Happy Crazy Love Boxed Set

by Melanie Harlow

  Now I was reviled for my ungrateful, bratty behavior.

  But what could I do to show everyone that I wasn’t that bitch from the show? That I was still the same girl they’d always known, just a little older and wiser—OK maybe not wiser, but at least trying to learn from my mistakes? I’d signed a contract forbidding me to talk about my time on Save a Horse, so it’s not like I could come totally clean. There had to be another way.

  Then it dawned on me.

  I could reach out to the Cherry Pageant people! All the festivities were coming up in July, and maybe there would be a role for me as a former queen.

  I sat up with renewed energy. Yes—that was it. I’d repair my reputation by embracing my community, getting involved, doing good deeds. I’d donate my time and energy to needy organizations. I’d work any event at the festival they wanted me to. I’d visit schools, cut ribbons, kiss babies. I’d even pick cherries in my crown—what a great photo op! They probably wouldn’t pay me, but that was OK. My parents would let me move in with them for the summer. After the festival, my reputation would be repaired, my confidence would be restored, I’d find a new job somewhere, and start saving up for my own place.

  I took a deep breath, and the cool, damp air revitalized me. It smelled both earthy and clean, like the woods and the water, like the springs and summers of my childhood. Getting to my feet, I brushed the sand off my skirt and turned around, proud of myself for coming up with a solution, like a real grownup.

  To my surprise, I was no longer alone on the beach. A man sat about twenty feet away, forearms draped over his widespread knees, hands clasped between them. He knew I was there, he must have seen me when he arrived, but he said nothing as I made my way to the steps and never looked away from the water. He had a nice profile, actually. Short dark hair, strong jaw covered with neatly trimmed scruff, nice ears. Sounds weird, I know, but I got the Nixon ears that stick way out, which is why I rarely wear my hair back and always notice ears on other people.

  He wore aviator sunglasses, jeans and a light brown jacket, and I noticed he had a thick notebook next to him on the sand, the old fashioned spiral kind with a bright red cover. Intrigued, I nearly called hello, but something about the utter stillness in his pose told me he didn’t want to be bothered, and the greeting stuck in my throat.

  Maybe he watches the show, I thought glumly. Maybe he knows exactly who I am and just doesn’t want to talk to me.

  My spirits withered as I headed for the wooden steps, but I realized I hadn’t picked up my heels from where I’d been sitting. I pivoted sharply, but somehow my ankle didn’t get the message and I went down hard on my hands and knees in the sand. A little squeak escaped me as I hit the ground.

  Oh God. Please don’t let him be watching me.

  A few seconds later I heard his voice.

  Three

  Sebastian

  I saw her. Of course I saw her. I thought she was crying at first, because she was lying on her back, hands over her face. Although I was disappointed not to have the beach to myself, I felt a tug of sympathy and thought about asking if she was OK. But when I got closer and realized it was Skylar Nixon, I hesitated.

  Skylar Nixon.

  I hadn’t seen her in ten years, but I knew it was her. That hair—so light blonde it was almost silver against the sand. Her fingers covered her eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not bright or sharp like a gemstone, but sweeter, softer, like faded denim. I didn’t know this because of any extended time spent looking into them directly, but from staring at her senior yearbook photo every night for a year while feverishly jerking off to the fantasy of her straddling my body in the dark.

  But I’d bet every guy in our graduating class had that fantasy. She was just so beautiful.

  We didn’t run with the same crowd back then—mostly because she had a crowd and I did not, which was fine with me. In those days, I preferred solitude. I sought it. Much easier to be alone with my anxiety than have to explain it to anyone.

  It was still easier.

  But I wasn’t that kid anymore, and here was a chance to prove it. Maybe this was serendipity.

  I started walking toward her, and suddenly the voice in my head spoke up. Don’t do it. She’s too lovely, too fragile. You’ll hurt her.

  Suddenly the disturbing image of Skylar gasping for air, my hands around her neck, lodged in my brain, along with the question What if I choked her?

  I stood there, paralyzed, desperately trying to push the thought from my head, and then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to do that. I had to talk back.

  Stop it. Those fears aren’t rational. I’ve never choked anyone.

  I hadn’t, had I? My mind suddenly went into overdrive, sifting through years of memories, trying to find the one where I must have choked someone. That’s why I was thinking about it now, wasn’t it?

  Rational thought tried again. No! This is fucking ridiculous. You’ve never fucking choked a person!

  But already that gut-gripping unease had me reconsidering my intent to speak to her. Even if I’d never choked anyone in the past, I must want to.

  The other voice refused to quiet.

  You know what will happen if you go over there and speak to her. So maybe you won’t choke her, but you’ll make a mess of things. Go ahead, start a conversation. If you’re lucky, she’ll remember you as the class freak and run off like a scared rabbit. If she likes you, you’re in even bigger trouble, because that’s how it all starts. And it ends with you ruining her life, just like you ruined Diana’s. You’re poison.

  By this time, my heart was pounding furiously and my hair stood on end. The voice was right, he was totally right.

  Distressed, I moved away from her, being certain to take an even number of steps, and sat down quietly in the sand, waiting for my heart to quiet down.

  But it didn’t, because a moment later, she stood up, brushed herself off, and saw me.

  Did she recognize me? I hoped not. I knew I looked different than I did back then, but I still didn’t want to take any chances.

  Don’t look at her.

  I said it eight times in my head.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her walk toward the steps and then hesitate, like she might say hello. I held my breath. Counted to eight.

  Suddenly she turned and went down hard in the sand, and before I had time to think I was on my feet, rushing toward her.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, taking her by the elbow to help her up.

  “Yes,” she said quickly, her cheeks going adorably scarlet. “Just a little sandy and a lot embarrassed. Thank you.”

  Once she was on her feet, I dropped her arm and stepped back as the horrible fear of harming her popped back into my mind. She looked up at me curiously, like maybe she was trying to place me. If it was possible, she was even more beautiful than I remembered.

  “I’m Skylar,” she said.

  “I know who you are.” I hadn’t meant it in a bad way, but I was trying so hard not to think about hurting her that my voice was strained, my tone sullen. God, I’m such an asshole right now.

  She must have taken offense, because her face fell, her complexion darkening further. “Right. Well, OK then.” Without any kind of goodbye, she brushed past me, scooped up a pair of shoes from the sand and stomped back over to the steps. She quickly slipped her feet into her heels and thumped up each stair with angry clacks.

  Part of me wished I would have at least told her my name, reminded her that we’d once known each other, but another part just felt relief that she was gone and I hadn’t harmed her. The thought of choking her stubbornly refused to leave my head, and I walked back over to where I’d been sitting and dropped down onto the sand, hating myself.

  Fucking hell. I’d made so much progress in the last year, and I’d let the sight of an unrequited ten-year-old crush undo it all. I was a fucking disaster and I always would be. Grabbing the notebook next to me, I hurled it into the water.

  Two seconds after I hea
rd the splat, I regretted it. “Fuck!” I jumped to my feet and trudged into the water to get the damn thing, which hadn’t gone very far. The water was frigid but shallow, and I rescued the journal before it was submerged, although I soaked my sneakers and the bottoms of my jeans in the process.

  Reaching the sand again, I dropped down and fanned open the dripping notebook, its pages covered in neat, small lettering. In the beginning, the pages all looked the same.

  Eight words per line.

  Every line.

  Ken, my therapist, never actually read my journal, it was just for me, so at first I’d reverted to the old habit, even though the whole point of the journal was to help me stop engaging my compulsive behaviors. But eventually, I’d stopped writing in it that way. I’d stopped doing a lot of things I used to do to cope with the fears and doubts that wouldn’t leave me alone. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a setback like I’d had today. Then again, it was the first time I’d approached a woman I was attracted to since everything with Diana fell apart. Add to that it was a girl I’d crushed hard on back in high school, and maybe it was no wonder.

  Frustrated, I dropped the notebook into the sand. Maybe it was just too soon. Maybe it was just the wrong woman. Or maybe I was just doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. My own misery was enough—why should I make someone else unhappy too?

  Ken was always encouraging me to be more social, but I hadn’t come back here to make friends or reconnect with anyone. I’d come here for peace and solitude, to start over, and to forget about New York and everything that happened there.

  Forget that I’d lost my job.

  Forget that I’d lost my mind.

  Forget that I’d lost the only woman who’d ever loved me.

  No, that was wrong—I hadn’t lost her. I’d driven her away.

  I deserved to be alone.

  Four

  Skylar

  Inside my mom’s car, I pulled the door shut and let my forehead drop onto the steering wheel.

  Forget him. He doesn’t matter.

  But the way the handsome stranger on the beach had looked at me, the way he’d said I know who you are with such blatant contempt, truly bothered me. How long would I have to be ashamed of myself?

  Don’t think about that. Think about the plan you have to make things better. Taking a deep breath, I sat up tall, turned the key in the ignition, and headed for home.

  When I got back to the guest house, I went in and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured a glass of iced tea. With my sandwich in one hand, I opened up my laptop with the other. I found contact information for pageant marketing director Joan Klein easily enough, and as soon as I finished my lunch, I dialed her number.

  She didn’t answer but I left her a message explaining who I was and volunteering my time for the festival and related activities. I told her I was free anytime and eager to get started, and I gave her my cell phone number.

  After that, I changed from my work clothes into jeans and a tank and grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from the pantry. I’d give the place a good dusting and scrubbing, and then later I’d invite my mom over for a glass of wine and give her some more ideas for redecorating the guest houses. I’ll show her the Pinterest board I made, run some paint colors by her for the bathrooms, and offer to do the painting myself—if I’m not too busy with my new job.

  I smiled as I filled the bucket. Through the open window I could hear an old Hank Williams tune, which meant my father was probably working in the nearby pole barn with his radio on. It lifted my mood further, and I hummed along as I dusted, the melody taking me back to grade school summers, when Jilly, Nat, and I would all pile in the front seat of his truck and go for ice cream after dinner, my mother yelling from the driveway about seat belts. Those summers always went by so fast—you blinked and it was September again. I couldn’t believe ten years had gone by since I’d graduated from high school. Where had they gone? And what about the next ten years…would they fly by just as fast?

  For a moment, I tried to imagine myself ten years from now, age 37. Where was I? What was I doing? Did I have a career of some kind? A husband and family? I had no clue, which was kind of distressing, so I shoved that thought out of my mind and focused on my housework.

  About fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rang. I set down my dust rag and looked at the screen.

  Yes! It was Joan Klein.

  “Hello?” I chirped.

  “Hello, is this Skylar Nixon?”

  “Yes, it is.” Happy, happy!

  “Hello, this is Joan Klein from pageant corporate.

  “Hello,” I gushed like she was my long-lost best friend. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m glad you called, Skylar. We’d like to meet with you.”

  “Fantastic!” I bounced around a little. “I can meet any time.”

  “Could you come down to the offices this afternoon?”

  “Of course, no problem.”

  “Around three?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you. We have some paperwork for you to sign. Oh, and if you could just bring your crown with you, we’d really appreciate that.”

  “Certainly I can. I know just where it is.” Wow, they wanted a photo already! I’d put my work clothes back on—I hoped I hadn’t gotten my new skirt too sandy.

  “See you then.”

  “See you then!”

  I ended the call and hugged my phone to my chest, thanking my lucky stars that something had gone right today. Deciding to forego the floor mopping for now, I left the guest house and walked over to my parents’ house to fetch my crown.

  No one was there, but the door was unlocked as usual, so I let myself in and hurried over to the mantle above the fireplace. There was my crown, right next to a photo of me at the coronation. I picked up the frame and studied the picture—I looked so happy. So hopeful. So confident that every dream I had would come true if I just wished hard enough, worked hard enough, wanted it hard enough.

  My smile faded as I set the frame down and looked at the other items displayed on my mother’s mantle of parental pride. There was Jillian in her cap and gown, graduating from medical school. There was Natalie cutting the ribbon the day she opened the coffee shop. Moving back a few steps, I tried to look at everything as a stranger might. What did these things say about us? For a moment, I imagined my mom showing our photos to a new friend.

  This is Jillian, the smart one. She’s a doctor now, isn’t that something?

  This is Natalie. She’s our little entrepreneur!

  And this is Skylar. Isn’t she pretty?

  Frowning, I grabbed the crown off the mantle and left the house before my mother got home and asked me why I needed it.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I was seated in front of Joan Klein’s desk, staring at her in disbelief. “Maybe I misunderstood.”

  Joan, a former beauty queen herself, had a beehive hairdo that looked like it might have been shellacked in 1975 and eyebrows penciled in way too dark. She cleared her throat. “Corporate feels, Ms. Nixon, that your current reputation is at odds with the qualities we look for in a Cherry Queen. We do not believe you would be an asset to the pageant at this time, and in fact we feel you have violated your contract.”

  “Violated my contract? Are you joking?” I blinked a few times, but her pursed mouth did not ease into a smile.

  “No. I am quite serious. If you look at your contract, which I have a copy of here, you will see that you agreed to refrain from engaging in any public behaviors that would discredit the Queen or the pageant.”

  “But—but that was seven years ago!” I sputtered.

  “The contract has no end date. Once a queen, always a queen,” she said dramatically.

  “Oh my God. So now what?”

  “Your crown and title are being revoked, and we’d like you to sign right here.” She set another contract in front of me, the page full of tiny black p
rint. “This says that you understand your title is being forfeited due to breach of contract and you will no longer refer to yourself as a former Queen, advertise yourself as such, or appear at any functions claiming to be such.”

  “Seriously? I made a mistake! Don’t we all make mistakes sometimes?”

  “Yours were very public, Ms. Nixon. Too public.”

  “It was just a TV show!” But in my head I heard Miranda Rivard’s voice: Perception is reality, Skylar.

  “It was a reality show. You played yourself,” Joan pointed out. “And then there is the matter of that tattoo.” She nodded toward my arm, and I looked down at the pretty flowers and vines circling one upper arm.

  “What about it? The contract only said I couldn’t get any tattoos during my reign, which I didn’t. This is only two years old.”

  She went on, ignoring my question. “We would appreciate it if you did not speak to the press about this or mention it on any social media. We’ll handle it.”

  “Speak to the press? Are you kidding? Why would I want to call attention to this?” I scribbled my name on the contract without even reading it. Didn’t matter what it said, I no longer cared.

  “Leave the crown, please. It’s pageant property.”

  My jaw dropped and I hugged the crown to my stomach. “You can’t have my crown.”

  “Yes, I can.” She tapped my signature with the pen. “You just agreed to return it.”

  I wanted to throw it at her, but I mustered my pride and managed to set it down gently on the desk—right after I bent that stupid fucking rhinestone-studded oversized metal piece of shit in half with my bare hands.

  Five

  Sebastian

  After the episode at the beach, I went straight to the gym. In college I’d learned that working out was one of the things that helped me stay mindful of the present reality and stop “fearcasting” about the future. When I was running or lifting or hitting the heavy bag, all I thought about was my body getting stronger, my muscles working harder, my heart pumping faster. It forced me to stay in the moment, helped me work off the tension and anger I carried, and had results you could see. However, even running an extra mile and adding extra reps hadn’t been enough to banish Skylar Nixon from my mind.