There—the street!
Shouts sound as others emerge from their hiding places. She pushes forward, sobbing with the will to live. Keep moving, keep moving!
She is only steps from the door when a sudden stillness falls like a blanket over the world. It is as if the very earth has paused.
“Anna!” Marcus tugs at her tunic. He does not understand, but she does.
She waited too long.
She yanks at the ring with her last breath, her last thought—wanting, needing—to be free.
When the blast hits, death comes so quickly Anna does not feel it.
Two thousand years have gone by and Anna is an ashen figure buried under fifteen feet of dirt. She lies under a part of Pompeii that has yet to be excavated.
But one day, it will be.
When archaeologists uncover her form, perfectly preserved in ash, they will find the figure of a man just behind her, reaching for her. They will find a ring upon her finger. And they will paint a tableau of love.
Only the truth will remain buried.
Books often come to me in bits and pieces, but this one started with the clear vision of a scene: Dillon and Emma around a campfire with their friends. It’s a dark night, and the conversation is about graduation only a few months off and where they’ll end up. Dillon, with his arms lovingly around Emma, says he’d die without her.
That scene never made it into the book, but I couldn’t shake the idea of a boy who loved his girlfriend so passionately he couldn’t live without her. There was a time when I would’ve thought that romantic. When I would have wished I had a boyfriend like Dillon.
But that was before I saw news stories about teens killing themselves over broken hearts. Before I read the love letter of a girl who was murdered by her boyfriend, who then killed himself. Before I saw images of young people who would never age because they had died carrying out suicide pacts.
All in the name of love.
And that got me thinking:
What does love look like?
What does abuse look like?
What happens when the lines blur?
As Emma says to herself at one point, how can love be bad? I’m the kind of person who’s always believed in soul mates and Red Strings, so I like to believe that every relationship is a good one. But the frightening truth, according to DoSomething.org, is that one in three young people will be in an unsafe or unhealthy relationship.
One in three!
I knew this was a story I needed to tell.
I learned many things as I researched and wrote this book. I had numerous conversations with mental health professionals, including a clinical psychologist and two social workers, one of whom answered suicide hotlines and worked in teen rehab facilities. I learned that behavioral changes can often occur in the late teen years, especially in young men. I learned that mental illness is not so clear-cut that a therapist can point to a certain behavior and make a diagnosis. To do so would be like hearing someone cough and deciding whether it’s a cold, the flu, or cancer. For that reason, I didn’t put a label on Dillon’s condition. But I like to believe he’s going to be okay because he’s getting the help he needs.
I also want to be clear that I’m not suggesting mental health issues are always the cause of abuse in relationships, or even a factor. This book is only meant to honestly reflect one relationship—that of Emma and Dillon.
Ultimately, this book is a love story. It’s about a love worth living for—the love of yourself. As a therapist told me, one of the hardest things any person ever faces is putting their own needs above those of someone they love. It’s hard, yes, but it’s also okay. Please know this:
You matter.
You can’t fix everything.
There is help available, and you are not a failure if you ask for it.
I encourage you to ask for help if you’re in a relationship and feeling overwhelmed or scared, or if you think someone you care about needs help. One more important thing I learned by writing this book is that there are many wonderful, caring people out there who not only want to help, but can. Go online to find resources in your area. Most counties have crisis hotlines that respond right away. Or start with the links below.
Take care.
Amy
Adolescent Crisis Intervention & Counseling Nineline: 1-800-999-9999
DoSomething.org 1 in 3 of Us Campaign: dosomething.org/campaigns/1-3-us
Mental Health America (MHA): mentalhealthamerica.net
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI): nami.org
National Domestic Violence Hotline/Love Is Respect: loveisrespect.org. Also offers free online chat, or call 1-866-331-9474.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Teen Mental Health: teenmentalhealth.org
Thank you to:
Dr. William Heywood, clinical psychologist, who spoke with me early on and whose experience and knowledge paved the way for this story. Barbara Kanal, Doctor of Social Work, who generously read an early manuscript, answered many questions over many months, and provided much needed insight into these characters. Judy Stock, Master of Social Work, for sharing her experiences working in support programs for teens. And LeAnn Dykstra, my nurse friend, for not hanging up on me when I called and said, “So, a guy comes into the hospital with a knife wound….” I’m so grateful to every professional who gave valuable time to help me with this story. Any errors are entirely mine.
Critique partners and friends Terry Lynn Johnson for reading early versions, late versions, and panicked emails in between. Christina Mandelski for our mini-retreat in Austin and the quest for Walking Dead episodes. Bill Konigsberg and Erin Jade Lange for seeing the ending before I did. Gae Polisner, Kiki Hamilton, Nate Evans, Daphne Atkeson, the Writer Workshop group at The Writing Barn, and the Graduates—your Monday emails are lifesavers.
Caryn Wiseman, my agent, for also wearing the hats of editor, cheerleader, therapist, and friend. I can’t imagine what I would do without you.
Krista Vitola, my editor, with whom I feel privileged to work. You asked all the right questions and pointed me in directions I wouldn’t have thought to take. Because of you, this is a much better book. And the whole team at Delacorte Press for lending your talents to this story and for all the ways you support me.
Librarians, teachers, bloggers, readers, and my friends at Changing Hands Bookstore—for every lovely, positive, encouraging thing you say and write. In case you didn’t know, it matters very much!
And most especially my family. Dad—your memory inspires me every day. Rachel, who read an early draft and whose enthusiasm gave me confidence—thank you, my beautiful daughter. My favorite son, Kyle, and of course, Jake. I would die for you…but I’m much happier that I get to live with you.
AMY FELLNER DOMINY is a former advertising copywriter, playwright, and hula-hoop champion. Her previous novels for tweens and teens include A Matter of Heart; OyMG, a Sydney Taylor Notable Book; and Audition & Subtraction. Amy lives with her husband and various pets in Phoenix. Visit her online at amydominy.com.
Continue reading for a sneak peek.
I can’t breathe.
There’s no time.
All around the pool, coaches yell and pace along the edge as if that’ll make us swim faster. Parents shout out names. I don’t hear which ones. In the water, it’s a different kind of sound. The whoosh and thrum of the surface breaking over my cap. The churn of arms and the fizz of an exhale. The chant of pull, pull that I repeat in time with the bmm bmm of my heart.
Mostly, I just hear the scream of my burning lungs.
I don’t listen.
In the last leg of a 100 free, there’s no time for breathing. Not if you want to win.
Pull, pull.
Twenty-five yards left. That’s it. Almost in reach. Everything I want is almost within reach.
Pull, pull.
Through the bubbles and froth I glimpse the rising beauty of the wall. I’m not b
reathing. Just pushing. Reaching.
Pull, pull—
My arm stretches, my fingertips search for the pebbly surface. There!
Yes!
I explode out of the water, my mouth wide as I gasp, dragging air into my clenched lungs.
I grab hold of the wall and turn toward the scoreboard. I rip off my goggles. My eyes, blurred and achy, stare. There’s my name: A. Lipman, lane 4. Was it enough? Was I enough?
“Nice finish, Lipman!” It’s Coach somewhere behind me, moving down the lanes. I hear him call to Alicia, another Horizon swimmer, in lane 6.
I drink the air and will the scoreboard to show the results I want. It took so much to get here. Months of two-a-day practices. Of pushing myself so hard there were mornings I couldn’t lift my arms to wash my hair. All of it for one moment in time—literally. Fifty-eight seconds. Maybe fifty-seven.
The board flashes red. Times appear, along with finishing places.
Yes! First place, a school record, and my personal best—57:56. Olympic qualifying time will be around 57:19.
My hand shoots up in a fist pump. Water splashes over my face and I blink my lashes clear as I smile because I don’t have the air to laugh.
A shadow suddenly blocks the sun and I look up to see Connor grinning at me. He squats down at the edge of the pool and reaches out a hand. I grab hold and he lifts me out like I’m six instead of sixteen. Which is okay since I feel like jumping up and down like a two-year-old.
“Freakin’ awesome, Abby.”
His grin dips to one side and it’s so sexy—still sexy. I’ll never stop getting jelly knees every time Connor Moore grins at me like that.
I grin back. I don’t know what to say. I’m so happy, I can’t find the words to express it. Maybe there aren’t any.
He grabs me and lifts me into a hug. I hold on and let the happiness fill me. Deep-from-the-core happiness that finally brings up a laugh from lungs that have stretched themselves for pain and victory and now just want to let loose and celebrate.
Connor sets me down. I pull off my swim cap, shaking my dark hair out until I feel it cold, wet, and heavy on my shoulders. Connor’s hair is almost dry now from his earlier warm-up, still dark by the tops of his ears but sun-bleached blond everywhere else. He’s wearing his team Speedo suit and he’s tanned and gorgeous. And mine.
“Knew you’d do it, Ab.”
I laugh again, but a man in a polo shirt with a whistle around his neck moves past us and catches my eye. “Off the deck.”
My race is over and there’s a schedule to keep. I nod and squeeze Connor’s hands before letting go. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad. He’s hanging on the fence, waiting. Impatient, I know. For years, he was the one I ran to and hugged. The one who lifted me and spun me around. As of about five weeks ago, it’s been Connor. Dad isn’t used to it yet. Me neither, maybe because it still feels like a dream.
I part with Connor at the gate. “You better get ready,” I tell him. I gesture toward the warm-up area, where the other guys who swim the 100 free are loosening up. Alec Mendoza is staring our way. He’s a senior, like Connor, and ever since Alec transferred to Horizon High this year, they’ve been jockeying for one and two on the team. There’s something else going on there, but I don’t know what. I don’t ask.
“Kick some butt out there,” I tell Connor.
“You know it,” he says. “Then tonight, you and I are celebrating.” His words could mean anything, but the look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s thinking.
My stomach does a flip turn. “Just get out there and swim,” I say. “This one is yours.”
He nods. Connor’s best events are the 50 and the 100 free. He’s a great sprinter. Not quite fast enough for the Olympics, but second place in State last year as a junior. This year he’s had some bad luck. Got pneumonia early in the season and missed a full week and a meet. His times dropped, but not as much as I would have expected. It’s only the second week of October and he’s already back in the game and looking for a personal best. Maybe today. But even if it doesn’t happen, he’s already qualified for State.
The State meet will be amazing, but I’m after a bigger prize. My fingers twitch a little, as if they’re straining now for that huge imaginary wall that says Olympics.
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Die for You Page 21