“He still does, Mom. Dad loves you so much it’s not even embarrassing to watch.”
“You have that, too, Honey. Hold on to it. For dear life.”
* * *
“You were quiet during dinner,” Bo grabs my hand as we walk down the beach at sunset.
“Just thinking,” I sigh.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
I find a quiet spot and sit in the sand facing the horizon.
“I think I want to leave The Hope Foundation.”
“Really?” He sounds mildly surprised.
“Yeah. I mean, I can do freelance grant writing. I could still help where Hope needed me, but I’d like to work with DROP again. To be honest, David’s been hounding me about it since I left.” I chuckle.
“He is relentless, if nothing else.” Bo shifts so his knees are bent and he’s leaning back on his hands.
“It would also free up some time to do...other things, I guess ...” My heart races as I prepare what I’m about to say.
Bo sits back up. “What’s going on, Ember?” He takes my hand, which is incredibly hot under my nerves. He kisses it regardless.
“I want to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Record. With my parents, me, you...whoever. I want to call Elizabeth Cantwell and perform in front of however many people she can get to come. I want to live with you and never stop kissing you. I just want to go.” As I talk, Bo’s smile widens with his eyes. He squeezes my hand.
“November Harris, are you asking me to run away and play the guitar with you?”
“Maybe.” I shrug.
“What happened to Ms. “I’m-not-that-kind-of-girl” and “I don’t fly by the seat of my pants,” he teases me about the first in-depth conversation we ever had in my apartment months ago.
“You happened. You reminded me that I’ve been that kind of girl all along.”
Bo leans forward, sweeping my hair aside, and resting his hand on the back of my neck. His soft lips brush against mine, teasing me for a second before I lean in to meet him. He grants my tongue access to his hot mouth, and we sit, kissing, for several minutes as the sun sets in front of us.
“It would be a big move,” I tell the Pacific.
Bo pulls me into his embrace. “It would.”
“Do you like yurts?” I chuckle, nervous that I’ve dumped too much on him at once.
His finger lifts my chin. “I’d follow you to the beginning of time, to the end of time, and back, November. Just say when.”
I grab his face and kiss him softly before pulling away.
“When.”
Coming April 2013… In the Stillness
A new work of contemporary fiction by Andrea Randall
Chapter 1
I exist, right?
The blood rolling haphazardly down my left forearm says I do. The blade in my right hand agrees. Sheryl Crow is so full of shit. The first cut most certainly is not the deepest. If you started with the deepest, where would you go from there?
I never thought I’d cut again, until I found myself thinking about it. I mean, I’ve thought about it a lot in the time that’s gone by since the last time I did—the time I thought, damn this is dumb. Yeah, I often thought a lot about how crazy that all was. Until I no longer had a choice. Until I found myself rifling through my bathroom cabinets trying to find a clean, sharp blade.
Eric’s been in the lab so much these days, that I feel trapped in a hell decorated with playdates and PBS. The release is euphoric. It’s just like the first time; only a little scarier since I know where this road can lead. I don’t think too far down that road as I deliberately carve three lines into my soft, shiny skin. It hurts at first. Like hell. But a second later it’s gone—just gone—and I’m left with a visual reminder for the rest of the day that I’m in control of my pain, anxiety, and fear.
Do I even fucking exist?
Ryker doesn’t exist anymore. I mean, he didn’t come home in a body bag like Lucas did, but he may as well have. They took his soul over there, fuckers,and left me with the breathing carcass. Then I left him. He’s married now, supposedly happy.
So am I. Married, that is.
I don’t think about him much anymore—that’s not what this is about. He’s just the first person I ever saw not exist while they were still walking the Earth.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The bathroom door rattles under the force of four-year-old fists.
“Mommy! Ollie pulled my hair!”
They’re always around.
I sigh, turn on the sink, and address the situation from behind the closed door. “Max, don’t tattle. Oliver, leave your brotheralone!”
God, is it too much to ask for it to be Kindergarten already?
My blood forms a candy cane pattern in the white porcelain sink. I stare at the cat as I wash my arm.
I never wanted to be a mother. My twenty-three-year-old graduate student self happily reminds me of that whenever I’m cleaning yogurt from the boys’ backs. Seriously, their backs. She had enough of my shit and left. Just packed right up and vacated the part of my spirit that mattered—that made me...me. That’s when my twenty-year old self started whispering that I could buy twelve razors for something like three dollars at Wal Mart. She’s a crazy bitch, but she’s right.
You buy them, bring them home, and break off the little line of safety plastic that prevents you from cutting the hell out of your legs. It really was no different than the last time I bought a bag of generic razors—except this time I had four-year-old twins in the cart.
I still can’t decide if that made the purchase easier or harder, seeing their faces, but here we are anyway, washing blood down the sink.
A few hours later I’m washing dinner dishes in our dishwasher-less kitchen, when Eric comes home.
“Hey, Baby, where are the boys?” his eyes scan our Amity Street apartment as he tosses his messenger bag carelessly on the couch.
I sigh, “Sleeping, Eric. It’s after seven. How was your day?”
“It was great, actually . . .” Eric launches into a series of events I should care about.
I don’t.
He’s a doctoral student in chemical engineering at UMass Amherst. His research is in biofuels and sustainable energy. I know that sounds all “hip” and “responsible” of him, but all that means is he’s nearing thirty with no job and hours upon hours in a lab. Sure, we get a decent stipend to live on, and full financial aid; but it still leaves me with a twenty-nine year old husband who has no job. I slap my former grad student self for bragging his major up to my parents. They loved it. So did I. Then, everything changed.
“Nat, you okay? Natalie?” Eric walks over and shuts off the faucet I left running while I stare out the window. I hate when he calls me “Nat”, it sounds like a bug whenever he says it.
“Huh? Shit, sorry, I spaced.”
I reach for a towel to dry my hands when Eric’s tanned hand wraps around my much paler arm.
“What happened to your arm? That’s a huge scratch.” Those honey-brown eyes, one thing left that I don’t resent, tell me they can’t handle the truth. He’d never get it.
“Stupid cat.” I shrug and tug my arm away.
“Maybe we should get rid of her, that’s the second time this month she’s torn your arm up.” He kisses my cheek, right by my ear. For a second I remember what it felt like the first time he did that. Then I remember everything that happened after that kiss.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head and pull away. “I tried to give a her a bath, serves me right.”
Eric laughs just under his breath. “Want some wine?”
“Badly,” I sigh.
Well, that was easy.
Eric slides me a glass of white. I hate white. “What were the boys up to today?”
That doesn’t stop me from drinking it. “What happens after graduation?” I ignore his request for information on our children.
“What do you mean?” He sits back against the c
ouch.
“I mean ajob, Eric. It’s been a long time—”
“Oh Jesus, Nat, not this again.” He rolls his eyes and walks back into the kitchen. “How many times do we have to goover this? I would have been done two years ago—”
“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. You would have been done two years ago if we hadn’t had twins in the middle of everything. You graciously demoted yourself to a part-time student while I became afull-timemom.” I swallow the rest of my wine and walk to the kitchen to pour another glass. “Do you want my list about how the last two years would have gone? Screw that, do you want to know how the last four years would have gone?”
“Enlighten me, please.” Eric holds out his hands, as if to give me the floor. We’re speaking in whisper-yells to avoid waking the identical monsters down the hall.
“You’re the one who wanted them, Eric. You’re the one who begged me to keep them, to pull out of that parking lot and come home.” He winces under my tone, but I continue, “Yet, somehow, I leave my degree program to raise them while you play mad scientist in Goessmann. I point out the window in the general direction of campus.
Eric bows his head; placing his hands on his hips while he takes a careful breath. When he looks up, his face is a mess of exhaustion. We’ve had this argument almost every single day for the last two years. For every single minute of the last two years since he returned as a full-time student, I’ve hated him. I’ve said it, too, I hate you. But he just thinks I’m crazy or stressed when I say it. I am. And it’s because of him.
It’s because of him and his assertion of “the right thing to do” that I find myself staring past his jet black hair that needs to be cut, past the athletic physique that makes him stand out amongst his colleagues like he’s just there to pretty up the department, and find myself fantasizing about those little blades twenty-five feet away in the bathroom. Hidden in an empty tampon box.
* * *
I didn’t always hate him. In fact, the first time we met it was something else entirely. In April 2005 I was preparing to graduate from Mount Holyoke College. South Hadley, Massachusetts had provided a picturesque existence for me over the previous four years. I’d only applied to UMass Amherst for graduate programs; I was more than academically qualified, and their anthropology program is great, but I really just wanted to call this place “home” for a while longer.
“Yo, Natalie, over here.” Tosha waved me down at the front of the Odyssey Bookstore, where she was cashing out. I was glad that UMass was only a short drive from here because I loved that bookstore.
I approached Tosha’s petite frame as she tried to sell some of her text books. “Did they take anything back?”
“Just the novels,” she shrugged, “it’s something.” Tosha threw her curly blonde hair into a ponytail while she waited for the cashier.
“You want to go to Antonio’s for lunch?”
Tosha shrugged. “All the way in Amherst?”
“All the way?” I laughed. “It’s just a few miles. You act like 116 is a fortress.” I joked about the stretch of road that separates our campus from those of Amherst College, UMass, and Hampshire College.
“It ought to be.” She rolled her eyes. Tosha was a snob, but I loved her anyway. She was irritated that Mount Holyoke wasn’t exclusively women, as it had been in the past, and really wished that it could be an island all its own. “Let’s go, though, their pizza is too good to turn down—even if we have to slum it with ZooMass.”
I laughed and kicked her as we left the bookstore.
Twenty minutes later we were sitting at the bar in the window of Antonio’s. The place is tiny, and usually standing-room only, but damn they make good pizza.
“Fluid Mechanics?” Tosha scoffed as she drank her soda.
I looked around. “What the hell?”
“That pretty face down there with the UMass t-shirt.” She nodded to the benches just across the sidewalk and down a bit. “He’s reading a fluid mechanics book . . . outside in the sun . . .”
I looked up, and there he was. He was pretty. Too pretty, almost. His skin was bronzed, but it looked natural, like he’d be dark even in the winter time. His black hair was longer than I cared for, but it was tucked just behind his ears and hidden under a Redskins hat.
“What’s your point, Tosh?” I chuckled, trying not to stare as he thumbed through the book with concentration searing across his face.
“He’s totally checking you out, Nat.” Tosha slid off her stool and threw her paper plate away. I followed.
I whispered as we walked out of Antonio’s “He wasnot checking me out. Now, shut up so he doesn’t hear us.”
“Whatever, I’m going to grab a coffee, want one?”
“No, caffeine-a-holic, I’ll get some vitamin D while you fund Starbucks,” I laughed and took a seat on the bench next to the boy she’d been staring at. The line was long and I knew Tosha would wait, no mater the length. I needed to get comfortable.
People passed by like they were on a conveyor belt as I checked out what would be my new surroundings come fall. North Pleasant Street in Amherst was not foreign to me; it held some of the best bars and restaurants in the area. I breathed in the smells of fresh-baked popovers from Judie’s restaurant right across from me as I turned my head to the right—where I found “fluid mechanics boy” watching me.
You know that split second? The one where you decide if you’re going to just smile and continue looking around, or chance an encounter with a stranger? It’s a dangerous moment. It changes absolutely everything.
* * *
“Come on, Natalie. Let’s not do this again.” Eric pulls me back to the present.
I roll my eyes and walk to the bathroom. He doesn’t try to follow me; he learned early on I lock doors behind me. Plus, the boys are sleeping and he won’t want to wake them . . . being that he’s “Father of the Year” and all.
Reaching under the bathroom sink, I locate the peroxide and alcohol and run them over the razor I used earlier. There’s no need to risk infection; I’ve been there, and it’s just a sure-fire way to get caught. I can’t cut somewhere new this time because the “cat scratches” are already on Eric’s radar. I stare at the marks from earlier and decide that reopening them is the easiest route to go; the easiest way to be mad at him without screaming and starting a blow-out. I’m sick of yelling. Sick of fighting. Sick of crying.
Just a little. Just one more time
Acknowledgements
Scott- Thank you for taking over extra household duties, including our monster children, so I could write this. Your support means a lot.
Michelle Pace-Thank you for spying my original outline and being on board with me even when the story looked a lot different than it does now. Hours-long phone calls about motivations, “are they going to hate me?” and “no, really, are they going to hate me?” helped me get through this in one piece. You’re more than a beta reader; you’re my person.
Maggi Myers and Melissa Brown-Pretty Little Writers. I love navigating this crazy new world and am thrilled to have you ladies on either side of me. Geography means nothing as far as our friendship is concerned. Thank you for the Skype sessions, responding to panicked text messages, and making me smile. I love you both.
Charles Sheehan-Miles- While I’m honored that you came on as a last-minute beta reader, I’m even more honored to call you a friend. Thank you for taking the time to hash things out with me and always pushing me to be better. I look forward to working with you for a long time.
Lori Sabin-Glorious editor, fabulous friend. Thank you for your time and care with this novel.
Sarah Hansen-This cover is more than I dreamed it could be. Thank you for being a rockstar.
Erica Ritchie-I’m so grateful you took the time and care to produce the amazing photo shoot that lead to this cover. It’s breathtaking.
Valerie Laramee-Thank you for the impromptu New Year’s Day photo shoot so my author picture could be from something other than a ce
ll phone. Even if it was nine degrees outside.
The Indie Bookshelf-You’re a supportive and intelligent group of women, of which I’m proud to be a part.
Janna Mashburn-Thank you for your beautiful work on the trailer for this book and for Ten Days of Perfect. They capture the true spirit of each book.
My beta readers-We shared laughs, tears, and dozens of posts about specific words *wink*. Thank you for your dedication to help make this book the best it can be: Melissa Brown, Maggi Myers, Janna Mashburn, Charles Sheehan-Miles, Erin Roth, Lindsay Sparkes, Angela Cook McLaurin, Jennifer Roberts-Hall, Michelle Pace, Nina Gomez, Lisa Oliver Bryant, Kacie Walker, Darcie Sherrick
Finally, to all of you-Thank you for reading this book and sharing it with your friends. Your support is the only thing that keeps Indie authors going.
About the Author
I write every single day. I simply can’t help it. While some people might look at it as “being lost in my own world,” I’m simply lost in the world of my characters. For whatever reason, they chose me to tell their story, and I do my best to do right by them. Remember, indie authors live by word-of-mouth. If you like this book, tell a friend. Better yet, write a review so others can see your thoughts. Thank you for all of your support!
Connect with me:
Blog: www.andrearandall.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorandrearandall
Twitter: ARandallAuthor
Reckless Abandon Copyright © 2013 Andrea Randall
Cover photo by Erica Ritchie, Erica Ritchie Photography
Author photo by Valerie Laramee, Picture Perfect Photography by V. Laramee
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. Brief written quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews are permitted.
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