The Melody of Silence: Crescendo
Page 28
I rifled through my purse and came up with one of my father’s business cards, handing it to her. She took it, eyes scanning my face.
“Thanks,” she said, her brow furrowed as she stared at the card.
“You’re welcome.” I steered the cart around her and left her standing at the end of the aisle with her baby belly and basket of mac and cheese boxes and two liters of soda.
“Hey, Alex?” she called, forcing me to stop and turn around. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely.
I didn’t respond. I guess it’s not very Christ-like, but I wasn’t quite ready to forgive her.
I finished my shopping, paid for my purchases, and shuttled them out to the parking lot. The August air was thick, and the streetlights buzzed overhead, attracting bugs that slammed themselves repeatedly above the bulb with loud thwack sounds as I loaded my groceries into the back of my father’s sedan.
I tried not to breathe through my nose as I pushed my cart back to the store. The grocery was bordered on two sides by thick, undeveloped woods and the air smelled like damp earth and sunbaked vegetation. It smelled like long nights spent staring at the stars with my best friend by my side.
It wasn’t until I was safely behind the wheel and driving home that the tears broke loose. I cried in anger at the betrayal, in grief at the loss, and in agony at the loneliness. I damn near crashed the car I cried so hard.
I sat in the driveway outside my house for long minutes as the tears poured down my face and the vast and empty world somehow closed in on me, compressing me down until I could barely breathe.
When the tears finally stopped, I sat up and wiped my eyes and pulled the rearview mirror down so I could see my face in the semi-darkness. I looked myself in the eye and made myself a promise.
“That’s the last time,” I said firmly, glaring at myself in the mirror. “You don’t need him. You never did. He’s a jackass, a cheater, and a killer. He doesn’t deserve your tears, and you will never cry for him again.”
Eighteen-year-old Alex made that promise.
Twenty-four-year-old Alex broke it.
Acknowledgments
Always and forever, first and foremost: Ava Larksen, without whom I would have quit the writing community five years ago and slunk back into my hovel to hunker down and mope atop a hoard of half-finished manuscripts. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a talented, kind, hilarious friend, but here we are. This book would not be what it is without her influence. Hell, it might not exist at all. When she’s not patiently coaching me through mental breakdowns, she keeps busy crafting her Little Bird series, which is Tolkein-esque in its sprawling inventiveness and Sparks-ian in its heartstring tugging and House Hunters-y in its ceaseless, stirring real-estate porn.
Gigi Laurent. The girl who filled the silence when I first began sharing these ridiculous books. The one who asked for more chapters right when I was running on fumes of motivation and self-confidence. And how delighted was I to find out that this wonderful, consistent, devoted reader was also an amazingly accomplished writer, herself?! Gigi’s Bright Knight series will rip your little heart out and trod all over it and then patch it back up with sweetness and love and the undeniable allure of a fabulously wealthy hero.
Roza Rahilly. The only person who knew me by my real name first to have made it through all four books of The Angstiad. Also, author of hilarious, witty, touching, educational, sweet, feminist-minded stories, which she refuses to publish until they’re polished, which is weird to me, but I support it.
Sarah, for tolerating my constant nattering about the cover, as well as my epic and lasting silences when a little more responsiveness on my end probably would have made both our jobs a lot easier. Oh, and for an excellent fucking job.
Social Grace. Passionate reader turned expert editor, and overall bad-ass bitch. I don’t think there’s a greater compliment a writer can receive than assurance that The Story is sufficiently entertaining to remove The Reader from Real Life Struggles. So here’s to a good book (not this one, obviously) and the sound of rain and wind-chimes.
The Wattpad community at large. Honestly, I was a little worried I wouldn’t be able to find a place for myself on a website with such a monumental breadth and depth of Harry Styles fanfiction (no hate, just not my cup o’ tea). But over the last few years I’ve managed to accumulate a mass of friends, both readers and writers, with so much talent and passion and kindness it blows me away on a routine basis.
The reader, whoever you are. For those of you who have followed me here from Wattpad, thank you for your support and your encouragement. To everyone who sent me messages or left comments and reviews, thank you for making me believe this story was worth reading. To everyone who subscribed to my mailing list, thank you for riding along with me on this no-doubt disastrous adventure. To the ARC reviewers, thank you for the safety net, without which I wouldn’t have dared publish these stupid things. And to the silent readers who are still lurking, thank you. Honestly, I’m bad about reviewing too. Whether you’re lazy like me or just shy, it doesn’t matter. I still love you.
Last but not least, Storm, who cannot read or even understand the spoken word, except for the important stuff like ‘Sit’ and ‘C’mere’ and ‘Go to bed’ and ‘Do you want a treat?’ But I do think I’d be remiss if I let a whole acknowledgments section pass by without once mentioning my most faithful writing buddy and the sweetest, quietest little bitch who ever did live.