Copyright © 2015 Brooke Cumberland
www.brookecumberland.com
Pushing the Limits
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Literary Editor: Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Manuscript Service
All rights reserved. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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He’s my art professor.
I’m his student.
With an electric connection and undeniable chemistry, I know it won’t be long until one of us cracks.
When the opportunity arises to pose naked for the entire art class, I can’t help the thrill of knowing he’ll be watching me.
While they all look past me with their eyes narrowed and concentrated, drawing only the lines and angles of my body, he sees right through me down to my vulnerability.
He sees more than just the physical aspects—he sees me.
That’s when I see the struggle in his features as he tries to stay in control.
How do we keep our distance when everything seems to be pulling us together?
What feels so right can only go wrong if we keep pushing the limits.
“I’d rather lose myself in passion than lose my passion.”
—Jacques Mayol
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY BROOKE CUMBERLAND
COMING IN 2016
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SNEAK PEEK AT BRITTAINY C. CHERRY’S UPCOMING RELEASE
PROLOGUE
ASPEN
I step through the doorway, immediately hit with the mixed aroma of mildew and lavender from all the flower arrangements. I narrow my eyes, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. It’s eerily quiet, the service not due to begin for another hour.
My mother was hysterical all night long, crying in her room. I heard her through the bedroom door, but I didn’t go to her. I couldn’t.
I know she blames me.
Mom hadn’t said a word to me all morning, so I asked my older brother, Aaron, to take me early. I wanted to see Ariel before everyone else starts arriving. See her one last time.
I walk down the short hallway and into the room her service is being held in. Chairs are all lined up perfectly, row by row. The room will probably fill up quickly with family and friends, all coming to give their condolences.
I swallow as I step closer, her casket already open. I notice faint music playing overhead through the speakers. It’s meant to sound soft and soothing, but I don’t know how anything can soothe away the ache burning in my chest.
I glance around and notice the walls look as if they were painted a hundred years ago. The faded beige carpet is almost nonexistent. Flowers surround her on one side and a table of vanilla scented candles on the other. Nothing in this entire room represents her except the collage board of pictures she had hanging in our room. She made it two summers ago and had been adding photos of her friends and us ever since. It captures every part of her personality.
We lived on farmland with only fields surrounding us. No neighbors or friends to play with meant we’d learned to entertain ourselves. I remember the day she got a new camera for Christmas and immediately started taking pictures—of everything. We’d giggle and snap pictures of each other, torment Aaron and take his picture when his girlfriend was over, and take about a hundred photos of our pets. I smile at the memories, but at the same time feel like crying because now there won’t be anymore. The memories we made the last fourteen years are all I have left of her.
When Pastor Jay asked us to bring in our favorite pictures of her, I knew immediately she’d want these. I step closer and examine them, even though I’ve looked at it every single day for the past two years. Somehow today, it looks different.
There’s the one of us standing in front of the middle school on our first day of seventh grade. We were assigned different homerooms and weren’t happy about being apart. Another one shows us with our dog, Fudge, the first day we brought him home from the shelter. We’ve only had him for six months now. He was a rescue, and she said she knew he was the perfect fit for our family.
After tracing the lines of each picture, I slowly walk to her casket. I pleaded with my mom to let her wear her favorite purple dress, but she refused. She said it was an ‘occasion’ dress, AKA—a happy occasion. Instead, she picked out a dark, navy blue dress that she absolutely loathed wearing. My lip curls up on one side thinking how much she’d hate wearing this dress right now. She hated wearing dresses, in general, but now, oh, she’d be so pissed. Part of me wants to laugh at the irony, as the other part wants to rip it off her and sneak the purple dress on.
I glance down at her, curling my fingers tightly around the edge of her casket. She looks flawless, almost like she’s just sleeping. Even looking at her right now, seeing that she isn’t breathing anymore, it hasn’t all sunk in.
For the first time in days, I let myself cry. I cry harder than I ever have. I’ve held the tears in, trying to remain strong for Mom, but I can’t do it anymore. I release all the pain I’ve kept inside and apologize to her over and over.
“I’m so sorry, Ari. God, I’m so, so sorry.” I blink, wiping my cheeks off. “You hated that nickname,” I say, letting out a short laugh. I exhale a deep sigh. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper, reaching for her hand. “I’m going to miss you sneaking in my bed and sleeping with me every time a storm hit. I’m going to miss staying up late on weekends, gossiping about Brady Carmichael and all the guys on the basketball team. Or the girls who think purple lipstick is in.” I chuckle softly to myself. “I’m even going to miss arguing with you over who gets to use the shower first. It was like our little tradition, I guess.” My lips soften, curling up on both sides at the happy memories. “Truthfully, I’m going to miss everything about you.” I lean down and kiss the top of her forehead. “I love you.”
/> I hear footsteps in the hall and take that as my cue to start heading out. People will be arriving soon, and I’m not quite sure I’m strong enough to deal with everyone. Half feel sorry for me and the other half blame me.
I’m not sure which one is worse.
“Aspen…” I hear my dad’s deep voice. I turn and face him, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes as empty as I feel right now. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”
I swallow at his tense features, but nod and follow him out of the room. He barely speaks or looks at me now. I’m only a constant reminder of what happened—of who he’s lost—of how our lives are forever changed.
He leads me to a small room on the other side of the hall where she’s sitting with her nose buried in a handkerchief.
I stand in front of her and wait. I’m not sure what to say to my mom right now—or anyone for that matter. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say.
“I need to hear the story one more time,” she chokes out. “I need to hear why my baby girl is dead.”
Her head is low and she refuses to look at me. I’ve told her and the police the story several times already, but every day since the incident, she’s demanded to hear it again.
“Mom…” I begin, my eyes filling up again. “I can’t. Not again.”
“Tell me!” She raises her voice, finally tilting her head to look up at me, her face contorted in a mixture of grief and disgust.
I do as she says. I repeat the story the exact same way I did the first dozen times. No matter how much it hurts to talk about, I explain what happened.
“How could you let that happen?” she mumbles. “How could you be so careless? I just don’t understand!”
“Mom, it’s not Aspen’s fault…” Aaron interrupts, stepping next to me.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” I burst into a new wave of tears. I’ve apologized to her and Daddy over and over. But I know they’ll never forgive me.
I’ll never forgive me.
Aaron wraps an arm around my shoulders and cradles me to his chest. I hear my mom huff in disapproval. I push against his chest, wiping the tears from my cheeks as I storm off.
I’ll never forget the way her eyes widened in fear as she fell to her death. The way her body lay on the ground, motionless. The way her voice begged for my help as she screamed on the way down.
I’ll never forget.
I don’t tell Mom and Dad those things, though. The images already haunt me in my sleep. The sound of her screaming has woken me up the past two nights. Every time I attempt to fall asleep, her dead eyes appear in my mind. It’s no use, I tell myself. There’s barely a difference between existing and sleeping now.
Life without her is pointless.
People start arriving, so Mom, Dad, Aaron, and I all stand in front near her casket. I swallow my emotions down and refuse to cry. I shut down. I shut everything down. I let them hug me and say how sorry they are for our loss. I let them cradle my head as they press me against their chests. I let them squeeze my hands as they tell me how much she will be missed. I let them do whatever they need to express their feelings. But I don’t cry. I quietly thank them and look down at my feet.
When the service is over, we gather at the cemetery to bury her. A large bouquet of white lilies rests on her closed casket. I step forward and pull one out for myself before they lower her into the ground. Mom and Dad do the same, but they don’t look at me. Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s shoulders, holding her close as she cries.
I grip the obituary program tightly in my hand and stare down at her picture displayed on the cover. Mom used her most recent school photo from this past year although it hadn’t been her favorite. I don’t know why, though. She looked stunning as usual—bright smile, sparkling green eyes, and flowing golden blonde hair.
Underneath it reads, Loving Daughter and Sister. Gone too soon but never forgotten. 4-10-1995 to 4–10-2009.
She died on our birthday.
I swallow as I take it all in. April tenth was our favorite day. We’d wake up early to Mom making us our favorite breakfast—the only day of the year she’d make it. Belgian waffles with melted cream cheese frosting drizzled on top and then slathered in homemade maple syrup. She used fresh blueberries—instead of frozen—on top. She called it our special birthday breakfast, and every year we looked forward to it.
After we finished eating, we’d rip our presents open from our parents and later on exchange the ones we made for each other. For the last few years, we’d talk Mom into letting us skip school for the day. She wouldn’t even bother arguing with us, knowing she’d eventually cave anyway. So when we woke up on our birthday five days ago, we’d done everything exactly the same.
We laughed all through breakfast. Mom was going on and on about how she couldn’t believe how grown up her baby girls were getting and how old that made her feel. Aaron was three years older than we were, but apparently, he was born out of wedlock and didn’t count in her aging process.
After we had finished eating, Mom handed us each a card and watched as we ripped them open. We both squealed when we saw the hundred-dollar bill tucked inside.
As we wrapped our arms around her, she lectured us. “Don’t spend it all in one place, girls!” We then begged her to take us to the mall so we could, of course, spend it on clothes and makeup.
“You’ll have to wait until your father gets back,” she said, piling the dishes into the sink. We ran upstairs and got dressed, setting our money down on the dresser and running back outside. It was warm for April, just a slight breeze in the air.
It was perfect.
I smile at the memory of our birthday traditions. It was something we’ve always shared. Should have shared forever.
She’d always tease me about how she was older, granted it was only by three minutes, but now the day would be pointless.
A painful reminder of what had happened.
Of what I lost.
CHAPTER ONE
ASPEN
Even after six years, I can still hear her voice in my head. Her giggles. Her silly jokes. The way she’d snort after hearing something funny.
I hear it all.
It used to keep me up at night. I’d wake up in cold sweats, heaving and panting as I painfully relived our childhood memories. I don’t mind the dreams as much anymore—anything to see or hear her again—but I could do without the anxiety attacks that come with them. They come without warning and wreak havoc in my entire life.
Losing my twin sister feels like a part of me of missing—as if my soul isn’t complete without her.
Feeling the overwhelming guilt and wishing you had been the one to die that day instead will not only get you an unhealthy dose of post-traumatic stress, but also more therapy than you can imagine. After standard therapy proved useless, the counselors then decided to go an unconventional route. But not just any therapy.
Art therapy.
When you refuse to talk about your feelings to your therapist for eight months, you get placed into something that doesn’t require any talking at all. This was fine by me and actually ended up being a blessing in disguise. It helped me find my passion for art and pointed me in the direction of finding a career in art history.
I think about Ari every day, more so when I’m in my studio, but she’s always on my mind no matter what. We were identical twins, but sometimes I think about what she’d look like now. We could still be a perfect match, but maybe she would’ve dyed her hair or shaved half of her head and streaked it purple. Maybe she would’ve needed glasses and braces, or perhaps she’d taken after my mom’s rebellious side and gotten a tattoo on our eighteen birthday.
Whatever she would’ve looked like, I know she would’ve been beautiful. Not just on the outside, but the inside, as well. Her soul was the most beautiful one I’d ever met.
“Are you going to order, ma’am?” A snippy voice in front of me interrupts my thoughts as I come to the realization I’d dazed out again. Kendall elbows me in the side
, clearing my attention back to where I am now.
“Yes, sorry. I’ll take an Iced Caramel Latte, please. Grande.” She presses the buttons on her screen and tells me my total. I scan my phone and pay through my app.
“Your order will be ready at the handoff in a few moments,” she says to me in a robotic tone as she hands me my receipt.
“Thanks.”
Kendall follows me down as I wait for my drink on the other end. She’s playing with her phone now, and I look out the window and gaze at the cars driving by. Berkeley is a chilly sixty-two degrees today, which is normal for this time of year. Being only a forty-five-minute train ride to San Francisco is only one of the many perks of living here. Ari would’ve loved exploring the city and walking down Chinatown. She was always so adventurous.
I start to remember part of the dream I had about her last night, but it’s hard to know for certain due to the sleeping pills I sometimes take before bed.
They knock me out until morning, but sometimes I can recall the dreams later on. When I can, I replay them in my mind, scene by scene. Mostly, they’re a movie reel of our lives—memories of things we did, places we went—but other times they turn dark. The motions aren’t usually steady, though. We’re usually in some kind of slow motion hell. I’m never able to run fast enough or reach her quick enough before I wake up or my mind goes black. Sometimes, I remember the conversations or events that take place in picture perfect clarity, but other times, I worry it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
The barista calls out my order, and I’m quick to retrieve it. I thank her again before Kendall and I head out the door, and I begin sucking it down. We’re meeting up with Zoe for breakfast just down the road. Kendall and Zoe are roommates who live down the hall from me.
I first met them last summer when I moved into the building. I had lived on campus for two years before finally getting my own place. I’ve grown closer to Kendall since we both attend the same school. It’s just a ten-minute walk from the university, but we carpool together often when our class schedules match up.
Pushing the Limits: A Student/Teacher Romance Page 1