look back at the promises I’ve made in my “Future Projects” sections before. Many of them don’t come to fruition, as strongly as I might feel about them in that moment. In hindsight, I cringe, reading them more as a creative log of which stories kept my brain whirling at the time.
Today, I can say two things for sure: Troy’s story will come very soon. Maybe before Elias’. And then I have another fighter who’s screaming at me. If he keeps being this loud, my only option will be to write him. ;-)
For you, the reader, the easiest way to keep on top of my projects is to sign up for my newsletter. It’s a once-or-twice a month update on my latest crazies as well as special offers from myself and author friends.
Copyright © 2016 by Sunniva Dee
Cover design by Clarise Tan
Editing by Kim Grenfell
Interior book design by John Gibson
1st edition June 28th, 2016
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission from the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Made with care by John Gibson
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