The Realm of You_ A Novel - Amanda Richardson

The Realm of You A Novel Amanda Richardson

Also by Amanda Richardson And Then You: A Novel (standalone contemporary romance) In Search of Yesterday: A Novella (standalone paranormal romance) Charlotte Bloom Series The Foretelling (revised version coming 2016) The Redemption (revised version coming 2016) Coming 2016 The Publicity Stunt (standalone romantic comedy) Tracing the Stars (standalone contemporary romance) Where Forever Ends (standalone contemporary romance)

First edition published by Amanda Richardson, October 2015 Publisher ’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author ’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Richardson All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Cover design by Amanda Richardson Editing Suggestions by Red Adept Editing Amanda Richardson P.O. Box 1961 Burbank, CA 91507 For more information about the books and/or author, visit: http://www.amandarichardsonauthor.com

Table of Contents A Note from the Author Epigraph Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-one Twenty-two

Twenty-three Twenty-four Twenty-five Twenty-six Twenty-seven Twenty-eight Twenty-nine Thirty Acknowledgements About the Author Excerpt from The Publicity Stunt

A Note from the Author Thank you for wanting to read The Realm of You. Please note that this book deals with heavy situations such as self-harm and suicide, therefore it may be a trigger for some people. Though I’d consider this a contemporary romance, it’s on the dark side of the spectrum, so as a result, this book is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. While The Realm of You is considered fiction, I did my best to depict characters with mental illness. As a writer, I tried to stay true to the inner workings of depression, suicidal thoughts, etc. I researched everything I possibly could about these illnesses. That said, I’m sure some might find these character ’s thoughts offensive and/or inaccurate, so please consider this a forewarning. Suicide is a serious issue, and is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. for all ages. Depression affects 20-25% of Americans ages 18+ in a given year, and getting rid of the stigma surrounding mental health is one of the reasons I chose to write this novel. Visit http://www.save.org/ for more information.

For the 250,000+ people who survive suicide every year. “Never never never give up.” –Winston Churchill

Epigraph XX I HAVE no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you. —Emily Dickinson



Prologue

THREE months after

My eyelids flutter open. Morning, again. Some people say that mornings bring renewal—the dawn of a new day, or some bullshit like that. I can’t seem to agree. Mornings for me are just a reminder of the end I failed to give myself. There is no hope for someone like me. I’m broken. I’m too broken. There are cracks in my heart that will never heal over. “Are you ready for your pills, Mr. Rivera?” Darcy sings, walking in and shaking her hips. She’s rattling my pills around in the small paper cup like she just discovered fucking gold. “Are you ready to feel happy?” she adds, giggling. She sets the pills down and sashays over to the curtains, throwing them apart. I have to shield my eyes from the brutal onslaught of sunshine. “Do you mean… am I ready to be pumped full of mind-numbing, zombie-creating chemicals that will make me forget my problems rather than deal with them?” I shoot her a saccharine grin, and she just clucks disapprovingly. “You know it takes a few weeks for the medicine to work,” she says, her voice optimistic. Her accent is thick today. “Darcy, with all due respect, you could pump me full of LSD or ecstasy, and I’d still want to jump off of

bridges.” “Don’t say that,” she quips casually. “You will see. One day, you will see why God kept you around.” Darcy and her old-school, Irish-Catholic devotion to God is endearing. “Uh-huh.” I sit up and swallow the pills, taking a big sip of the orange juice that Darcy placed on my over-bed table. The juice is bitter—a side effect of my medication. As if life wasn’t hard enough, most food tastes like cardboard to me now. If I’m stuck here, I at least want to be able to enjoy my disgusting cafeteria food as much as possible. “God has a sick sense of humor,” I reply, looking away. Darcy clucks again. I am just one patient among many on her rotation, but she tells me all the time that I’m her favorite. “I’ll bring some breakfast in a few minutes.” She quickly helps me off of the bed and into my wheelchair, and I wince when my broken leg touches the ground. “I’m not hungry.” She ignores me and makes my bed so quickly that I wonder if she’s a witch using her powers. Her Irish accent, demanding nature, and coarse, red hair remind me of Molly Weasley. After she’s gone, I wheel myself to the restroom. As I brush my teeth and splash some water on my face, purposely avoiding my reflection, I think of what activity I’ll do today. Getting outside, especially in the spring, is one of the only things I look forward to in this

place. I’m certainly not in the mood to paint today. I wonder if my inspiration is gone entirely, or if it’s just temporary. Not that it matters. It doesn’t bring me very much joy anymore. I wheel back into my room and drink the rest of the orange juice. I have it pretty good here, and regardless of my own problems, the people and the beautiful setting make it tolerable. I have a private room, a private nurse, and breakfast delivered every morning. I secretly thank my parents for that luxury, as I know a lot of people don’t have the opportunity to stay in such nice quarters while in a place like this. I throw on my spring-weather usual—a flannel and slip-on Vans. Darcy helps me change my underwear and basketball shorts every night, so luckily those can stay put. It’s hard navigating around two leg casts. Just as I pull my flannel down my chest, Darcy comes back in with my breakfast. “You look nice today,” she says, just like she says every day. “You are a handsome man. You need to find a woman to take care of you. Also, you need a haircut. But otherwise it’s nice.” “Thank you. But right now, all I need are my oil paints and a blank canvas,” I reply, nodding to the white toast. I will have to eat it—Darcy doesn’t like it when I waste food. “Do you know what my Irish ancestors would’ve given for that piece of toast during the potato famine?” is usually her response.

Talk about a guilt trip. “Ohh, are you going to attempt painting today?” she squeals. I give her a tight smile. I wish she would stop getting her hopes up. “I will leave you be.” She starts to leave, but then she turns back around. “What do you think you’ll paint?” she asks, her voice optimistic. “If I paint,” I clarify. I turn to her, and she’s watching me, a look of genuine sorrow passing across her face. I know she thinks fondly of me, and it pains her to see me like this. Again. “If I do paint, I’ll paint something for you,” I say, squeezing some blue paint onto a pallet. I can feel her smile, but I don’t turn around. The door closes behind her, and I scrape a large glob of royal blue onto my waiting canvas. The first mark is always the most satisfying. It’s the next step that’s the hardest. * Three hours later, I can practically feel the warmth of the day radiating off of the window. I pack everything up, and I set the large, unfinished canvas against my dresser. I’ll finish it later—just like the twentysomething other canvases lining the wall, all of them blank except for the first smear of paint. My neck hurts from staring ahead, unmoving, for three solid hours. I exit my room and wheel myself down the hall, taking the elevator down to the lobby. I nod to Cecilia,

the receptionist. Her eyes go from vacant to eager, and I groan internally. She’s like a puppy who won’t leave me alone. “And where are you going?” she asks, her voice flirtatious. The fact that she’s flirting with me is wrong on so many levels. “Outside, where normal people exist.” I wheel myself away before she can reply, and I pray she won’t follow me like yesterday. Once I get outside, I feel it—the crackle in the air, the fire in my belly. Life is magnanimous. Life is durable. Why can’t I be durable? This is the one thing I think I might actually hate myself for: that I wanted to voluntarily end my life when so many other people fight for theirs every single day. The goddamn trees are practically born again every spring, their resilience observable. The guilt from that is heavy. But on days like today, when the sky is the perfect blue, and the trees sway to the perfect beat, I feel it. I feel what everyone else feels. Just for a second. The electric charge only intensifies the farther away I get from the building. This happens to me every once in awhile. I feel too much. I’m too sensitive. I notice things that others don’t. As I travel down the pathway and look back at Brattleboro Retreat, in all of its glory, I wonder what today has in store for me. It almost feels anticipatory. The Brattleboro Retreat building itself is

remarkably beautiful. It’s an old building from the 1820s, with the classic red brick and black-framed windows. I wheel myself down the straight driveway, past the parking lot, and to the dead-end embankment of the West River. Because I grew up around here, I know a secret path that leads to the edge of the water—a hidden oasis. Bonus: it’s wheelchair accessible. Just as I bend down to slip my Vans off, I halt. A woman is sitting in the dirt, her back to me, and she’s staring ahead. She has long brown hair. Her patterned dress is quirky and funky, yet girlish. I’m intrigued, and yet I slowly back away, turning my wheels quietly. I’ve always considered this to be my spot, but now she’s here, and I don’t know what to do. I want to be mad at her intrusion, but I can’t be mad at someone just for discovering my favorite spot. I’m torn. “I don’t bite,” she says caustically as I was just turning to leave. She doesn’t even turn around. I bet she’s blind—blind people have a wicked sense of hearing. Before I have a chance to voice my surprise, she turns, and the sun reflects on her pale face just so. She quickly raises her delicate hand to shield the sun from her face. I want to paint her, right now, this very instant. The colors are so vivid, and she’s exquisite. Her top lip is thin, but her bottom lip makes up for it. Her honey-brown eyes are bright and watery, and her heart-shaped face is classically beautiful. A look of recognition passes across her face,

almost like she can’t believe what she’s seeing—a second later, she’s horror-struck. Her face pales, and the eerie way her mouth is hanging open in shock makes me think I have a bloody nose or something. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed in place. Because while she may be frozen in place, too, I’m suddenly homesick for her, like I miss her. Like we know each other. “Is it really you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it confirms everything for me. There is hope.

Part One: Marlin

Chapter One PRESENT

Drip, drip, drip. The blobs of water hit the porcelain sink with such precision every time that it wakes me up. Even the most seamless dreams aren’t precise, so the repetitive, orchestrated noise always rouses me. Drip, drip, drip. I nudge the body next to me from where I lie—face down, legs spread, arms out—using the tip of my index finger. Our California-King-sized bed allows for the luxurious spreading of limbs at all times. I take advantage. Drip, drip, drip. I poke the flesh to my right, trying to wake Charlie. I notice a few things right off the bat: first, the skin I’m touching isn’t as warm as Charlie’s. His skin is always hot—always burning up. Second, the drip, drip, drip is not falling at the exact tempo I’ve come to memorize. It’s slightly slower. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone but me. I’ve listened to that damn leaky sink every single night for at least two years. Third, just as I pull my arms underneath me and into my chest, I realize I’m wearing a ribbed tank top. I don’t own a ribbed tank top, and I most certainly

never sleep with clothes on. Drip, drip, drip. I’m afraid to open my eyes, so instead I gently caress the sheets with my pinky finger. The motion makes my arm hair prickle—these aren’t my sheets. These are cheap, generic, polyester-blend sheets— worlds apart from the state-of-the-art linen sheets I’m accustomed to. Drip, drip… My body goes cold as I wait for that last sequential drip, but it never comes. I must be dreaming. This whole thing—the stranger in bed next to me, the shirt, the sheets, the dripping… it’s a figment of my imagination. Drip… The leak has slowed now, something my sink never does on its own. I always poke Charlie, and he dutifully climbs out of bed, grunting and stark naked, to fiddle with the handle until it stops. Two or three times a week this happens, and every time it does, Charlie climbs back into bed and mumbles, “We’ve got to fix that fucking sink.” I always pretend I don’t hear him. Drip… The person next to me—not Charlie—stirs slightly and lets out a long sigh. I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, trying to will myself to wake up. The muscles in my face bunch around my eyes, and then it starts to sting, so I stop. My heart is hammering in my

chest, and I’m afraid the person next to me will hear it. I’m afraid they’ll feel my pulse —thumpthumpthumpthump—and I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me if they know I’m awake. Will they kill me? Mutilate me? Torture me? I take three slow, silent breaths, and after the last one, I force my eyes open. Drip… The stranger next to me is sleeping on his side with his back to me. The blanket is tucked underneath his armpit. I can only see the small mole in the center of his upper back as my eyes adjust, and then slowly, the darkbrown tufts of hair curling at his neck. My body goes stiff, and I try not to whimper out loud. Charlie has blond hair. Unruly, thick, blond hair. I glance around the room, straining my eyes so that I don’t wake the man next to me with movement in the bed. It’s a small bedroom, generic and plain—I hate carpet, I think as my eyes wander over the beige fluff on the floor. Moving boxes are lined up on the floor against the wall. I dare to move my other arm ever so slightly, running it down the side of the mattress until it touches the bristly carpeting. Just as I suspected—the mattress is lying on the floor. Barbaric. Drip… I crane my neck, and I see the edge of a small window near our feet. The streetlamp outside casts an orange glow into the room, and I’m surprised I ever fell

asleep in here, as I’ve always needed absolute darkness. Unless I was drugged or knocked unconscious… Not my bedroom, not my clothes, not my boyfriend, not my carpet, not my window… This isn’t a dream. I’m much too aware for it to be a dream. That dull, fuzzy feeling that accompanies all of my dreams isn’t present here. Bile starts to rise in my throat. I bite my tongue, tasting blood, just to be sure. I am awake, this is real, and I have no fucking clue where I am. I twist in the scratchy sheets and discover, to my horror, that I’m not wearing pants. Not even underwear. I get tangled, but after a few seconds, I’m able to climb out of bed and run into the bathroom to vomit. After I’m done, I look down and see the telltale shape of penne pasta. Why is it that I can’t remember eating any penne pasta in the first place? In fact, I’ve been going easy on the carbs lately, and I haven’t had pasta in weeks. I’ve been protein loading, sculpting my body proudly at the gym. I flush and stand, my legs wobbly. I look behind me and into the bedroom, and the man in the bed is still asleep—thank god. I close the bathroom door slowly. It creaks, and I wince as it clicks shut, loudly. Please don’t wake up, I will the stranger. I switch the light on, and a harsh yellow light fills the room. I stifle a scream as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.

I tug at my short dark-brown hair. It’s choppy and hacked, a horrible execution of a 1996 hairstyle. I immediately mourn my long, wavy hair of yesteryear. I peek back at the closed door and narrow my eyes in the direction of the stranger. He did this. He kidnapped me, drugged me, and chopped off all of my hair. I never would have done this to myself. I’m totally naked from the waist down, but there doesn’t seem to be any trauma. I find a pair of baggy grey sweatpants on the floor of the bathroom, so I throw them on. They have a small red, crusty stain near the crotch. The penne. Are these mine or his? I rub my hands on my arms. I feel thinner. There’s not as much flesh around my middle as I’m used to, and the bones on my shoulders are protruding. How long have I been here? Is he starving me? Giving me drugs to make me forget everything? I look at myself in the mirror again, and my face looks the same, more or less. My cheeks are less chipmunk-y, and my hair gives me a kind of pixie look now that I have cheekbones. I look around the bathroom. Everything looks ordinary. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrush, facial moisturizer, face wipes, tampons. I open the medicine cabinet. Typical stuff… Band-Aids, Advil, Nyquil, and an old bottle of painkillers in my name. I pick the orange container up. Marlin Winters… take one tablet twice a day for pain… Exp. 02/08.

2008? I was twenty in 2008. I was never prescribed painkillers—never in my entire life—not even when I had my wisdom teeth removed at seventeen. The doctor gave me prescription-strength Ibuprofen. I scan the bottle. Percocet, 2.5 mg. I set it back inside the medicine cabinet and continue to look around. I throw the plain white plastic shower curtain open and scan the contents of the shower. Suave. I shiver. I touch my hair. No wonder it looks fried—I would never let that chemical-ridden shit touch my hair in my real life. My real life. What happened to my real life? What happened to Charlie, and our townhouse? What happened to my job? What happened to me? I turn the light off and sit on the toilet for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins, making my temples throb. I’m in survival mode now, and if I’m going to face my kidnapper, I need to be clear-headed. I open the door slowly, tiptoeing towards the corner of the room farthest from me, but closest to him— whoever he is. I spot a tan faux-leather purse sitting on the floor as if someone threw it down haphazardly. I reach inside, searching for a phone. If this is my purse, I can almost guarantee my phone is inside. I’m perpetually running out of battery because of this atrocious habit, much to the chagrin of Charlie, who charges his phone every night religiously. Aha. I feel the cool, sleek metal

meet my fingertips, and I smile victoriously. I grab it and walk out of the bedroom. The apartment is small, and every inch of it is ugly and basic. Before I get caught, I quickly dial Charlie’s number. He’ll be so happy I’m safe and alive. I look down at the phone—a silver, plain flip phone, ugh—and I wonder if they’ll be able to trace this call. I wonder if he’s with the police right now. It rings four times before he answers, but when he does, my whole body goes limp with relief. “Hello?” Charlie mumbles. My eyes catch the time on the old oven in the kitchen. 4:42 a.m. I push aside the irritation I immediately feel that he’s not eagerly awaiting my call, but I suppose the man has to sleep sometime. He’s probably wearied from all the anguish. “Charlie!” I whisper frantically. “It’s me!” The silence on the other end makes me nervous. What if Charlie is being held captive too? What if something’s happened to him? “I’m sorry, who is this?” he whispers, and I audibly gasp. “It’s me. Marlin. Listen,” I start, thinking that maybe my voice is a little more hoarse than usual. Poor guy is probably taking calls left and right, from the media, the detectives… “I’m being held captive. I don’t know where I am, but Charlie, he hacked off all of my hair! Are you with the police right now?” Again, silence. After a few deadening seconds, he

replies, “I’m sorry, I don’t know any Marlins. Is this some kind of prank?” My heart rate quickens, and I feel the panic slide down into my stomach. It’s definitely him—his honeyed voice is distinguishable anywhere. “Charlie, it’s Marlin, your girlfriend. Marlin Winters,” I say, my voice raised, desperate, frantic. “Marlin Winters? From freshman year of college?” “What are you talking about?” I hiss, and I suddenly want to hurl the phone against the wall and watch as it shatters into a million tiny pieces, just to make this conversation stop. “Is this some kind of sick joke? I am your girlfriend,” I urge, my voice breaking into a sob. “Marlin, are you okay? Like, mentally, are you okay?” His words offend me, but that’s pretty typical. He always speaks before he thinks. It always gets him in trouble, and I’m always apologizing to people for him. But right now, it’s not funny. “Charlie,” I snivel. “What is going on?” I slide down against the wall, and I begin to cry. He stays silent on the other end, but I can tell he’s still there because I can hear him breathing. “Marlin, look, I don’t know why you’re calling me, or how you even have my number. I haven’t spoken to you in almost a decade. Is there someone you can call, someone who can take you to a hospital?” His words are condescending, but I continue

anyways, enraged. “I don’t need to go to a hospital, Charlie!” I yell. “I’ve been kidnapped! You’re my boyfriend! I need hel—” Click. “Charlie? Hello?” I look down at the phone, and my heart sinks. He hung up on me. I stand up, legs rickety, gripping the wall for support, and I feel sick to my stomach again. I throw the phone onto the carpet and make a beeline for the kitchen sink, where I proceed to vomit up more penne with red sauce. When I’m done, I rinse it away and look around, pulling my arms tight across my chest. It’s freezing in here. I look out of the small window above the kitchen sink, and it’s as if my worst nightmares have come true. The ground is covered in a fine layer of snow, and the pine trees outside of the apartment are caked with frost and icicles. My breathing becomes labored, and puffs of white escape my lips as my teeth start to chatter. I live in San Clemente. I live in California. It doesn’t snow in Southern California, at least not in the part where I live. I would never live in a place that had carpet, and I would never cut my hair—this I know. My supposed boyfriend has no idea who I am, or rather, that we’re together, and I woke up in a bed with a stranger. What the hell am I doing here, and how did I get here? “Babe?” His voice makes me whimper loudly, and I shut my eyes tightly, again hoping to wake up from this alternate-

universe fuckery. Or whatever the hell this is. I don’t open my eyes. Maybe if I pretend he’s not here, he’ll go away. “Mar? Are you okay?” he asks, and his kind words dumbfound me. I try not to react as his warm arms encompass me, and I can’t help but start to cry as he rubs my back. “Are you sick, baby?” he coos, and I know I should be kicking him, screaming, trying to get away… but I’m so tired. “Who are you, and where am I?” I whisper. He chortles, an unfamiliar sound, but certainly not menacing. “You must have a fever. Let’s get you to bed.” I open my eyes just as he pulls away, and I continue to stare at him as he leads me back to the mattress on the floor with the cheap sheets. He’s tall and wiry, but he has some muscle in his arms and torso. He looks like a runner. I don’t look at his crotch, even though he’s naked and I know I should sucker-punch him in his nuts right now for kidnapping me. He doesn’t seem like a kidnapper, but I suppose they never do. He has short brown hair, brown eyes, and a sharp nose. His stubble is overgrown by a few days, and he has multitudes of chest hair. His large lips and almond eyes give him an ethnic look—Hispanic or Latin, maybe? He doesn’t have an accent. Just as he starts to bring me down and back into the bed with him, I pull away from him, escaping his grasp. I walk to the corner, cowering.

“Who are you?” I demand. Again, he just laughs. “Hun, you’re sick. You’re burning up. Now come to bed so I can cuddle and take care of you.” “Not before you tell me your name and where we are. And,” I add, “why I’m here.” He nods, his face serious this time. I’m grateful that he’s already in bed and under the covers, his man parts tucked away. “Fine, I’ll bite. You’re crazy, Marlin.” He sighs. I harrumph, but I gesture for him to continue. He just smiles. “I am Sebastian Juares. We live in Brattleboro, Vermont, and we’re getting married in two months. As for why we’re here, well…” He trails off, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat. Married? Vermont? He cocks his head and tongues his cheek, smiling. “Princess here needed some renovations to be done to our house, so we’re staying in this shithole until we can move in.” “Our house?” “Wood floors, subway tiles, crown molding galore…” I consider his words. I love all of those things. He’s trying to woo me. How the hell did he get me all the way to Vermont in one night? I look down at the ring on my ring finger. I didn’t notice it before, but it’s nice. Vintage, single-stone, filigree… it’s actually really beautiful. Exhaustion hits me hard, and when I look up at

Sebastian, he’s watching me with gentle concern. He really doesn’t seem like a kidnapper. This is just a dream. All of this is a dream. It has to be. “Come to bed, mi amor.” With as much reluctance as I can muster, I slowly crawl into bed with him, and I don’t say anything as he drapes an arm around me, pulling me close into his hard chest. Instead, I close my eyes and hope that when I wake up, all of this will have just been the world’s creepiest dream ever.

Chapter Two SIX days ago

Charlie taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he hums the chorus from We Are The Champions. The rain is pelting down onto the windshield, and his wipers are going nauseatingly fast. I have to look away. “Fuck, we forgot the wine, babe,” he says, slamming a hand against his dashboard. It jolts me. “I’m sure your parents won’t mind if we show up empty handed,” I reply, giving him a small smile. “Do you know my parents at all?” he asks, annoyed. “We have to stop by Bristol Farms.” “Okay,” I concede. “Whatever you think.” Charlie pulls off of PCH and into the Bristol Farms parking lot. I wait in the car and watch while people struggle with their umbrellas, shaking them aggressively at the door of the store as if the rain is an inconvenience. Two minutes later, Charlie is back, cradling a bottle of expensive Pinot Noir. “I don’t see why we couldn’t show up empty handed. We’re eating dinner at the country club, for god’s sake.” I pick at my chipped fingernails. “You don’t understand,” is all he says, and soon he’s back on PCH going north, towards the Newport Beach Country Club.

I eye my cropped black slacks, black ballet flats, and white blouse. I feel fancy, but I know the minute I step inside the country club, I will feel totally out of place. I always do. It’s like the people there know my clothes are from Target and not Bloomingdales or NetA-Porter. Charlie’s mother is the worst, too. The last time I saw her, I was feeling mighty fly in my new J. Crew Tippi sweater, and she had the audacity to tug at a loose thread and ask me if I’d gotten it from the factory store since the color was discontinued. Bitch. “I wish it wasn’t raining,” Charlie mutters. “We’re in a drought,” I counter, continuing to pick at my nails. “I know, but still… I wish it would rain in the middle of the night or something. It’s so inconvenient.” I roll my eyes. “Inconvenient is being stuck inside your house for five days because there’s a six-foot wall of snow blocking the door from the blizzard.” Charlie doesn’t say anything, and I hide my triumphant smirk. Wyoming winters are no joke. We pull up to the sprawling country club, where the valet opens my door and holds an umbrella out for me. We’re steered towards the door quickly. This rain… such an inconvenience for everyone. I bite my tongue. My eyes catch the directions pasted on a sign out front. Attire and grooming shall not be such so as to offend members or guests. Tasteful cocktail attire is

permitted for gentlemen and ladies. Ladies shall refrain from deep plunging necklines, backless dresses, and skirts and dresses more than 4 inches above the knee. The use of cellular phones is permitted only in the parking lot. “Is my neckline plunging?” I ask half-sarcastically, and Charlie scowls. “You look fine,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back and leading us towards the back—the fancy area. And that’s saying a lot, because the whole place is fancy—as in fahhncy. The club is crowded for a Monday night, and we make our way towards Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, who are already seated, napkins in lap. “Kids, hello,” Mr. Chapman bellows, standing to hug Charlie and kiss me on the cheek. “Hello, Perry,” I say, smiling at Mr. Chapman. “Linda,” I say, nodding towards Charlie’s mother. She doesn’t stand but instead scrutinizes my outfit. “Nice to see you, dear,” she says, sipping her wine. I’m sure it’s not her first glass. I study the tautness of her forehead and the way her cheekbones could practically cut stone. Her platinum hair is sleek and smooth, and it looks better on a random Monday night than mine did at prom. She’s wearing a dark-blue long-sleeved wrap dress. Perry is wearing a suit. In fact, I’ve never seen him in anything but a suit.

“So glad you could make it,” he says, ushering me into a seat next to Charlie. “I hope traffic wasn’t too dreadful,” he says uninterestedly, studying his menu. “It was fine,” Charlie answers, and he places the bottle of wine on the table. “We brought wine. I hope the corkage fee isn’t too high here.” “Don’t worry about it,” Linda says in the kind of cool, casual way that only someone with money could say. “Huh,” Mr. Chapman remarks, eyeing the bottle Charlie set in front of him. “The 2013 Sojourn is an interesting choice,” he observes, his tone condescending and critical. Ungrateful asshole. That’s a fifty-dollar bottle of wine. I look over at Charlie. His eyes are fixed on the menu, but I see a faint blush spreading on his cheeks. “He got it because it happens to be my favorite,” I say, waving my hand. “That’s nice,” Linda says. I want to slap the smug, superior look right off of her face. “I was thinking of ordering the caviar to start,” Perry says, putting the menu down. “Does everyone here like caviar?” “Sounds delightful,” Charlie answers, and I feel him nudge me under the table. He knows I despise caviar —it’s slimy, fishy, and salty. Why it’s a delicacy is beyond me. “Yes, wonderful,” I answer airily, and I stifle a

giggle when I realize how ridiculous we all sound. The waiter walks over, and Perry orders for all of us, much to my displeasure. The conversation is stiff, and Charlie speaks so formally to his parents that my eyes are bugged out half the time in surprise. I can honestly say I have no love for the Chapmans. I don’t even know why Charlie goes to these things. I think it’s to prove a point, like, hey dad, I have a respectable banking job, I just bought a townhouse, and oh yeah, fuck you. That’s the only explanation I can think of. “Charlie tells us that you were recently promoted at the studio,” Linda says, turning her eyes on me. “Oh, yes. To assistant manager.” “Mmm.” That’s all she says. Linda and Perry have made it pretty clear over the years that they don’t approve of Charlie dating a yoga instructor. Or dating me in general, for that matter. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m a farm girl from Wyoming or because I’ve never attempted to have a relationship with them, but either way, dinners are usually supremely awkward. After the caviar is taken away, mostly unfinished (what a waste), Perry sets his arms down on the table and studies us. I brace myself for the question I know he’s going to ask. “Now that you guys bought a townhouse together,” Perry starts, emphasizing town, “have you given any more thought to marriage?” Charlie is mid-sip, and he chokes on his water. His

parents look at him, affronted. Linda starts to fan herself, clearly mortified. As the waiter rushes over and checks that everything is okay (it is), he leaves, and Charlie grips the edge of the table. “Dad, like I’ve told you before, when we’re ready, we’ll make that leap. I think Marlin and I are very happy with how things are now.” I nod in support of Charlie. It’s true—I have no desire to be married yet. I’m only twenty-seven; Charlie is only twenty-nine. We’re practically infants. “You do understand the terms of the trust, don’t you, son?” Ahh, the almighty trust. And here I was thinking we could have a nice dinner without bringing up the trust that Charlie is set to inherit once he marries. This is exactly how every dinner with the Chapmans goes— Linda somehow makes me feel inferior about my outfit of choice, Perry orders some sort of pretentious food, and then they bring up money and marriage. Every. Single. Time. “I am aware, Father,” Charlie says, nodding. Every time he calls Perry ‘Father ’, it reminds me of when Darth Vader says, “Luke, I am your fahhther.” “You’re not getting any younger,” Perry retorts, and he gives us both a disapproving look. Suddenly, I snap. “I’m inheriting a trust as well,” I say, my voice slightly accented. It comes out before I know what’s

happening, and I realize I’ve had way too much to drink on an empty stomach since I did not partake in the cahhviar. I see Charlie tense up beside me, and I give him a small wink. He just shakes his head and brings his hands to his face. “Is that so, dear?” Linda asks, instantly perking up. Ha! She thinks I’m more interesting now that I supposedly come from money. “Is that the state with all the cheese?” she once asked me about Wyoming. I had to tell her that she was actually thinking of Wisconsin. Rich and stupid—how formulaic. “Yes,” I say, gulping down some wine. My voice is nasally, and the poor woman has no idea that I’m mocking her. “My grandmother, Lady Olenna of the House Tyrell will be bestowing two hundred dollars upon me once I enter into the union of marriage,” I say, and before I can say anything else, Charlie jumps up and grabs my arm. Both Perry and Linda look uncomfortable. “I better get Marlin home. She’s had too much to drink.” “Son, the second course hasn’t even come yet. Give her some bread, she’ll be fine,” he says through gritted teeth. What he really means is, sit the fuck down and stop causing a scene. “Oh no, darling,” I say, exaggerated, pouting at Charlie. “The second course! Whatever will we do without our foie gras medallions and bosc pears?” As if

anything could be more pretentious… “Okay, that’s enough,” Charlie says, throwing his napkin down and giving his parents a look that says I’m sorry. “You’re making a scene,” Linda says quietly, looking around. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to Charlie, but either way, I start to laugh. Loudly. “Marlin,” Charlie warns. “Let’s go.” “By the way,” I add, looking straight at Perry. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, where women can order for themselves. I hate caviar. It tastes like boogers!” Linda gasps, and Charlie starts to drag me away. I’m not finished. “Lastly, when your son brings you a fifty-dollar bottle of wine, the polite thing to say is thank you,” I hiss, and with one final, hefty tug, Charlie has me out the door. He doesn’t stop until we’re twenty feet away, standing in the parking lot. The rain is coming down hard now, and I look up at the sky and laugh. “What the hell, Marlin!” Charlie yells, letting me go and spinning around to face me. “I don’t even care,” I say, giggling. “That felt awesome. I’ve always wanted to tell your parents off.” He studies me for a moment, regarding me like a foreign entity. I’m not sure of the words that are about to come out of his mouth, but I do know that whatever he chooses to say next will define the rest of our relationship. It’s odd, the reverence I feel for that moment—whether or not he’s on my side. It’s a big deal.

“You didn’t have to be so fucking rude,” he says, brushing past me and to the car. “The Game of Thrones reference was a bit much.” I stay standing in the rain for a few seconds longer as he starts the car. For a second, I think he’s going to leave without me, but the car just idles, and the windshield wipers start going at a thousand MPH again. I close my eyes, wishing he’d said something along the lines of, you were incredible in there, or, thanks for standing up for me. The rain soaks through my nice clothes, and I realize I won’t ever fit in with Charlie’s family. Not ever.

Chapter Three PRESENT

The light from the window wakes me up, and right away, I know something is off. I don’t dare to open my eyes just yet, so instead I roll over, and my arm brushes up against someone’s skin. Please let it be Charlie, I think. “Morning, beautiful,” Sebastian says, and I feel like someone has punched me in the gut. “Morning,” I mumble without opening my eyes. This is all a dream. It has to be. “How are you feeling?” he asks, bringing one of his arms around and pulling me gently into his naked body. It feels wrong—like I’m cheating—even though Charlie has no memory of our relationship and no regard for the fact that I was supposedly kidnapped. But I wasn’t kidnapped. Predators don’t cuddle with their prey. “Still a little out of it,” I lie. Or am I lying? What the fuck is going on? I open my eyes, and the bright winter sun blasts through the window and practically blinds me. I groan and throw my free arm over my face. “Stay here. I’ll make you something for your stomach,” Sebastian says. When I open my eyes again, peeking out from under my arm, he’s throwing on

sweats and a flannel robe. I have to stifle a giggle when I see him slip into the world’s ugliest Scooby-Doo slippers, worn and tattered. To my horror, a matching pair lies next to them. “Thanks,” I manage to say, my voice quiet. He just pats me on the head before leaving the room, and I realize I’m free to run now. I quickly throw the blankets off. Frigid air greets me—the kind I felt as a child growing up in Wyoming. Just as I throw a sweatshirt over my tank top and slip on my ghastly Scooby-Doo slippers, I feel the warm air working its way through the heater vents. I walk over to the window. Snow covers the ground, and I have to close my eyes quickly because the stark whiteness burns my eyes. I haven’t woken up to snow in a very long time. “Mar?” Sebastian calls from the kitchen. “What kind of tea do you want?” Tea? Please. Give me a steaming mug of the strongest coffee in the world—the more it resembles mud, the better. “Do we have coffee?” I croak. He doesn’t answer me right away, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s looking for coffee or because my question surprised him. “Since when do you drink coffee?” he asks, and I hear him walk into the bedroom. He’s holding a hot mug of something. The string says ‘Yogi,’ and I catch a whiff

of some sort of herbal tea. God, do I drink herbal tea now? Now. As if now is my new reality. I refuse to accept that this is my life. How can it be? The phone I called Charlie from last night said it was February 18, 2015, so it’s not like I have amnesia and I don’t remember the last two years or something. Where was I yesterday? I can’t even remember. It’s like my brain is trying to climb through mud when I try to recall what I was doing before going to sleep last night. Why don’t I remember? “Mar?” Sebastian asks, holding the mug out to me. “Drink this.” I take the mug from him and sniff. “Thanks. I just didn’t sleep very well last night, and coffee sounds good for some reason.” He watches me skeptically, his tongue rolling around one of his cheeks. He puts his hands on his hips. “I’ve known you for seven years. I’ve never seen you drink coffee.” What? SEVEN years? I shrug, and I take a sip of the putrid liquid. It’s okay I guess, but I doubt it’ll give me the jolt I’m accustomed to. “What happened last night?” I ask, hoping for some sort of answer. “You mean before you started acting weird?” He raises one perfectly-arched eyebrow. At least the Marlin in this universe chose well—Sebastian is very handsome.

I study him in the morning light. Dark-brown hair, cut short, slightly messy. Brown eyes, the color of milk chocolate; eyes you could get lost in. Angular features. He’s Enrique Iglesias’s more handsome cousin. I nod. “Yeah. Before we went to bed. Did I drink too much?” He continues to stare at me. “You’re joking, right?” I stare at him. “It’s a valid question,” I say, defensive. What, is the Marlin in this universe a prude when it comes to drinking? Sebastian shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re pregnant, Marlin.” In one swift swoop, the world tilts on its axis slightly, and I drop the mug of scalding hot liquid. Before either of us can react, I grip the windowsill and close my eyes. “Shit, Marlin,” Sebastian says, running to the bathroom and retrieving a maroon-colored towel. “Did it burn you?” I feel him start to wipe the bottoms of my pants, and then he moves to the beige carpet. Luckily, whatever kind of tea was in the mug was light yellow—it won’t leave a stain. “Pregnant?” I whisper, my hand instinctually going to my flat stomach. If I am pregnant, I’m not very far along. I probably still have time to take care of it. That’s the first thought that pops into my head—isn’t that

awful? It just goes to show that I am not ready to be a mother. “Yes, baby, pregnant,” Sebastian says, enunciating the last word. He’s still squatting and blotting the carpet. “We found out last month. Our guess is eight weeks along, but we won’t know for sure until our first appointment later today.” Today. He stands and throws the towel over to a small pile of laundry. He’s holding my mug. “More tea?” he asks, studying me. I don’t know Sebastian very well, but the way his lips are tight over his teeth and his eyebrows are arched give me the distinct feeling that he’s suspicious of my behavior. Until I can figure out what’s going on, I have to play the game. I can’t have him locking me up in a psychiatric hospital before I can figure out why this is happening to me. “Yes, please,” I say sweetly, rubbing my belly. This seems to appease him, because his face relaxes, and he nods once before exiting the bedroom. I rush over to the mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door and throw my clothes off. I stand, looking at myself from the side. In the daylight, I can certainly see that I’m thinner. The muscle gains I made at the gym this week (or was that this week?) are gone, that’s for sure. This body of mine is delicate and thin, like a dancer. I hate to admit it, but the short hair is growing on me. I never thought I’d like myself with short hair, but it actually frames my face in a nice way.

Who knew? “Here you go,” Sebastian says, surprising me. I jump and shriek, and then I run over to my clothes and hold them in front of my body. Sebastian looks bemused and then scrunches his eyebrows together in frustration. “I’m seen you in much more compromising positions than that,” he says, irritation tainting his words. “You’re acting weird.” He hands the mug to me, and in a bold move, I drop my clothes and saunter over to him. “I’m sorry. You just scared me.” I smile weakly and take a sip of the minty tea. I guess herbal tea isn’t so vile, considering I can’t drink coffee anymore. “Mmm,” I add, to really drive the point home. “I got a call from Jeb just now. He says the flooring’s been laid, and we’re free to go take a look later if we want. What time are you going into the shop?” Who is Jeb? What shop? Flooring? I vaguely remember Sebastian mentioning renovations being made to “our” house last night, and I nod once. “In an hour or so. Can you drive me? I’m still feeling a little woozy.” I wait with bated breath to see if my bold statement passes the test. I need to fly under the radar until I get my bearings, and I have a feeling that’ll happen when I’m not distracted by the overly attractive man in front of me who keeps calling himself my fiancé. Sebastian smiles and walks over to me, pulling me into a warm hug. He kisses me on the top of my head,

which isn’t hard, because he’s at least nine inches taller than me. “Sure, no problem. It’s probably a good thing, since, you know, we only have one car, and we do that every day anyways,” he jokes, letting me go and walking back out of the bedroom. When he’s gone, I walk into the bathroom and hop into the shower. It takes a few minutes for the hot water to make its way to the showerhead, but once it does, it feels glorious. I wash my body and my hair, and I stay in there for an extra minute, relishing in the familiarity of running water, even though everything else feels so foreign. I turn the water off and step out, drying my hair and pulling a starchy towel around myself, securing it on my chest. I reach for my toothbrush—or what I think is my toothbrush. I touch my chin, studying the blue and green toothbrushes lying next to each other. I pick up the blue one on a whim. “You know, I love you and all, but the fact that you’re using my toothbrush has me worried,” Sebastian says, coming up behind me and watching as I spit the toothpaste out. “Pregnancy brain,” I say, shrugging. “That’s actually a thing?” he asks, pulling away from me as I wipe my face on the hand towel hanging on one of those plastic rings. “Sure,” I say matter-of-factly. “It’s actually a thing.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “You’re such an odd bird sometimes, do you know that?” He kisses the back of my neck, and I feel goose bumps rise on my skin. I close my eyes. It feels good. “It’s what I love most about you,” he whispers into my right ear. “Thanks,” I whisper back, unsure of what else to say. Do they make guidebooks for waking up in an alternate reality? If so, I need to get on that. Sebastian removes his clothes, and I look away as he steps into the shower. His movements are fluid, and the ease with which he touches me and moves around me startles me. With Charlie, we’re always bumping into each other, always aware of the other ’s presence, always clumsy. With Sebastian, I instinctually move with familiarity. It makes me think of phantom limbs. I have a phantom brain right now: I know I don’t belong here, but certain parts of me, like my body, react in such a way that makes me think I do belong here. I slather on some facial lotion, promising a “morning glow”. I realize my vomiting from last night was a product of the fetus growing inside of me. It hits me suddenly—I’m pregnant! And we’re excited! I’m getting married! I lean against the sink with my arms around my chest, thinking about all of the facts I’ve learned about this life so far. I’m pregnant, Sebastian is my fiancé, we’re getting married in two months, we’re renovating a house, we

live in Vermont, we only have one car, and he drives me to the “shop” every morning. I don’t drink coffee, and a guy named Jeb is somehow involved in the renovations on our house. I’ve known Sebastian for seven years. Charlie has no memory of our relationship. Sebastian begins to sing in the shower—a touching rendition of “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift. I can’t help but smile. “Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play, and the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake, I shake it off, I shake it off,” he warbles, and his voice is annoyingly good. The water shuts off, and he throws the flimsy curtain open quickly, pretending to perform, and winks at me. I gape at him, trying to keep my eyes focused on his face. Somehow, even though I know he’s my fiancé, it feels wrong to ogle him in all of his glory. I turn away quickly. “You know, all morning you’ve avoided looking at King Henry.” No. No, no, no. Please don’t let King Henry be the name for his penis. That’s so wrong in so many ways, but the way he’s shaking his hips in my peripheral vision makes me cringe. “I’m not avoiding it,” I accuse, walking out of the bathroom before he can see me blush. “Whatever you say,” he acquiesces, wrapping a

towel around his hips and going to brush his teeth. I walk over to the small duffel bag on the ground, and I pull out some plain black-cotton underwear. I shake my head and sigh. I say a silent goodbye to my Agent Provocateur undies from my other life. I find some loose jeans and a brown thick-wool sweater, neither of which I’d ever wear in real life, so this Marlin must be going through some sort of fashion crisis. I may not like spending a lot of money on clothes, but I do make sure I look good most of the time. I throw on wool socks and pick up my Sorrel snow boots, tugging them on. I haven’t worn snow boots in ten years. I miss the ritual of dressing for a real winter. All of those layers make one appreciative of spring, my favorite season. There’s nothing like the first jacket-less day and feeling the warm sun on your bare skin. Once I’m dressed, I hunt for a blow-dryer and/or some sort of makeup, but all I can find is cheap concealer and an old, crusty tube of mascara. I don’t even bother with that—it’s an eye infection waiting to happen—so I just swipe some concealer underneath my eyes and call it a day. Besides, I don’t look awful. The facial lotion did as promised. It gave me a “morning glow.” Once I feel presentable, I walk down the hall to the kitchen, where Sebastian is standing with his back to me, towel around his waist, and frying something up on the stove.

“Bacon for the mama to be,” he says, handing me a small plate with three strips of bacon. The smell is tantalizing—I haven’t had bacon in years. He also hands me a piece of whole-wheat toast and a green smoothie. “Eat,” he dictates. I plop the toast on the plate and walk over to the small table nestled in the corner of the kitchen. “Thanks,” I say, biting into the crispy bacon. My mouth waters immediately. “You need to gain some weight. I’ll make you bacon and toast every day if I have to. Fatten you up.” I laugh. I look around and spot my phone on the carpet next to the couch, from where I threw it last night. As surprising as this life is, it’s kind of quaint. Sebastian and I seem to be in love. We don’t need very many material possessions, and though the apartment is basic, it’s actually very homey. It has a good vibe. Life is simple here. When I finish my delicious breakfast, I walk over to my phone. No missed calls. Even after my frantic call to Charlie last night, he hadn’t bothered to call back. Knowing that gives me a bitter taste in my mouth, like he would be the kind of person to witness a crime and walk away. Now I know he’s the kind of guy who receives a disconcerting call from an old acquaintance and hangs up without a care. “I’m going to go get dressed,” Sebastian says, walking past me as I sit on the couch with my phone.

“Okay,” I answer. I flip the phone open. It’s almost dead. I walk back to the bedroom. Sebastian is brushing his teeth in the bathroom. I find the charger in my purse—of course. That’s such a Marlin thing to do. I find a little bit of comfort in my predictability. I plug my phone in, and I hear Sebastian whistling as I look through the call log. Most of the calls are either incoming or outgoing to Sebastian, a few from someone named Emma, a couple from Jeb, and of course, Mom and Dad. Mom. Mom would understand my situation. I decide that I’ll call her later. Before Sebastian comes back out, I skim through the text messages. I’ve forgotten how to use a flip phone, so it takes awhile to navigate between messages. Sebastian: Done? I’ll come get you. Xo Sebastian: Love you, love bug. Mom: Remember to take prenatal vitamins. Folic Acid is crucial. Sebastian: Jeb called about kitchen fixtures. Please call him back when you get a chance. Love you. Sebastian: Did you send the invites out yet? My mom just informed me that Aunt Hilda was not on official list. Need to add her. :-O Sebastian: If it’s a boy, I think we should name him Gunther. Lol.

Emma: Cheese. All day erry day. Mom: Call me. Jeb: Molding is finished. You guys should come over and see it. Looks incredible! Sebastian: Hope you’re having an amazing day, future wifey. Xo “Hey,” Sebastian says, surprising me. My phone flies up into the air, and I catch it, fumbling. “You’re sure on edge today, Mar,” he says, handing me a giant horse pill and a glass of water. “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I swallow the pill and grimace as I wash it down. “Yuck. These are disgusting,” I say, placing the glass down on the ground. “I know.” He eyes me up and down. “You look nice,” he says, swooping down to kiss me on the forehead. “I didn’t notice earlier.” “So do you,” I say, eyeing his dark jeans, blue-andgreen flannel, and work boots. “Ready?” he asks, reaching a hand out. I take it and sigh. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Four FIVE days ago

“Which do you prefer—Rain Water or Caribbean Mist?” I ask, holding out two color-sample cards and waving them around in front of Charlie’s face. He looks up briefly, and his eyes barely scan the colors before looking back down at his phone and shrugging. “They look exactly the same to me.” “No, they’re nothing alike,” I counter. “Rain Water is more grey, lighter, subtler. Caribbean Mist is a true baby blue, brighter, and it’s darker. Can’t you see?” I raise my voice slightly, knowing he’ll look up and answer me in order to keep the attention off of us. If there’s one thing Charlie hates more than anything, it’s causing a scene. He’s more like his parents than he’d like to think. His eyes study both sample cards. “Rain Water. It’ll go better with the tan leather on the sofa.” I bring my lips into a tight smile, and I nod curtly. Once he sees the appeasement on my face, he goes back to pinching and fingering something on his phone. I wonder if he’s using FaceTune. He’s probably “enhancing” the selfie he took in the Home Depot parking lot a few moments ago— which is obviously much more important than choosing

the color of the walls we will stare at every day. Must he document every single fucking thing? I cross my arms and walk up to the guy who mixes the paint. I see him check me out for a second before smiling cordially. He’s old enough to be my father. “Hi,” I say, placing the sample card down and pointing to Rain Water. “We’d like two gallons of the Rain Water, please.” “Not a problem. It’ll just be a few minutes. Do you need a base paint added?” “Not today,” I say sweetly. He just nods and walks over to the paint-mixing machine. I see him pull two gallons of white paint and place them off to the side, flicking the lids off with precision. I look over at Charlie, and he’s still fidgeting with something on the screen. I’ve tried asking him, sarcastically of course, what’s the point of using FaceTune? If you’re just going to Photoshop your chubby cheeks and bulbous nose in every damn picture, why not just diet and get a nose job? He was not thrilled with that suggestion. I turn my attention back to the paint. Bright-blue liquid is now spurting from the small nozzle, mixing with the white paint. It stops, and the worker places the top back on the can, hammering it in place. Then he sticks it in the mixer, and the jackhammer noise gets Charlie’s attention. He looks up, surprised to find me a few feet away, and walks over. I swear, I could wander

off, and he wouldn’t realize it for at least seven minutes. “It’s gonna look so good, babe,” he says. He’s not convincing me. His voice is flat and indifferent. I could have gotten Rice Curry—literally the color of baby poop—and he would have nodded his head and said, it’s gonna look so good, babe. When did he stop caring? Once both gallons are mixed, Charlie and I head over to the light fixtures section to pick out a new light for the dining room. He points to a few atrocities—all of which I veto—and finally, after what seems like hours, we decide on a small bronze hanging light with faceted glass. “I can’t be in here any longer.” I groan. Being in Home Depot is torturous. Every time I walk through those doors, I want to beeline straight back out again, eat a hot dog from the small hot dog cart outside, and wait for Charlie to finish up whatever boring thing needs to be done or bought here. “We still need to pick out some plants for the garden,” he declares, and he starts to lead the cart towards the back of the store, where the hot, humid nightmare resides. “Actually, the stuff at the nursery on South Ola Vista is much more reasonably priced. I was thinking we could head over there after lunch?” I add, hopeful. “Yeah, okay,” Charlie agrees, steering the cart around. He loves a bargain. We pay for our paint and our new light fixture, and I feel supremely victorious to

be out of there. We head to Café Calypso, our favorite lunch spot. Neither of us says anything, but Charlie taps his hands against the steering wheel to the beat of a song, even though the radio isn’t on. He checks his phone every few minutes, and I want to scream at him to put it away lest we get into a car accident. I’d rather not die all because he had to check Instagram… We park on Avenida Del Mar and walk through the Spanish courtyard, up to the quaint, historic building that houses the café. The hostess, Amelia (first-name basis) nods to our table, silently affirming that our favorite table outside is free. We come here too much. “I think I’m going to branch out and get a salad today,” Charlie says, and I raise my eyebrows in response. He always says this, but he always ends up getting the Italian sub. “Good for you,” I say, looking at my menu even though I know I’m getting the same thing I always get. The waitress scampers over, flustered, though it’s not even remotely busy. “What can I get y’all?” she asks as a strand of blond hair sticks to her taupe lip gloss. She must be new—we come here a lot, and I’ve never seen her. I look down at my menu out of habit and point to the breakfast vegetable wrap. “Whole wheat tortilla, please,” I request, and she nods, scribbling something into her pad.

“And for you?” Her eyes flick to Charlie, scanning his face, his chest, and then his arms. I see a small hint of interest—she stands up straighter and smiles wider. I look over at Charlie as he hems and haws over what to order. He’s a good-looking guy. He’s gained some weight over the years, but it actually adds to his appeal, because he has the whole Chris-Pratt-before-the-weightloss thing going on. His floppy blond hair is currently tucked behind his ears, and he does have a megawatt smile with the whitest, most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen. “Italian sub,” he decides, and we both hand her our menus. I don’t say anything about the salad. The truth is, I like him chunky. He’s not overweight, but he’s sturdy. He’s the kind of guy who played football in high school, who still plays basketball with the buddies, indulges in at least two beers a night, and, bonus, he can pick me up with almost no struggle involved. Let’s just say I’d want him on my team if we were ever on Survivor. He gets more attention nowadays, now that the ‘dad bod’ is in vogue. “I’m starving,” I say, rubbing my belly. “Home Depot always makes me so hungry.” “It’s because you associate it with hot dogs.” I laugh. “That’s ridiculous.” I throw my long hair behind my shoulder and take a sip of water. “I’m serious,” he says, bringing his elbows to the table and resting his chin on his hands. “When you were a kid, I bet your dad always bought you hot dogs from

the cart outside. Now, as an adult, you associate Home Depot with hot dogs, and you get inexplicably hungry.” I don’t say anything. He has a point. That’s the thing with Charlie—usually, he says the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard, and then every once in awhile, he surprises me with astute intelligence. Though I would never tell him this, in my head, I always compare him to Joey from Friends. Pretty to look at but obtuse and witless most of the time. “Why do you always get the breakfast burrito, even when it’s the middle of the afternoon?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Breakfast is my favorite meal,” I say factually, taking another sip of water. Charlie just shrugs, and then he checks his phone for the billionth time today. For comparison’s sake, I haven’t checked mine once since we left our townhouse over two hours ago. But who’s counting? “I was thinking of getting some tomatoes,” Charlie says out of nowhere. I realize after a second that he’s talking about the garden we’ll be planting in a couple of months—the reason for our next stop—to Shore Gardens. “Sounds great,” I reply. “Babe, you couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if you tried,” he chuckles, and he reaches across the table for my hand. I smile. “The garden is your forte. Let me do my

magic inside,” I urge, winking. “Okay, good. Because I don’t give a flying fuck whether or not we do Rain Mist or Caribbean Berry, or whatever those ridiculous color names were. They legitimately looked exactly the same to me.” I burst out laughing, and he does too. “It’s Rain Water, by the way.” “Yeah, yeah.” Our food comes, and once the waitress is done placing our plates down, she waits for Charlie to take a bite. He gives her a show and takes a ginormous bite. When he’s done chewing, he gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up, and she giggles. “The Italian sub is my favorite,” she says, breathy. I don’t think she’s looked at me once since she’s been here, but it doesn’t bother me. “Yeah,” Charlie says, rubbing his stomach. “Gotta keep up appearances.” She giggles and walks away, but not before staring me down. I just shake my head. Women can be so catty, and it’s so easy to fall prey and become offended. I choose to ignore the bullshit. After we’re finished with lunch, we pay and head over to Shore Gardens. One unproductive, mindnumbing hour later, we head home—home being a twostory townhouse that we recently bought with Charlie’s recent promotion at the bank. I help Charlie unload the truck, and then I jog upstairs to change for the gym.

* An hour later, as I pull into our driveway, sweat clinging to my tank top, I hear Charlie’s favorite song playing loudly from within the house. I park behind his truck, slamming the door shut a little too loudly before I jog inside. The volume of the music is a little unnecessary for five thirty in the evening. I walk up to the front door to find it unlocked and ajar—great. I throw my purse down on the floor and storm over to the kitchen, where Charlie and three of his friends are playing beer pong. “Charlie!” I yell over the music. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” is vibrating through the house, and when Charlie notices me, he strides over and envelops me into a bear hug. “Marlin! Hey, baby!” He kisses me on the lips, and he tastes like rancid beer and pot. “Turn it down!” I yell, pulling away and gesturing to the stereo. Charlie lowers the volume. My ears are already ringing. “What the hell, guys?” I yell. “I could hear the music from down the street! We just moved in two weeks ago. I’d rather not have the cops called on us! Plus, we share a wall with our neighbors!” I hiss, pointing to the living room wall that divides our unit from the next-door neighbors. “Dude, sorry, Marlin,” Stuart, one of Charlie’s

friends, says. “We were just leaving.” The three guys all give Charlie a high five, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Stuart raise his hand and bring it down quickly—whipped, he says, silently. I glare at him until he leaves. “Mar, we were just having some drinks and catching up.” “It’s a Sunday evening, Charlie,” I say, exasperated. “This isn’t our old college neighborhood where anything goes. Families live here. You can’t be blasting your college music that loudly when people just want to sit down for a nice dinner.” “Okay, Mom,” he mutters under his breath. I hate the way he speaks before thinking, and I hate myself even more because I allow it. I put my hands on my hips. “I’m going to shower.” I trot upstairs, taking the hanging wooden stairs two at a time. My legs burn, and I relish in the feeling of my strong body. It’s the one thing I’m proud of, and I work hard to stay fit. Once I disrobe and step into our newly renovated waterfall shower, I close my eyes and let the water rinse away the sweat. After a minute, I hear Charlie come upstairs and open the shower door. I don’t open my eyes. He wraps his big arms around me from behind and kisses me on the neck, trailing downwards. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers. His breath smells like mouthwash. At least he gets an ‘A’ for effort. I turn around and bring my arms around his neck.

“I just don’t want our neighbors to hate us, you know? We just moved in, and we plan on staying here for awhile.” “I know.” He kisses the top of my head and brushes my wet hair out of my face. “How was the gym?” “Good,” I say, perking up. “I’m making gains in my hamstrings and my triceps.” “That’s great!” He high-fives me, and the gesture catches me off guard. Sometimes I feel like one of his fraternity brothers rather than his live-in girlfriend. “You should come with me sometime,” I suggest, and he laughs. “I’m serious! I see all of the couples working out together, and it makes me sad that we don’t have that. I’d love to work out with you.” He just belches loudly and steps out of the shower. “Maybe someday.” He dries off and walks out of the bathroom, and I’m left feeling disappointed and unfulfilled. It’s not that I want him to look fit—he plays basketball three times a week, and I happen to love him just the way he is. But it’s the complete lack of interest in my passions that baffles me. If he ever asked me to play basketball with him (something he’s never done), I’d join him in a heartbeat.

Chapter Five PRESENT

When we walk outside, the frigid winter air surprises me. Even though I spent my childhood in Wyoming, I was technically in Orange County yesterday. The juxtaposition is startling. I follow behind Sebastian, unsure of where we’re headed, and he leads us to an older black Jeep parked in a wooden, beamed garage. The crunch of the snow beneath my feet is comforting. I haven’t seen snow since I moved away from home. I never realized how much I missed the clean feel of an early morning permeated by ice and frost. The smell of wet wood and dirt fills my nostrils. I inhale deeply. “So I’ll come pick you up at three for your appointment. We can go see the house afterwards. Jeb says the boys will be done around four, so that should be perfect. How does that sound?” Sebastian asks as he opens my door. I climb in, and he goes around to the driver ’s seat. “My appointment,” I repeat. He pulls out of the garage, turning the dials in the car so that the heater is working. “Yeah. The first one,” he says excitedly. He rubs his hands together and beams at me, and then he places a gentle hand on my stomach. He’s excited—he’s excited

for this baby. “Three is perfect,” I say, unnerved. The one pregnancy scare I’d had with Charlie a couple of years ago resulted in him pacing the apartment for hours until he was brave enough to buy me a pregnancy test from the drug store. Needless to say, when it came back negative, he jumped for joy. Literally. “Warming up?” Sebastian asks as the windshield wipers scrape the last of the ice off of the glass. I haven’t had to wait for a windshield to defrost in years. “Yes,” I say, holding my hands in front of the lukewarm air. It’s getting hotter by the second. It feels excellent. The old leather seats are glacial, so I welcome any source of heat. Sebastian backs out of the garage and pulls onto another road. I get my first look around at Vermont. Why do I live here? I haven’t seen a single other person here. The trees are bare, the roads are single laned, and besides our apartment complex, I haven’t seen a single building, store, or house. Though, as I look around the wilderness, there’s a certain soothing quiet here, an eerie beauty that you can’t replicate anywhere else—certainly not in Southern California. I don’t realize that I’m playing with a loose thread on my sweater until I look down, and my fingers have worked themselves around a ball of thread. Sebastian places a hand over mine. “Hey, you okay?” he asks sincerely, and for the first

time I feel guilty. I can’t give him the Marlin that he’s used to. I look like her, but I’m not her. Why is this happening, and why can’t I remember anything from this life? Seven years is a significant amount of time, and yet I can’t summon even one memory. “I had some weird dreams last night,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve read about those—pregnancy dreams. I’ve heard that they can be sort of cray.” I laugh and look out of the window. I need to call my mom—I need to figure out what’s going on. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks just as he pulls into a parking lot. I assume this is “the shop”, and I don’t want to trip him up any more than I already have. “Yes, baby. I’m fine,” I say, leaning over and giving him a peck on the cheek. I pull away and reach for the handle, but Sebastian grabs the arm of my sweater and pulls me back into him. “That’s it? That’s all I get from my gorgeous baby mama?” I open my mouth to reply, but he breaks the distance and places his hands on either side of my face and pulls me close, so that his lips barely touch mine. My body ignites underneath his touch, and I break the distance and press my lips upon his. What can I say? My body knows how to be intimate with him. I can feel it in the way my heart hammers against my chest, and the way my lips curl up into a smile. His mouth is soft, and his tongue explores mine

with familiarity—pushing the boundaries of what is appropriate for a goodbye kiss. His thumb traces my cheek, and then he bites my lower lip, and I moan. Again, my body responds without a thought. He pulls away, and I’m left wanting more from the man I barely know. “I’ll see you at three,” he whispers into my ear, and then he pulls away and winks, placing his hands behind his head cockily. “Have a nice day, mi amor.” “You too.” I open the door and hop out, my legs a bit unsteady. As my breath forms white puffs in front of my face, I look up at the red building. Graton Village Cheese. Holy shit, dreams do come true—I work in a cheese shop! I walk away and wave to Sebastian, and he grins from within the Jeep, his megawatt smile visible from where I stand. I would prefer if Sebastian left, leaving me to my own devices. Also, I have no fucking clue what to do next. However, he stays put, and I realize he’s waiting for me to get inside. That’s kind of sweet. I turn around and walk towards the door. I reach out and go to open it, but it slams against the deadbolt. It’s locked. Fuck. Think, Marlin. I look around, and when I look back over at Sebastian, his eyebrows are scrunched together in confusion. He holds his hands up, as if to ask what’s up? I reach into my purse, and I find a rather large

keychain. Great. Now I just have to figure out which key fits. I try the large gold one first, and of course it doesn’t work. I keep going down the line, and finally, the seventh key works. I turn and wave to Sebastian again before pushing the door open. He nods and begins to pull out. He must think I’m batshit crazy… Once inside, I fumble for the light, feeling along the interior of the wall until my finger grazes the switch. I flick it up, and the room illuminates slowly, one section of fluorescent lighting at a time. Once all the lights are on, I look around in awe. On top of what appears to be a very large cheesetasting counter in the center of the room, shelves and aisles line the outer sections, filled with maple syrup, maple cookies, crackers, jam, bread, dried salami, and anything else a quaint little cheese shop in rural Vermont might have. I walk over to the counter, peering into the cheese case. It’s empty—of course it is. Who would keep cheese, even refrigerated cheese, out all night? I tap my finger against my lip, overwhelmed with the fact that I am probably the only person here this morning, and I have no idea what to do or how to run a cheese shop. I set my purse down on the counter near the oldfashioned cash register, and I rifle through the papers tucked in the slot between the register and the cheese case. None of the information is helpful—it’s all permits, licenses, and employee information. I open the

large filing cabinet underneath the counter, containing files on each employee. I find my file and scan it quickly, pulling out my application. Marlin Winters [email protected] 307-566-5555 1133 Hill St., #3A Brattleboro, VT 05301 Emergency contact: Sebastian Juares (boyfriend) 802-341-7800 Employed since June, 2010 I look over my salary information, but that doesn’t help me right now. It occurs to me that I’ve been working here for almost five years. In my real life, I graduated from San Diego State University in June of 2010—the same month I started working here. Moreover, I vaguely remember Sebastian mentioning that we’d known each other for seven years, and I’m positive I didn’t meet him in San Diego. I place the files back in their proper place, and I dig through my purse for my phone. It’s just after nine in the morning, which means it’s just after seven in Wyoming. I hope my mom is awake. I find her contact in my phone, and I’m relieved that her number has not changed. It rings three times before she answers. “Marlin?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“What, I can’t call my own mother and say good morning?” I laugh. She’s silent on the other end for a beat, and then she exhales loudly. “Of course you can. It’s just early, so I thought something was the matter.” “Oh, no, everything’s fine. Sorry to worry you. And sorry for calling so early.” “How is everything? Are you at the shop? You know, I was reading that women who stand a lot at their jobs are much more likely to have uncomplicated births.” “Really? That’s interesting.” I feel a wave a relief wash over me at the familiarity of her voice. While everything else is so different, at least she’s the same old mom I know and love. And it’s nice to be able to talk to her about this alien inside of me. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I’m pregnant. I never had any time to get used to the idea like a normal person. “How are you feeling? Any morning sickness yet?” “Night sickness,” I answer, thinking about the penne from last night. My stomach clenches with nausea just thinking about red sauce. “Pasta is now a food aversion,” I add, knowing she wants as much information as possible. “I’m sure Sebastian is taking very good care of you,” my mom says, her voice warm. It surprises me. She’s never shown any warmth towards Charlie, and I suppose I never realized it until now.

“Yeah, about that… Mom, there’s a reason I called.” “Is everything okay with you and Sebastian?” she asks suddenly, panicked. I stifle a laugh. “Yes, everything’s fine. It’s just…” I look up at the ceiling, trying to think of how I’m going to phrase this without sounding crazy. “I woke up last night and I felt… odd. I’ve been having dreams about San Clemente, and Charlie, and I guess I just needed reassurance that this is normal,” I lie. It’s so not normal, but how else can I get the answers that I need? “San Clemente? Charlie?” she asks, and I close my eyes. She has no idea who Charlie is, and I suppose I never lived in San Clemente in this life. “I don’t know. Charlie was a college friend. From San Diego.” “Marlin,” my mom whispers, “what are you talking about?” “San Diego State,” I reply. “Where I went to college?” “Honey, you didn’t go to college in San Diego.” “Well, then, where did I go?” I cry, suddenly frustrated. I fall back against the counter, feeling defeated. I know nothing about this life. Am I having a mental breakdown? “Marlin,” my mom repeats, and I hear her walk downstairs. She always changes rooms when the conversation becomes serious. It’s like she doesn’t want to concern my dad, who is a known meddler, especially

when it comes to me. Once, he overheard my mom talking to me about period cramps, and a day later, a box of Midol and some chocolates arrived at my doorstep. “You’re worrying me.” Those three words ground me, and I straighten. Obviously, calling my mom for answers was the wrong call. I eye the computer sitting on the counter. “It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just having weird dreams. I was just wondering if that’s normal when you’re pregnant. I must not have been very clear—I was babbling.” “Oh,” she breathes, relieved. “Yes. Those dreams are very normal.” “Okay, good. I should go. I love you, Mom.” “Love you too, honey.” I hang up before she can ask me anything else, and I switch on the computer. It’s an older desktop PC, something I haven’t seen since the mid-2000s. Once it fires up, I log into Facebook. The password you entered is incorrect. Please try again (make sure your caps lock is off). Of course. I log into my email with ease. My lack of imagination for new passwords is paying off. I request a new password from Facebook, and once I reset it, I log in. I scroll through my feed, and most of the people I see are unfamiliar. Of course they would be—I had a closeknit group of friends at San Diego State, so if I never went, we never met.

That thought startles me—how many other things are different? I go to my profile and look at the ‘About’ section. My birthday, name, and email are the same. It says I work at Graton Village Cheese (2010-present), engaged to Sebastian Juares, live in Brattleboro, Vermont, and studied Liberal Arts at California State University, Long Beach. Oh, and I spent a year studying abroad in Florence, Italy. I’m pissed I don’t remember that. I’ve always dreamt of going to Italy. I scroll through my pictures. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m still shocked to see years and years of me. I have no recollection of any of it. For the last couple of years, it’s all pictures of Sebastian, me, and a few select friends. Emma, the friend from my phone, makes several appearances. She’s a tall, pale, pretty redhead. Jeb also makes a couple of appearances, and by way of some Facebook sleuthing, I see that he’s actually married to Emma (since August of 2013). Good to know. It feels weird that I have to fill in the details of my life, but it’s my only option right now. I go back even further, and I see the college pictures I don’t remember taking—the memories I don’t remember making. I go back to my album from Florence, and I’m surprised to find Sebastian in most of them. It appears that we met there. I click on his profile, and sure enough, he’s from Brattleboro and he went to

Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts from 2005-2009—one year ahead of me. He was born on April 4, 1986, making him a year and a half older than me. He works as an art teacher at Brattleboro Union High School. Slowly but surely, I start to piece my life together. Instead of San Diego, I went to college in Long Beach. Knowing Charlie makes sense, then—he went to Long Beach for two years before transferring to San Diego State. I missed my whole college experience. I missed… the trauma. Everything. Though it’s strange, I’m glad this Marlin never had to experience that. She went on to lead a normal life. Sebastian and I have been dating for seven years. I click on my life events. He proposed on January 1, 2014… over a year ago. Sheesh. That’s a copious amount of information for one morning. I start to log out, but then my curiosity gets the best of me. I type in Charlie’s name, and to my surprise, we’re actually friends on Facebook. He looks different—chubbier, happier. He’s married to a woman named Elizabeth Pierce, and when I click on one of their wedding pictures, I feel a burning, envious sensation in the pit of my stomach. She’s wearing a Vera Wang wedding dress that probably cost more than I make in three months. Her long blond hair and lithe, toned body make me wonder

if she’s an OC native—her perfect tan gives it away. I click through the rest of their wedding album, and I’m shocked to see a picture of her laughing with Linda and Perry Chapman. Linda has a hand on her arm, and Perry is looking down at her lovingly. I don’t think he’s ever smiled at me, let alone looked at me adoringly. A couple more minutes of Facebook stalking allows me to paint a broader picture. She’s originally from Laguna Beach, and her parents are friends of the Chapmans. I log out and slam the mouse down on the mouse pad. I can’t believe Charlie is married. I bet Mr. and Mrs. Fancy-Pants Chapman are delighted she comes from a pedigreed family. I cross my arms and glare at the floor. I don’t know why I’m so offended. That explains everything, though. I feel betrayed. I know there’s no use in feeling that way, but seeing Charlie with someone else—happier, more himself— makes my throat drop heavily into my stomach with an uncomfortable realization. Maybe we’re not meant to be together? And maybe, just maybe, both of us are happier without the other. I close my eyes and concentrate, hoping to somehow be brought back to my real life in San Clemente. I miss my yoga studio. I miss my car. I miss my friends. I miss Charlie, even though the bastard is married to Lauren Conrad’s doppelgänger. I miss the sun, the beach, and my townhouse. All of that is familiar. All of this is… what is it, exactly? It’s not a dream. It’s

too intense to be a dream, and I’ve had some pretty intense dreams. Though every time I try and think back to last night, I get that same dull, heavy feeling in the back of my skull. It’s the same feeling I get whenever I try and will myself out of a nightmare. I just don’t understand why this is happening. Maybe I’m dead. Perhaps I have a brain tumor, or maybe I’m just going crazy. It’s possible this is my real life. I never thought about it like that. Maybe this is just some weird pregnancy symptom, and my life in Southern California is all made up. But then why don’t I remember anything from this life? I turn back to the computer and type in “alternate universes.” A ton of stuff comes up. Parallel universes exist exactly like our universe. These universes are all related to ours; indeed, they branch off from ours, and our universe is branched off of others. Within these parallel universes, our wars have had different outcomes than the ones we know. This thought boggles the mind, and yet, it is still comprehensible. Notions of parallel universes or dimensions that resemble our own have appeared in works of science fiction and have been used as explanations for metaphysics. Scientific findings suggest that there are other laws at work in the universe, operating on a deeper level than the ones we know.

I log out of the computer, and I lean on the counter, cradling my head in my arms. I suddenly feel very sick, and I make it to the bathroom just in time to vomit up the nice breakfast that Sebastian made me. Once I finish cleaning up, I shut the door, go to the counter, and try to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to run a cheese shop.

Chapter Six FOUR days ago

I arch my back slightly, letting the downward dog posture stretch my sore hamstrings. My ponytail brushes the floor, and I feel strong, balanced, and centered. “Now come back up,” I say, my voice quiet over the tinkling music. “And raise your hands above your head.” I stand and bring my arms up, finishing the sun salutation. “Deep breaths,” I add, taking three consecutive breaths through my nose. “Namaste,” I finish. My class repeats my words, and then the end-ofclass shuffle happens—everyone clambering and rushing to leave first, forgetting the peace from just a moment ago. I roll my mat up and throw on a pair of flip-flops. I pull the elastic out of my hair and shake my head. I don’t notice the lone student standing in the neutral tadasana position until I turn around. My eyes wander over his body—basketball shorts, a tight T-shirt, short brown hair, and green eyes. He looks like the kind of guy who was the star quarterback in high school. “Have a good night,” I call out, and as I walk out of the studio, I sense him following me. “Hey, Marlin?” he asks, jogging after me. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet.

“Thanks for another awesome class,” he says, and then he raises his head and looks up at me. “Sure thing,” I reply, and I look over at Sia, the receptionist. She raises her eyebrows but continues to stare at her computer screen. “Would you want to grab a coffee sometime?” he adds, and the desperation is evident. “I’m sorry, I have a boyfriend.” I give him a smile. “Okay, gotcha,” he says, giving me two thumbs up and a thin smile. “Welp, have a good night!” He turns and leaves, and once he’s out the door, I sigh loudly. “He was cute,” Sia says, her long, fake fingernails clacking against the keyboard. I don’t know why, but her fingernails freak me out. “He was cute,” I say, agreeing. “But I love Charlie.” “Good for you,” she says indifferently. She goes back to typing, and I walk to my car with goose bumps, thinking of her nails. I drive home slowly, and I sit in my idling car for a few minutes before going inside. I’m sure Charlie is plunked down on the couch with a beer and a bag of chips by now anyways. He won’t notice that I’m a few minutes late. I pull one leg up into my chest and close my eyes, mentally preparing myself for walking inside. How sad is that? I know it’s not normal to dread going home, especially when the man you supposedly love is sitting on the couch. But something’s been irking me lately, and I can’t pinpoint what it is. I feel a tear slip

down my cheek, and I wipe it away quickly. I think of the man from my studio and what it would feel like to kiss him, to touch him, to be with someone other than Charlie. Charlie is all I know—we met in college, and I was a virgin. We never had that firecracker chemistry, which I guess is a damn shame, but there are worse things. I get out of my car and walk inside, and sure enough, Charlie is sitting there, drinking a beer, and eating a bag of vinegar chips: the most disgusting flavor ever. “Hey,” I say, setting my bag down on the floor and kicking off my flip-flops. I try not to sound irritated that he’s eating an hour before dinnertime. “Hey,” he says, not taking his eyes off of the TV. “I’m going to go shower,” I add, needing more alone time. He just nods, and I climb the stairs quickly, throwing my shirt over my head and dropping it into the laundry hamper in the hallway. I walk over to the fulllength mirror and assess my topless body. I stand in different positions, wondering if I’m ever going to get rid of my stomach pooch. I’m not exactly crazy about my weight. I eat healthy, and I exercise, therefore fitting in with the whole healthy is the new skinny mantra that Southern California has adopted recently. I get undressed and step into the shower. When the water starts to warm, I sit down in the corner, and I cry.

My hands are itching for the razor. I turn my palms over and study the white lines left from last time—a month ago. A familiar detached sadness fills my entire being. It’s the same every time—the feeling of hopelessness. I hate the stranger who ruined everything for me. I hate who I’ve become because of it. And most of all, I hate that on some days, I feel perfectly fine, and then on days like today, I feel like the world is crumbling all around me, taking my sanity with it. Once people have gone through certain things, felt certain things, and been broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed. I cannot ever be fixed. This is who I am, and I should just accept it. Nobody tells you the truth when you’re young and free—nobody mentions the shitty aspects of growing up. The older I get, the less this fails to surprise me. Everybody is broken in some way or another. Most people just hide it. I find solace in the control with which I slice and dice my skin. It hurts, but bloodletting relieves the pain. It’s a way for me to cope with my life rather than a means to an end. As they say, what doesn’t kill you fucks you up mentally. I caress the thin, white lines, and I decide to get out of the shower before I do something stupid. Last month was a slipup. It can’t happen again. The urge to cut my flesh comes every once in awhile. I’m trying to be better. Aren’t we all trying to be better, in some way? I step out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel

around myself like a cocoon. I walk over to our bed—a deluxe California King with the most luxurious linen sheets. I sit down on the edge, the memory foam already molding itself to me. The water drips down from my hair and onto my skin, causing goose bumps to arise all over. I lie back and stare up at the ceiling fan. They say if you don’t like where your life is headed, change something. Easier said than done if you’re tethered to a mortgage on a house made of stucco, rivets, steel, and bolts. Especially if you’re tethered to a man you’re not sure you love anymore—a man who became your salvation seven years ago. I owe Charlie my life, and because of that, I’m stuck. How did I get here? How did we get here? I trace the steps of my life with my fingers on the sheets, pretending one hand is me, and my other hand is Charlie. I grew up in rural Wyoming, knowing I wanted to get the fuck out of there by the time I was seven. At seventeen, I had college to look forward to and a dream to move to California. I only applied to two schools: Cal State Long Beach and San Diego State University. I chose San Diego by flipping a coin—and that’s where I met Charlie junior year. I always wonder what my life would look like if I’d chosen Long Beach. “Babe? You makin’ dinner?” Charlie’s voice floats through the crack in the bedroom door, and I shoot upright. He comes in just as my towel accidentally falls

to the floor. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Why didn’t you just ask?” He gives me a coy smile, sliding his shorts and Tshirt off. He walks over to me, stinking of beer and vinegar. It takes everything in me not to vomit from the combination of smells. “You’re so sexy,” he growls, coming up behind me and bending me over the bed. I hear him reach over and dig through the bedside table drawer, ripping open a condom packet. “Thanks,” I say, giving him a smile over my shoulder. Sex with Charlie was good once. Back in the day, we screwed like animals. We could never get enough of each other. I was so grateful for him. Sex in the morning, sex in the evening, sex at dinnertime. I don’t know when that changed. It makes me sad, knowing I might never get to experience sex with another person— knowing I might never experience great sex again. I could have it much worse. There are women out there who are abused, raped, and tortured on a daily basis. I can deal with mediocre sex once a week. It’s not the end of the world. I shouldn’t even say it like that. Charlie loves me— all of me. He loves the hell out of me. That’s why I let him do this. That’s why I stay. Sure, there are things I might modify about him, about us, but right now he’s all I have. So I deal with it. I deal with lackluster sex. I deal with his shitty parents and his idiocy. He loves me despite my flaws, so I can and should love him despite

his. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. He saved me. Simple as that. You should always stay with your hero. “Mmm, Marlin,” Charlie groans, thrusting behind me. I mimic his sounds—that’s all I have to do—and then it’s over in two minutes flat. I’m always relieved when he finishes. “Baby, that was great,” he says, pulling out. He disposes of the condom, turns the shower on, and hops in. I’ve always wondered why he showers after sex. Even when he smells disgusting, like tonight, I never feel the urge to shower immediately like he apparently does. While I throw on some sweatpants and a baggy Tshirt, I wonder again about the man from my studio. I wonder if he would take me on a nice date and pay for my dinner. I wonder if he’s a good kisser. I wonder if he would go down on me, something Charlie stopped doing years ago. I wonder if he would fuck me in positions other than doggy. I wonder if he would cook for me, and instead of coming home to a man drinking beer on the couch, I could come home to a man who is considerate enough to cook for me every so often. I wonder all of this, and then I immediately feel guilty. We’re in a rut—that’s all this is. I love Charlie, and he loves me. We have issues, but none of them are deal breakers. In his defense, I could tell him to do all the things I want him to do to me, and I know he would oblige. I guess it bothers me that I’d need to tell him. It’s irrational, but I want him to already know all of the

things he does wrongly. Can’t he see? Doesn’t he get it? I walk downstairs, thinking for a split second about what it would be like to fall down and break my neck. Slippery stairs and socks don’t mix, after all. I wonder if Charlie would cry right away or would it be after the funeral? One wrong move, and everything would be gone—a get-out-of-jail-free card. Isn’t that awful? I think of my life as jail, and I think of death as freedom. I walk into the kitchen, and I prepare for dinner by chopping some vegetables. I hear Charlie walk back into the living room, freshly showered and fucked, and he continues to eat chips straight out of the bag. I bite my tongue. I begin to sauté the vegetables in coconut oil. I finger the knife in my hands gently, tracing my scars. Life itself is always teetering on these moments and decisions made in those moments—choices we never thought would have a consequence. One move. One choice. One slip of the foot, one slip of the finger, and everything could be gone. One check on a college application—“attending”—one word uttered when the cute guy from the school newspaper asks you out the day after you’re held at gunpoint. Is that how I got here? One word? “Is dinner almost ready?” Charlie asks, just as I turn the stove off. I scoop some rice and veggies onto a plate for him, walking over.

“Yep,” I say, handing it to him. There’s no point in arguing about whether or not we should eat at the table. He always wins. “Hey. You okay?” He sets his beer down, and I look him in the eyes as I tug my feet underneath me. He’s genuinely concerned, and I’m genuinely touched. He really can be perceptive every once in awhile. “Yes,” I say, turning my lips up into a smile. It feels like a marionette tugging on the strings. “You’re quiet tonight. I wanted to make sure.” He’s still watching me, and since I have his divine attention, I begin to eat. “I’m fine,” I lie, giving him a cheesy thumbs up. “Okay,” he says, turning back to the game. Sometimes I have to pretend everything’s all right. Just for the sake of one night. One night at a time—one moment, one conversation. Because when everybody else thinks you’re all right, sometimes, just for a blissful moment or two, you forget that you’re not. After dinner, Charlie helps with the dishes, and we make our way upstairs for some reading before bed. After stripping down to nothing and climbing into bed, I flip open a memoir about a yoga teacher who left her life in Manhattan and moved to India. If only I had the courage to do that. Charlie falls asleep in the middle of a Chuck Palahniuk book. I flip the light off. I bask in the darkness and the feel of the sheets around my naked

body. This is my favorite part of the night—the endless minutes between turning the light off and falling asleep. I’ve always been jealous of the fact that Charlie can fall asleep anywhere in about twelve seconds. It takes me forever to fall asleep. Some nights I don’t sleep at all, and I stay up all night, wondering about what it would be like to walk through the front door, leave, and never come back. I close my eyes and practice some deep breathing—anything to take my mind off of the itch to go into the bathroom and open my scars. I don’t know why I do it—I don’t know why I cut myself. I only started about two years ago, out of sheer curiosity. I’m sure lots of people have done that, and most of them stopped the minute they drew blood, never looking back, never thinking about it again. I, on the other hand, found relief. Pure relief. I honestly don’t even think I do it because I’m depressed. It doesn’t make me feel something—I feel plenty of things, all day, every day. I think I do it for control. Some people stick their fingers down their throats after every meal to control their bodies. Some people hit their wives to control their anger. I cut myself to control my life and the fact that it’s too late to change it. I’m stuck here—where else am I going to go?—so I might as well do something interesting. It’s ridiculous, I know. I never cut deep enough to kill myself. I don’t want to die—I just want

out. Drip, drip, drip. The sink starts to leak. Drip, drip, drip. I reach over and poke Charlie. His skin is sticky and hot. He groans, throwing the covers off of himself and walking over to the sink. I hear him twist the handle this way and that until the dripping finally stops. “We’ve got to fix that fucking sink,” he says, climbing back into bed and falling back to sleep immediately. I close my eyes, hoping for peaceful slumber tonight. Night is better that way. It’s an escape. Things are so much more intense at night, and when sleep finally comes for me, I feel all of the relief in the world. It makes me think of the Shakespeare quote my highschool English teacher had on one of his walls. “To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”

Chapter Seven PRESENT

At eleven, Emma comes striding into the cheese shop. I only know it’s her because I recognize her from Facebook. “Hey, Sexy,” she says, humming a song under her breath and sashaying in like she owns the place. For all I know, she does actually own the place. “How are you?” I groan. “I’ve thrown up twice already in the last twelve hours, so I’m not feeling so hot,” I admit. “Oh no!” Emma says, dropping her purse onto the counter heavily and walking over to me. She feels my forehead, and I try not to stare at her beautiful face. She’s pretty—model pretty. But she’s so warm and effervescent that she doesn’t make you feel bad about it. “Jeb had the flu a few days ago. Maybe you caught it from him.” Emma and Jeb don’t know that I’m pregnant. That makes sense, I guess. I’ve heard you’re not supposed to tell anyone but family until the second trimester. “It was probably the pasta we ate last night,” I say quickly, brushing it off. “I’m fine now.” “Okay, if you say so,” she says, her voice singsong. “Has anyone been in yet?” “Not yet,” I answer, trying to hide the relief. I can’t

figure out how to open the cash register, let alone anything else. “Oh, why isn’t the cheese out yet?” Emma asks, looking into the glass case. “Right, the cheese,” I say, gently smacking my forehead. “I forgot.” Emma spins around and stares at me. “You forgot? You forgot to put the cheese out in a cheese shop? Don’t let Gabriel hear you. He’ll fire you.” She walks to the back, and I see her start to dig around the industrialsized refrigerator. She plops a few wheels of cheese onto a cart and drags it back out to the case. I take mental notes of this for tomorrow. If there’s a tomorrow. I watch her carefully as she places the giant cheese circles in the case, arranging the signs to show which cheese is which. Then she cuts a sliver in each one and displays it in front of the wheel artfully. That doesn’t look too hard. “Want some?” Emma asks, handing me a square of something labeled “Raw Aged Goat Cheddar 2010.” Something in my brain clicks—pregnant women aren’t supposed to eat unpasteurized cheese, right? If I say no, will she be suspicious? “No, thank you. My stomach is still a little rumbly.” “I get it.” She eats her piece and my piece, and then she rubs her belly. “Mmm. So good. It’s a miracle I’m not five hundred pounds, considering I consume two

hundred pounds of cheese a day in this damn place,” she adds, walking over to the counter and straightening the front matter. I haven’t known her for very long, but already I can tell she runs the ship around here. She’s slightly anal about presentation. “It’s a miracle you’re not five hundred pounds, since you’ve been here for, what, four years?” “Almost five,” I say, smiling. I’m proud of the fact that I know that. “That’s crazy.” I nod. “How’s Jeb?” I ask confidently. Finally, something I know. “He’s good. The construction business is busy this time of year. Everyone wants their house renovated in late winter so they can enjoy it by summer.” “I can’t wait to move into our house,” I add, looking at her and waiting for her to question me. But she doesn’t. She just nods. “Your house is going to be wicked,” she says, grinning. I laugh. “I hope so.” “You know so. You guys did design the whole damn thing…” she adds, and I nod in agreement. “Right, yeah. But you just never know how it’s going to look in real life.” I shrug. I rock back and forth on my heels and look down at my hands. “You’re acting weird,” Emma observes, walking over to me. She says it matter-of-factly—in only the way

a best friend can say it. I blow out a loud breath of air. “I’m just…” I look at her, and she raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. I think I can trust her. “You know me well,” I start, pacing behind the counter. “Am I happy?” Emma laughs nervously. “What the hell kind of question is that?” “From your perspective. We’ve known each other for awhile, and I just wanted to know what you think.” I don’t actually know how long we’ve known each other. “Am I happy? Here, in Vermont? With Sebastian?” Emma gasps. “Are you getting cold feet before the wedding, Marlin?” she accuses, jabbing a purple nail into my shoulder. “Maybe that’s it,” I say, shrugging. I need answers, so if I have to feign cold feet, I will. “You’ve got this,” she says gently, taking my hands and looking me in the eye. “I remember those months before my wedding. They were terrifying. But at the end of it all, you’ll be married to your best friend.” “Sebastian,” I confirm, nodding once. “Yes, silly. Trust me, you want to lock that shit down. Did you know that there’s a crass website that some of his female students started, counting down the days until he’s officially taken? I wasn’t going to tell you —Jeb mentioned something to me the other day—but damn, your future husband is one hot piece of ass.” “A website?” I screech. I don’t actually feel violated

—maybe because I don’t actually know Sebastian all that well. But I’m playing a part here, and I know this should bother me as his future wife. “That’s disgusting.” I laugh, shaking my head. “You have to tell me how I can find it.” “Sure. Just don’t tell him. Don’t inflate his ego any more than it already is.” “Oh, he’s arrogant?” I ask without thinking. “What?” Emma looks confused. “Nothing,” I say quickly. I shake my head. After a few minutes of chitchat, some customers come in, and it’s surprisingly busy for the rest of the workday. Emma and I work pretty seamlessly. I don’t even have to use the cash register—it’s just for show. We have a card reader. Modern-day cheese shop for the win! I learn all sorts of things about Emma. We’re best friends. She used to work with her mother but couldn’t stand the job, so when a position opened up here, she took it. I didn’t catch the place she used to work, but I gathered it was some sort of hospital. We’ve traveled to Spain together, she hates tomatoes, and she and Jeb helped Sebastian plan the proposal last New Year ’s Eve. By the time I see Sebastian’s Jeep outside, I’m actually disappointed to be leaving. I high-five my alternate-universe-self for handpicking great friends and a hot fiancé. “Bye!” I yell, grabbing my purse and heading out.

“See you tomorrow,” she chirps, waving and blowing me a kiss. It’s snowing when I walk outside, and I can’t help but smile and twirl around. Despite the fact that I live in Orange County (or I did), I still miss the snow almost every day. Charlie is one of those native-born Southern Californians who is petrified of any weather under sixty degrees, so we never went to the mountains or to visit my parents in Wyoming. It feels incredibly good to be back in a place like this. “Hi, baby!” Sebastian says, climbing out of his Jeep and walking over to where I’m spinning. “How was your day?” He scoops me up with minimal effort, gently placing a kiss on my lips. “It was fun!” I say, eager as a school-aged child. He glances inside and waves at Emma. She waves back through the glass. “I missed you,” he whispers into my right ear, and his warm breath causes my whole body to heat up. The way his breath inches along my earlobe gives me goose bumps. I can’t control it. “I missed you too,” I repeat, smiling. Though I may not really know him, I find myself comfortable around Sebastian. It’s inexplicable, because I technically just met him, but his demeanor silences all of my insecurities, and the way he looks at me fills me up like nothing else ever has. We walk to the Jeep, and Sebastian opens my door.

Once we get on the road, I wonder how far away the doctor is. “Are you hungry? We have some time before the appointment.” He places a hand on my thigh—a totally normal thing for a fiancé to do—but I’m acutely aware of its presence. I stare at his tanned, strong hand. It’s so different from what I’m used to. And yet, I’m starting to prefer this little life of mine. “Sure!” I chirp eagerly. My stomach rumbles in response, and Sebastian laughs. To my surprise, he pulls into a Wendy’s a minute later. I look around—surely, this is a mistake. Perhaps there’s another place to eat in the same parking lot. “Same as usual?” he asks me, pulling up to the speaker. Now I’m certain I eat fast food in this universe. My inner Yogi is slightly disgusted, but hey, what other choice do I have? “Yeah,” I say, skeptical. I wonder what the ‘usual’ entails. I know I’ll like it—my taste buds haven’t changed—just my stupid brain. He pulls forward and begins to speak into the microphone. He doesn’t even look at the menu. How often do we eat here? “Hi there. We’d like one crispy chicken sandwich, one deluxe cheeseburger, and two sides of fries. Soda?” he asks, turning to me. I point to my belly and shake my head. “Just water,” I mouth. He looks surprised, but then he shrugs. “One root

beer and one water.” When he’s done, he pulls forward. “Since when do you not drink Fanta?” Fanta? I’m pretty sure I haven’t had Fanta since I was a kid. “Just looking out for the baby,” I say, smiling. “Plus, soda rots your teeth.” Sebastian laughs. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Marlin?” It’s a valid question, and the irony does not escape me. A bubble of laughter escapes my lips. He pulls up to the next window and pays. A few minutes later, they hand us our piping-hot food. I voraciously tear my chicken sandwich open. I’m starving, and right now, I’d eat just about anything. We eat in comfortable silence, and I’m grateful he got me my own fries, since I seem to have an insatiable appetite. The minute I’m done, I feel so completely satisfied. I make a mental note—Wendy’s crispy chicken sandwich —for my real life. “Want the rest of my fries?” Sebastian asks, handing a half-eaten bag of fries to me. “Yes, please,” I answer without thinking. He just laughs and watches as I scarf the rest of his fries. “What?” “Nothing, I just love you,” he says, so genuinely that my mouth hangs open mid-bite. He reaches over and wipes something off of the corner of my mouth. I’m shocked to feel so normal here, like I already fit in. It’s

as if I was plucked from my real life and placed right into the life I was supposed to be living. “I love every single atom in your body, Marlin Winters.” His words make me emotional—or maybe I’m excessively sensitive because of the fetus growing inside me. I feel the tears well up in my eyes. “I love you, too,” I whisper, pushing the bag of food away. I know the second the words leave my lips that this Marlin is head-over-heels in love with Sebastian. It’s the way his words make me feel. It’s the way my skin accepts and craves his touch. It’s as if, when I close my eyes, I could actually see myself here. I believe it. I believe us. “Let’s go meet our baby, then,” he says quietly, giving me a big smile. I watch as he backs up, the muscles in his arms flex, and I can’t help but check him out a little bit. Emma was right—he’s a fox. Juares—his last name—is Mexican, I think. His teeth are perfect and white, and his only flaw thus far is the fact that he can’t eat as much as me. That, and his left eyebrow has a small scar running through it. A few minutes later, after some small talk about our respective days, we pull up to a small, two-story building. Sebastian comes around and opens my door, taking my hand and then placing his arm around my shoulders, leading me to the front door. It’s started to snow again, and I love the feel of the frost settling on my eyelashes and my nose. In fact, I love being here with

Sebastian. The realization startles me. Just last night, I thought I had been kidnapped. Now I’m here with my eyes closed, cradled in my fiancé’s arm, enjoying the snowfall. “Good afternoon,” the receptionist says, smiling cheerfully when she sees Sebastian. “Hi,” I say, unsure. “My name is Marlin Winters. I have an appointment.” She taps on her keyboard, and then her head shoots up again. “Ooh, your first ultrasound! Congratulations! How exciting,” she coos. “Thanks.” Sebastian squeezes my shoulder. “We’re excited,” I add. I brush a strand of hair behind my ears and beam at her. A small part of me feels like I’m playing a role, and in a way I guess I am. This isn’t my life. I know that. Though I have no memory of it, I’m here with Sebastian for some reason. I don’t really believe in fate, but how else can I justify all of this? It’s as if the universe is giving me a glimpse of what my life might be like, had I made different decisions. It’s all very It’s a Wonderful Life, except instead of being shown how life would be without me, I’m being shown a cruel version of what I’ll never have. And we’re at our baby’s first ultrasound. I want to enjoy this while it’s here, because who knows how much longer I have here… “Marlin?” A woman says, poking her head out from

a doorway. “Yes,” I answer, and Sebastian and I walk back to an examination room equipped with an ultrasound machine. It’s dimly lit, and curtains are pulled across the window. “You can get settled on here,” she says, her voice warm. She points at the exam table. “Can you unzip your pants so we can get a good look at that little munchkin you’re growing?” I nod, my hands shaking. I’m nervous. “Is this the father?” she asks, her eyes flicking to Sebastian. “Yes.” I lie down and pull my sweater up to my bra. I unbutton my jeans. “You can have a seat here,” she says to Sebastian, gesturing to a chair. She gives us both a wide smile. “Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair—I wonder if he’s nervous too. The ultrasound tech must’ve suspected as much as well, because she puts a hand on his shoulder. “Worried?” He laughs and looks at me. “A little anxious. I’m not even a dad yet, and I’m already concerned about my future child.” She laughs. “Nina” is the name printed on her nametag. “Don’t be worried. I’m sure everything is fine. You’re still having symptoms?” Nina asks, her question directed at me. I see her reach for some gel. “Oh yes,” I say, thinking of my vomit from last night and this morning.

She clicks on a few buttons, and then she reaches for the small scanner. She places it on my lower belly. It tickles at first, but soon the gel warms up, and the only thing I feel is her pushing this way and that, moving my insides around. “Okay, I see the uterus,” Nina says slowly. I crane my neck to look at the screen. I don’t see anything. I don’t even know what to look for. I reach out for Sebastian without thinking, and he squeezes my hand. Nina moves the scanner more slowly this time, and then I see her smile. I squint at the screen, and then a pulsing, squishy sound plays on the speakers. “That’s the heartbeat,” she says, and those three words might be the three most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. “Oh my god,” Sebastian says, his eyes filling with tears. “And there,” she adds, pointing to the screen, “is your baby.” It looks like a little bean tucked away comfortably. I cover my mouth with my hand, overcome with a thousand feelings at once: awe, happiness, fulfillment, contentment, worry, wonder. I look over at Sebastian just as a tear falls down my cheek. “There it is,” I say, sniffling. “There it is,” Sebastian repeats, his voice quiet. “Our baby.” Somehow, the hole in my heart, the same gaping hole I’ve carried around for years, feels full again. Just

last week, I was miserable—just two days ago, I couldn’t have even fathomed this feeling of satisfaction. I never thought it was possible to feel whole again, but I do. This is what I’ve been looking for. This is what was missing: my little bean, and the man who loves all of me. The man who loves every single atom in my body.

Chapter Eight THREE days ago

I throw on a summer dress even though it’s February. At seventy degrees out, it’s practically summer. Charlie hums the tune to an AC/DC song while he throws on his usual uniform: a basic T-shirt that he probably overpaid for, corduroy pants that strain at the waist because he refuses to size up, and Birkenstocks. Yes, Birkenstocks. My boyfriend wears trendy shoes, and that’s a fact I have to live with. And yes, I do make fun of him sometimes. “You look good,” he says, coming behind me and pulling my long hair behind my shoulders. He hates when I wear it down; says it covers my beautiful face. I grab a clip from the dresser and pin the top half back. “Better,” he says, nodding. I pretend I agree. We get in the car at 6:42. We’re going to be early. Stuart, Charlie’s best friend, is in a band, and Charlie makes it a point to try and see him perform every so often. Usually this means he drags me along. I’ve never really had the heart to tell Charlie this, but I hate live music. People should listen to music by themselves in the comfort of their own homes. Music is so personal

for me, and I’ve always felt more comfortable listening to music by myself and experiencing those moments uninhibited. Charlie once insulted one of my very favorite Belle and Sebastian songs, and it felt like a kick straight to the heart. We don’t really discuss music anymore. Besides, Stuart really, really sucks. And going tonight means I have to see Gemma, Stuart’s bimbo girlfriend. Talking to her is like pulling teeth. But alas… I am trying to have a positive attitude. After we park, walk inside, and pay (forty dollars later… they really should be paying us to watch this disaster) Charlie leaves me with Gemma to go buy drinks. I look down at my dress—yellow with a white lace overlay—and tan wedges, and I feel totally out of place. In fact, I rarely feel like I belong in Orange County. It has never felt like home to me. I miss seasons, constantly, and snow. I miss relishing the summer season because the warm weather is fleeting. People here take sunny weather for granted. Gemma is wearing a short, black leather skirt and a grey T-shirt that she’s tucked in. She looks edgy and put together—like she fits in here. I can’t remember what her father does, but he pays for her beachfront apartment in Newport Beach, and I don’t think she’s worked a day in her life. I kind of hate her for that. “Oh my god, Marlin,” she says, her voice monotone. I’m not sure if she’s asking a question or if

she’s surprised to see me. She bends in slightly for an air hug. “How are you?” “I’m great,” I say with conviction, willing myself to believe it. On paper, my life is good. For god’s sake, I just bought a townhouse with Charlie at the ripe age of twenty-seven! That’s an accomplishment in this economy. “I’ve been meaning to take one of your yoga classes,” she discloses, sipping her clear drink. A vodka soda, most likely. “I’m just not a yoga person. I’m a cardio person. Need to get that heart pumping,” she says, giggling. I see Stuart wrap his arm around her tiny waist. “My flow class is pretty intense,” I add defensively. “You work muscles you never knew you had.” “Maybe next week?” She phrases it like a question, but then she turns to Stuart and starts to kiss him, effectively dismissing me. I walk over to the bar and order my usual, because Charlie disappeared to God knows where, and I need a damn drink. “One scotch neat, please.” The bartender ’s eyebrows shoot up, as if to ask, you’re not going to order the seventy-calorie vodka soda? “Coming right up,” he says, and I study him from behind as he walks over to the glasses and pours me a generous drink. He’s chubby, with a full beard and a pageboy cap. His cherub cheeks are adorable. I wonder what it would be like to sleep with him. Jesus. Why do I always fantasize about other men? I

know it’s normal, but it makes me feel depraved and immoral for constantly thinking about it. I hand him a ten-dollar bill and flash him a wide smile. He returns it. They always do. And then I wonder… am I wasting the prime of my life? Should I be out there, dating different kinds of men, fucking different kinds of men, while I’m still young and pretty? I sit at the bar and take generous sips of my scotch. I close my eyes and picture myself here, single and ready to mingle. The pulse of the music starts to reverberate in my ears, and I’m tempted to dance. I want to let my hair down, just the way I like it, and twirl around all night until I land in the arms of some random guy. “I’ve never known a woman your age to drink a scotch neat,” the bartender says, pointing to my alreadyfinished drink. “A woman my age?” I muse, a sly smile working its way onto my numb lips. “How old do you think I am?” I place one elbow on the bar, resting my face in my palm. Oh boy, I already feel drunk. Charlie won’t be too happy with me. He hates it when I’m sloppy. “Hmm,” he says, eyeing me mischievously. A thrill enters my body, and I suddenly feel quite alive. “Twentytwo.” I know he’s just being nice, trying to flirt, but I laugh nonetheless. “Oh, please. I’m twenty-seven. My name is Marlin,” I say, holding my hand out. “Henry,” he says. He looks like a Henry. He looks

nice, stable, and most importantly, fun. My life is seriously lacking fun, and that makes me sad. “Can I get you another drink, Marlin? On the house?” I look behind me quickly, scanning the room for Charlie. He’s busy schmoozing with Stuart and Gemma. Obviously, he forgot to order me a drink, or he just doesn’t give a shit as to where I’ve run off to. Screw them. It’s my night too, and I deserve to have some fun. “Why the fuck not,” I say, feeling the small ounce of control over myself withering away. I give up. I’m renouncing adulthood and my life here. I know my limits, and I’m about to fly right past them and into a place I know Charlie hates—a place I know I’ll regret tomorrow while I clutch the toilet bowl and heave my guts out. But I want to feel alive again. I want to pretend I’m living another life, just for tonight. “Is that your boyfriend?” Henry asks, setting a generously poured scotch in front of me. I follow his gaze to Charlie, who is now watching us with mild curiosity. “Yes,” I admit, returning my attention to Henry. “Can I say something, even though it might be slightly presumptuous?” My curiosity is piqued. “Go right ahead. I’m sure I’ve thought worse.” He hesitates and then refocuses on me. “If I were your boyfriend, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight in that

dress,” he whispers. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he adds, gesturing to Charlie. His words, although innocent, make me feel warm and fuzzy. For a second, I feel like my life is all wrong here—like everything is tilting on its axis. I should be with someone like Henry. Someone who appreciates me. Someone who cherishes me. Charlie never made me feel cherished, not even in the beginning. I could leave, I think. I could give Henry my number, stand up, and wait for something to distract Charlie, and then I could make my exit. I could walk right out of the bar—keep walking until I feel satisfied with life again. Who knows how long I’d have to walk for that… Somewhere cold. I’d walk somewhere cold. The constant, sticky warmth of San Clemente is suffocating. It settles on my skin like dust from a highway. I find I crave the cold, the snow, the renewal and the clarity that an early snowy morning brings. I miss fogged-up windows, hot chocolate, white Christmases, snowmobiles, and spending half my childhood shoveling snow, with mittens and a pink, raw nose. People here never have to deal with any of that, and it’s like they don’t even know how to handle anything that isn’t seventy and sunny. Gemma’s cackling brings me back to the present, and I turn my attention to Henry. “Thank you for saying that,” I say quickly, giving him a small smile. “You made

my night.” I down the rest of my drink, and then I stand on my wobbly legs. I certainly had too much to drink. The rest of the night passes in a blur of squeaky, pitchy singing. For the time that Stuart’s band is playing, it sounds like someone is taking a piece of sandpaper and rubbing it in front of my ears. Granted, I’m very specific about the music I enjoy, but I’m not getting an ounce of enjoyment from this music. It’s parasitic, leeching into my skin. I want to cover my ears, but I don’t want to be rude. Charlie glances at me every so often. It’s always the same look—vague disappointment. He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s thinking, why can’t you be like Gemma? Gemma is sitting upright, pumping her fist in support, yelling for an encore. Plus, she looks like a supermodel while doing it. Charlie punishes me by not giving me any attention. I’m just the fly on the couch. He turns to me every ten minutes, but it’s only to show his disapproval. I know once we leave, he’ll ask me why I had to drink so much, again. Again. Everything I do is always again. A part of me knows I’ll never be the woman he wants—but I try nonetheless. What other option do I have? We bought a house together. We’re probably going to get married and pop out a few kids soon. That’s just how it is. Not everyone gets to be happy. Not everyone gets the fairytale romance. I just have to learn to be okay with that.

After the encore that Gemma begged for, Stuart and the rest of the guys come out to greet us. I stand behind Charlie awkwardly; I know he’s keeping me out on purpose. I nurse my fourth drink. That’s one thing I’m grateful for. At least he’s letting me drink without supervision. Maybe I’ll die of alcohol poisoning tonight. “Marlin!” Stuart says, coming over to me and giving me a hug. “Thanks for coming. What’d you think?” Sometimes, in moments like these, you see two distinct paths you can take. One path leads to destruction —the other, to fulfillment. Or at least that’s what they tell you. I always choose the right path, and the only fulfillment I felt in the last week was when Henry hit on me. So fuck it, I’m going to be honest. I choose the path to destruction. “Wow, well… you guys really sucked,” I say, giggling hysterically. The words are out of my mouth before I can think. I don’t even care—just like when I lost it with Charlie’s parents a few days ago, I’m starting to realize I don’t care about a large number of things. It’s not worth it, to care. Things get muddled and fucked up no matter how much you care. Stuart gawks at me, his mouth open and his brow furrowed in confusion. I’m sure I’m the first person not to blow air up his ass about his singing. I’m sure his mother, Gemma, and every other single person here has

given him nothing but praise. It feels kind of great to tell him the truth. The group goes quiet, and I see Gemma look at Charlie nervously. “Okay, then,” Stuart says quietly. “Thanks so much, Marlin,” he adds. Then he abruptly turns and walks over to Gemma. “You guys were great. Don’t listen to her. She’s obviously wasted.” Gemma gives me a pitying look, and then they both walk away, followed by the rest of the band. That leaves Charlie with me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Charlie hisses, and then, not surprisingly, he leaves and follows the rest of the group out of the back door. I wonder for a minute if he’s going to leave without me. Of course, I’m sure Henry would give me a ride home. I realize I’m happier thinking of a stranger giving me a ride rather than my boyfriend. I say goodbye to Henry, who is standing, baffled, having just seen what transpired. I’m no longer the cute girl who orders scotch. I’m crazy. I’m too crazy for Charlie. I’m too crazy for Henry. I’d be better off alone. When I walk outside, Charlie, Stuart, Gemma, and the rest of the band are huddled around the VW bus that Stuart drives. For some reason, he thinks he’s cool for driving a shitty car from forty years ago with abysmal gas mileage. They’re all speaking in hushed whispers, and I know it’s about me. “I can guarantee, whatever you all are saying about

me, I’ve thought worse about myself. How about saying it to my face?” I yell, my drink sloshing out of the side of my cup. “Get in the car,” Charlie urges, grabbing my arm before I can embarrass myself further. I pull away from him, tugging my arm free. “Fuck you all,” I say under my breath. “It’s not my fault that you can’t sing.” I direct the insult at Stuart, though I’m not sure why. I don’t actually mind the guy, but my brain is rotting on hate right now. It’s like the saying, the kinder you are, the easier it becomes. I think it applies to being an asshole, too. “What’s your problem, Marlin?” Gemma asks, stepping towards me. “You’re such a bitch. We’ve always tried to befriend you. We’ve always been nice to you.” “Fake nice,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “You’re right. You’ve all been perfectly nice to my face. But what about after I walk away?” Gemma contemplates my words, and then she shakes her head. At least she didn’t try to deny it. “Let’s go,” Charlie yells, grabbing me, tighter this time so I can’t escape. “Have a good night,” I spit at them, and I can feel the self-loathing coursing through my veins. It’s not them—of course it’s not. I’ll apologize tomorrow. It’s me. I’m rotten. I buckle myself in and turn the radio on so that Charlie doesn’t chastise me for my behavior on the ride

home. I know I deserve it, and I will be punishing myself later. On cue, I look down at my bare, pale wrists. It’s going to feel so good to bleed—bleed all the hatred, self-loathing, and unhappiness out. And then tomorrow I’ll deal with the repercussions.

Chapter Nine PRESENT

I haven’t had the courage to look down at my wrists all day. I’ll know for sure once I pull the sweater up my forearm. Sebastian is whistling to a Sam Smith song on the radio. He’s not paying attention. I feign being hot, first turning the heater down, and then pushing the sleeves of my wool sweater up. I glance down. Nothing. There’s nothing. The Marlin in this life doesn’t cut herself. The Marlin in this life doesn’t need to. She’s happy. She’s getting married. She’s having a baby with the man she loves. She gets to eat cheese all day long, and she’s back in a place with snow. Now all I have to do is figure out how to stay here. If this is all just a dream, I don’t think I ever want to wake up. “You’re so quiet today,” Sebastian says, his voice tinted with worry. “I’m just content,” I blurt out, and I realize suddenly that I am. I’m content here. Panic begins to fill my chest when I think about going back to my old life. “That’s good,” Sebastian laughs. “Are we happy?” I ask, twisting around and studying him. “Baby, what are you talking about? We’re so happy.

We’re the happiest. They write songs about people like us.” As if on cue, he starts to sing the Sam Smith song out loud. “You’re the one designed for me A distant stranger that I will complete I know you’re out there we’re meant to be So keep your head down and make it to me And make it to me…” He really does have a sickeningly good voice. I laugh. “Okay, I believe you. I’ve just been thinking lately about what could’ve been.” “Give me an example,” he requests, placing a warm hand on my thigh. “For example… what if I ended up going to San Diego State instead of Long Beach? What if we never met in Italy?” He stares ahead in thought, silent for a moment. A few seconds later, when we pull up to a red light, he turns to me with a solicitous expression on his face. “We’d find each other. I believe that. We might have a different story, but we’d find each other. Our souls were destined to meet, I think, long before our bodies were.” I look down at my hands, my wrists bare, and I believe his words. The urge to cry contorts my face. His words are simple yet impactful. I want to believe him. I want to believe that he exists in my real world. I feel a tear slip down my cheek, and I look over at him, my

body warming under his earnest gaze. “I hope so,” I whisper, and I reach down and squeeze his hand. “I know so.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm gently. His lips are so soft. He’s always so tender. He’s going to make a great father one day. “I’m sorry,” I add, wiping my cheeks. “It must be the hormones. I’m overly emotional.” “You don’t ever have to apologize for feeling, Marlin. Life’s not worth living if we don’t feel intensely.” I nod and look out of the window. The light turns green, and we pull onto a dirt road. I study our surroundings with glum understanding—I might not be around to witness the house fully renovated. I might not be around to experience birth or motherhood. If any of this is real, and I’ve somehow been transported to an alternate universe, this could all carry on without me. Sebastian turns down an even smaller road, and I know we’re close to the house because Sebastian keeps peeking glances in my direction, a sly smile on his lips. The sun is starting to go down, and the pink sky is romantic and dazzling. I don’t want the day to end. “They painted the exterior yesterday,” Sebastian says, the words bursting from his mouth excitedly. “What color?” I say it without thinking, and Sebastian tilts his head at me curiously.

“You picked the color, Marlin. I thought it was grey, but you were adamant that it was blue. Either way, I’m sure it looks great with the white trim.” I die a little inside. I know it’ll look good with white trim. In fact, I’m sure I’m going to fall in love with this little house of ours. “Wow,” Sebastian says, just as we round a corner. A large, old Victorian house sits next to a bare oak tree with a swing hanging from the branches. The snow makes everything brighter, whiter, more dramatic. I feel my jaw drop. It’s breathtaking, and it’s ours. “It looks great,” I say, trying to cover my awe. I have to keep in mind that I’ve seen the house before. I have to keep my emotions in check. Sebastian parks and comes around to open my door. I hop out, childlike excitement coursing through my veins, and I take a mental picture. It’s still a bit run-down, but the new paint did wonders. There’s a garden patch out front, empty right now of course, and the wooden steps are covered in snow. There’s a porch, neglected because of the current weather. I envision our child growing up here, shoveling snow just like I did. I imagine the three of us drinking iced tea on the porch in the summer as we fan ourselves off, wondering why we never installed central air conditioning. I see slow, lazy mornings around a fireplace as Sebastian gets ready for work. I see breakfast together with messy hair and matching

Scooby-Doo slippers. The door is painted red, and a large brass knocker sits right at eye level. We walk up to it together, and I have to bite my lip to keep it from quivering. “After you,” he says, gesturing to the knocker. “Together,” I counter, and he nods once, placing his large hand over mine. We knock three times, giggling, and then Sebastian opens the front door. It’s just as marvelous inside—just like I thought it would be. Salvaged oak flooring shines up at us, waxed and new. The walls are white, and the crown molding isn’t quite finished in certain parts, but I’m enamored with the rawness already. The doorway from the foyer arches into the living room, and I walk into the kitchen. Modern appliances sit unused, and the subway tile is exquisite against the dusk sun coming in through the kitchen window. I follow Sebastian as he tours the downstairs bathroom and then the dining room with built-ins. I take his hand as we walk upstairs, and three bedrooms, one right after the other, line the hallway. Sebastian pulls me to the last room—our master bedroom. I gasp as I see that a large canopy bed sits in the corner. So this is where our real bed is. Though as Sebastian squeezes my hand, I realize I’d sleep in a barn every night as long as it meant I could stay with him in this life. “What do you think?” he asks, pulling me out and to the last door lining the hallway.

“I love it,” I say, my voice breaking. He stops walking, looking at me with concern. “I’m okay, just emotional,” I add, pointing to my stomach. He chuckles. “I have a surprise for you,” he says quietly. He opens the last door and pulls me inside. It’s bare, but in one corner is a small vintage crib. “Oh my god.” I run my finger along the smooth wood. It’s beautiful. “Where did you get this?” “It was mine,” he says proudly. “My dad dropped it off earlier. I wanted to surprise you.” I turn around and put my arms around his neck. “I love it. Our baby will love it.” My words make me sad. I don’t know if I’ll get to experience our baby sleeping in Sebastian’s crib, but I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to experience anything more. “Good. Because you deserve the best,” he says before leaning down and kissing me. It sweeps me off my feet, and he pulls me close into him, his lips moving against mine. I pull away, totally overwhelmed with emotion. “I already have the best.” I kiss him again on the cheek, and I stare at him, burning the image of his face into my mind. I vow to find him in my real life. I vow to kiss him like this again. Everything else can stay up in the air—the house, the job, the baby… as long as I have him, I’ll be happy. “Lets go back to our shitty apartment, drink some sparkling cider, and we’ll toast to us. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, smiling. * Sebastian makes us dinner: roasted vegetables, brown rice, and feta. It’s delicious, healthy, and satisfying. I drink a large glass of whole milk, per Sebastian’s suggestion that I need to eat more calories, and afterwards, I feel content and ready for bed. “Can you play ‘Ave Maria’?” Sebastian begs, coming around behind me just as I place the dirty dishes in the sink. “What?” I spin around, and he pulls me in tight, kissing me on the neck, the temple, the forehead. “Schubert?” “Yeah. It’s my favorite.” He gestures to the small spinet piano in the corner. My eyes go wide in surprise. There are a few moving boxes in front of it, and I didn’t even notice it sitting in the corner of the living room until now. I haven’t played the piano since I lived in Wyoming. “I might be a little rusty,” I say, walking over to the bench. “Since last night? Nah,” he says, brushing me off. Last night? He continues. “You practice every night, mi amor. You’re incredible. It’s my favorite part of the day, listening to you play.” “I play every day?” I look over at him, and the look

of confusion on his face makes me uncomfortable. “I mean, of course I play every day.” I sit down at the bench, and I pray that I remember as well as he thinks I do. I flip the music page open to “Ave Maria,” crack my knuckles, and then I begin. To my surprise, my fingers move effortlessly over the keys, fluidly. It’s familiar and unfamiliar to me, all at the same time. I know how to play—though it’s been over ten years and I feel rusty, my fingers fly over the keys like a person who has been practicing every day, which I guess I’ve done in this life. The muscles in my hands are stretched, expectant, and once I let go of my mind block, the music begins to take over. The melody is slow, peaceful, thought-provoking. It stirs some kind of emotion inside of me. I close my eyes, and I continue playing with confidence. I’ve missed this—playing a song by heart. The music swells, and I feel the layers peel away, leaving only me, bare and plain, here and now. There is no Marlin of yesterday. I exist only in this life—this wonderful life. When I finish, I feel raw and exposed. I look behind me at Sebastian, and the look on his face is pure awe and wonder. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he whispers, and I feel myself get up and go to sit in his lap. I figure, if this life is finite, I might as well take advantage of it. I lean in and kiss him. He reaches his hand up to my cheek, gently thumbing it as his tongue works its way into my mouth,

slowly, erotically. The apartment is dark, and I feel my body burn under his touch. He pulls me in closer. “Sebastian,” I whisper, my voice desperate. “Make love to me.” He doesn’t say anything. He gathers me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom. He gently places me down on the bed, and when he does, I reach my arms back, resting them behind my head. I study him as he takes his shirt off. He’s beautiful, and not just in the ‘he’s hot’ kind of way. His chest is strong, his angles sharp. Statues should be erected in his honor. Yet… he’s sweet, and tender, and loving. He unbuckles his pants, and that’s when I see it: a small, thin scar running down his left arm. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice more accusatory than I’d like to admit. I sit upright and grab his afflicted arm, studying the familiar lines. “What the hell are these?” I yell, pulling him down onto the bed. “Marlin… are you serious?” He watches me, confused, concerned. “You know what they are.” I wave my hands in front of me, furiously, irritably. “I know what they are. Why do you have them?” I grab his arm and kiss the scars, tears falling from my cheeks. “Does pregnancy brain give you amnesia?” he asks, laughing. “This isn’t funny!” I cry, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Yes, I have amnesia. I don’t remember the last

seven years, maybe longer. Please tell me why you have these marks.” He shakes his head and sighs. “You already know the story, but I’ll humor you. I used to cut myself in high school. It was awful. I was suicidal for a time. I went on antidepressants. But then I met you, and I’ve never looked back.” “When was the last time?” I ask, my voice frantic. He smiles. “Two years before we met.” His answer appeases me, but I’m still uncomfortable. I look down at my wrists for the second time tonight. I search my pale, translucent flesh for any signs of scarring, and there is nothing. My skin is smooth. The sign of a happy life. How can I talk to him about my real life when he has no idea about any of it? Instead, I pull him into a hug, grasping onto his muscled back. I cry, harder than I’ve ever cried. Giant, heaving sobs leave my body through my eyes, creating a river down his shoulder—a trail of evidence. I’ve been there, I want to say. Snot runs down my nose, but I don’t care. Somehow, I feel more connected to Sebastian than I do to Charlie, and I’ve only known him for a day. I want to share that part of my life with him, but I’m hesitant. Of all the people I know, the man I’ve known the least amount of time is the only person I want to tell. Sebastian pulls back and hands me a handkerchief, which he pulled out of his jeans pocket. I love that he carries an actual handkerchief. I blow my nose and wipe

my eyes. I throw it into our laundry pile. I would do laundry every day for the rest of my life (and that’s saying a lot since laundry is my least favorite chore) if I could only stay here with him. I look up at him through my wet eyelashes, and he leans in, planting a soft kiss on my lips. It’s light yet so unequivocally poignant. He grabs my hands, lacing his fingers through mine, and deepens the kiss. His breath tastes milky and sweet, and he smells like vanilla and peppermint. The dimness of the room sets the mood, and I begin to take my clothes off, one article at a time. Our breathing is all I hear. He helps me with my socks, and to my surprise, he bends down and kisses my foot. I pull it away instinctually. I’ve been wearing wool socks all day. I’m sure the smell is less than pleasant. But he grabs me firmly, planting a soft kiss on each toe. I throw my head back and moan. He works his way up, pulling my jeans off with smooth precision. Next is my shirt, which he lifts over my head, gently. Finally, my underwear and bra. I don’t feel exposed. I feel free, for the first time in my life. “Do you know what the sexiest part of you is?” he whispers, crawling between my legs. Is he…? No, he couldn’t possibly. I haven’t showered. But no, instead he kisses my lower belly, which, now that I’m looking closer, has the tiniest of tiny baby bumps. That, or it’s a food baby. Either way, his gesture is sweet. “This.” He

kisses all around the small bump, trailing kisses up until he meets my lips. He then kisses my cheek and whispers into my ear. “The sexiest thing about you is the fact that you’re carrying our child. Our future.” I feel myself start to cry, and I pull him in for another kiss. “I love you.” “And the second sexiest part of you,” he says, smiling. He trails his kiss from top to bottom this time, and then he’s right there, kissing and sucking. I gasp. “This is my second favorite part of you,” he growls, nibbling ever so gently. I clutch onto his head as he moves his head up and down like a pro, licking and flicking his tongue rhythmically. I can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm that wasn’t my own doing. I feel myself start to tense, and I buck my hips just as he grabs me and pushes me down, intensifying his pressure. “Just let go and feel it,” he says, his breath between my legs. It makes me shiver. “Okay,” I say, throwing my head back and closing my eyes. “Yes…” I feel myself start to let go. I cry out, and just as I come, he pulls away and enters me, sliding in at just the perfect time. I collapse back onto the bed as he fills me, and I hold onto his face as he kisses me. He’s gentle, but not too gentle. We’re still rocking the bed, and it’s the perfect rhythm. He grabs my hands again, holding onto them as he watches me. I try to look away, but I can’t. I want to see his face as we finish together.

“Mi amor,” he groans, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they’re dark and dilated. “Look at me.” I obey, my eyes locking onto his. His whole body stiffens, and it intensifies everything for me. I feel myself finish again, just as he does. It’s powerful, the smells and sights and sounds of Sebastian, and I love every fucking second of it. He collapses on top of me, not even bothering to pull out, and I’m overcome with so many feelings. Anguish at not having this in my real life. Gratitude for having experienced any of this at all. Love, so much love. Pity and regret, for myself but additionally for the high-school version of Sebastian. I know what he was going through. I’m grateful he’s here, now, happy. “I’ll shower first,” I say. I try to get up, but Sebastian holds me down. “Shower? Don’t you dare. You smell your best after sex,” he says, his voice lazy and relaxed. The lump in my throat gets bigger. Everything about him, about this, is too much. It’s too good. How is it that I deserve this? What will happen when I go to sleep tonight? Will all of this disappear? Will I wake up tomorrow in Sebastian’s arms? Does he even exist, or is he a figment of my imagination? “I love you, Marlin Winters, soon-to-be Marlin Juares.” He kisses me and pulls me into him, his stomach to my back, and wraps an arm and a leg around me. No. This is real. The sights, smells, feels, sounds,

tastes. It’s real. It has to be real. But just in case, I fight the urge to sleep. I don’t know what reality I’ll wake up in, and I’m not willing to take that chance just yet.

Chapter Ten TWO days ago

I reach into the bag of Skittles, hoping for a red or purple one. Crunch. Gross. I got orange, also known as the worst Skittle flavor ever. I spit it out in my hand and grab a napkin from my glove compartment, squishing the wet skittle into the scratchy paper. A second later, I pull into the parking lot of Dr. Kostas, the new psychiatrist I’m seeing. I grab my bag of Skittles and continue to eat only the red and purple ones. When I spit a yellow one out into the trash can out front, I snap my head up and check for hidden cameras. In retrospect, I’m sure he’s seen worse, but just in case, I don’t want Dr. Kostas to think I’m a total weirdo. I step inside, and the waiting room is like a garden oasis. I see right through the façade. Why do doctors always present themselves this way? We all know the receptionist is typing up emails, running out for coffees, and filing invoices. The healthcare system in America is not glamorous; it’s not a day at the spa. “Hello, I’m here to see Dr. Kostas,” I say sweetly, and the receptionist studies me for a second too long before nodding and handing me a form to fill out.

“Don’t forget to sign on the bottom,” she says. I know she really wants to ask, what kind of fucked up are you? I fill the form out as best as I can. I don’t check any of the boxes, not even the one where I’m supposed to indicate self-harm or signs of depression. In response, I pull my sleeves down to my thumbs. When I’m finished, I hand the clipboard back to the receptionist, named “Glenda,” and go sit back down. Just as I’m almost done picking all of my blue nail polish off, Glenda calls out to me. “Ms. Winters? You forgot to specify the reason for your visit.” I didn’t forget, Glenda. “Oh, okay.” I stand and grab a pen. I check the ‘sleep issues’ box, thinking it’s not entirely untrue. The truth is, I’m not sure if I trust Dr. Kostas yet. No one—and I mean no one—knows about my issues. Charlie suspects, especially when it’s eighty-five outside like today and I opt for a long-sleeved shirt, but even he doesn’t know the kind of fucked up things that go through my mind on a daily basis. If he did, he would run away screaming. For example, I’m not sure he’d appreciate the detailed thoughts about suicide, or the fact that whenever I hold a knife, I think about slitting my own throat. Fun, happy thoughts that any normal twenty-sevenyear-old woman would have, am I right?

The only reason I’m here is because I promised Charlie I would “see someone.” That’s WASP code for therapy, a term I’m sure his waspy mother accustomed him to. After last night, after the whole debacle with Stuart, Charlie gave me an ultimatum. “Either see someone, or we’re done.” “Fine, I’ll see someone tomorrow,” I say, slurring my words. I’ve eaten two pieces of bread, and I’m still piss drunk. “Stuart really did suck though. I wasn’t wrong about that.” “There are things you learn when you grow up, Marlin, things like tact and class. You don’t have any of those things, and I’m not sure why. Maybe you never grew up. Telling my parents off, telling Stuart his music sucked, being rude to Gemma…” I take a deep breath. The alcohol coursing through my veins is making me bold. Duly noted: too much scotch gives me no filter. “I just… I’m not happy anymore. I feel like I have this heavy blanket on my shoulders, ALL THE TIME. I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled.” For a second, I’m relieved. It feels good to tell him the truth for once. Maybe this is good. Maybe this will be the catalyst for change. Perhaps tomorrow we will attempt to be a happier, more communicative couple. Charlie studies my face, and then he looks away. “It sounds like boredom to me.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out two hundred dollar bills. “Why don’t you take a personal day tomorrow, go out to lunch, and buy

yourself something nice?” I stare up at him in disbelief. “Money? You’re giving me fucking money?” He sighs, putting his face in his hands. A blond curl falls in front of his face. I want to rip it out. “Jesus, Marlin. I’m just trying to be a good boyfriend.” He presses the two bills into the palm of my hand. “Promise me you’ll see someone tomorrow. Do that, and then treat yourself to something nice. Do you always have to be so dramatic?” With that, he walks away. And I want to scream. “Ms. Winters? The doctor is ready to see you.” I stand up and walk to the door, and she ushers me to a homely office. An older man sits behind a desk, and I’m both disgusted at the cheesy motivational posters and shocked at his The Who tour poster. I can’t really picture the man sitting in front of me, with his comb-over and cowboy boots, smoking a joint and watching The Who live in concert. “Marlin, I’m Dr. Kostas. Please, take a seat.” His voice and smile are warm, and I’m immediately reminded of my father. “Thank you. I like The Who,” I blurt out. I immediately begin to sing “Teenage Wasteland,” but then I stop myself. Great. Of all the places to do that, I had to do it in front of a psychiatrist. “Sorry. It’s just, whenever I think of that song, I have to sing it.”

He just laughs. The wrinkles on the sides of his eyes deepen, and he looks much older than he did at first. “One of the best songs of all time.” “It really is.” Okay, so maybe this won’t be so terrible. “Tell me about yourself. You stated sleep issues, but I can read people pretty easily, and I don’t think that’s the only reason you’re here.” I swallow the lump in my throat. Shit. Was it the long sleeves? “But before we get to that, tell me about your life. Where’d you grow up? Did you go to college? That kind of thing. I’ll ease you in.” He grins and clamps his hands together, listening intently. “Okay. Umm… let’s see. I grew up in Wyoming, in a town I’m sure you’ve never heard of. I’m an only child. My parents are wonderful. I dreamt of California as a kid, and I went to San Diego State University for college. My major was Liberal Studies. I still have no idea what I want to do with my life. I miss Wyoming, but I feel crazy for saying that, because I live in one of the most temperate places on earth. I live with my boyfriend, Charlie.” He nods and twiddles his thumbs. “Tell me about Charlie.” I’m a little thrown off by his question. I wasn’t expecting to talk about Charlie. “Umm, well, he’s two years older than me. He’s an investment banker, and we recently bought a townhouse. We’re thinking of getting a

dog soon.” “Do you talk about marriage?” Dr. Kostas asks. I’m not sure why that’s any of his business, but I suspect he’s asking these questions for a reason. “Sometimes. But we’re both pretty happy where things stand right now.” “Does he make you happy?” I balk at his question. “Of course. Why would I be with him if I weren’t happy?” Dr. Kostas laughs, and I find it slightly offensive that he’s laughing at me. “Ms. Winters, with all due respect, if people didn’t stay in unhappy relationships, I wouldn’t have the booming career I’ve had for the last forty years.” I shrug. “I guess you’re right. I’m not unhappy.” “But you’re not happy,” he finishes, and I glare at him. “I didn’t say that.” I cross my arms. “You’re putting words in my mouth.” “Do you know why I do what I do, Marlin?” I shrug again. “Because it pays well?” I smile so that he knows I’m joking. “You’re a witty one,” he observes, stroking his chin. “I do this simply to help people be happier in their day-to-day lives. It’s one of the hardest jobs in the world. Regular doctors stitch up wounds, perform heart surgery, deliver babies. Our bodies heal. Our minds… are a different story.”

I look around the room, avoiding eye contact. “Fine. You caught me. I’m not happy. What gave me away?” “I can read people pretty well. The long sleeves on a sunny day was my first clue. The dark circles underneath your eyes. The fact that you mentioned Charlie last.” I stare at him. “I have dark circles?” I swipe my fingers underneath my eyes, horrified. I must not have even noticed. How long have I had dark circles, and is that why Sia always asks me if I’m tired? God, I’m so oblivious. “How long have you cut yourself?” “Wow, you’re just going to come out and ask me that?” I start to stand. “Sit down, Marlin. I’m trying to understand what lead to this.” “Nothing… it’s nothing. It’s not that big of a deal.” “How long?” The way he asks questions is not malicious or speculative. He’s just genuinely concerned. Maybe he can help me feel normal. “Two years.” I sit back down. Charlie’s words run through my mind. You’re a drama queen, Marlin. That’s what he always says. “What happened?” He doesn’t need to specify. I’m sure I’m such a walking stereotype—there’s always an inciting incident for people like me. Rape, molestation, bullying, neglect,

abuse, disaster, war… “It’s so stupid,” I start, shaking my head. “Nothing’s stupid when you’re sitting in that chair, Marlin.” “There are people out there who suffer much worse things than me. It feels silly to complain about an incident that, in the grand scheme of things, is not that bad.” “It differs from person to person, Marlin. You can’t rate someone’s trauma. Tell me about the incident.” I slide down in the chair and cross my arms. The only people who know what happened are Charlie and my parents. The local police did a fine job downplaying it, and there was only one small mention of it in the local newspaper. At the time, I thought I was overreacting, but the gory details have stayed with me all this time. It’s why I have nightmares most nights. I start slowly. “When I was a junior in college, I worked at this ice cream shop near campus a few nights a week. They were open really late—until 2:00 a.m.—to appeal to the barhopping crowd. Anyways, one night we were held at gunpoint. I’ve never been so scared, not before, not since. My co-worker, a friend of mine, put up a fight. And… she was shot in the head. Right in front of me. They held us hostage for hours, but eventually the police intervened, and we were rescued.” “Why on earth would you think that’s stupid, or silly, or not worth being traumatized?” Dr. Kostas leans

forward. “That must’ve been terrifying. Seeing your friend shot…” He leans back. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can cause a lot issues later on, sometimes several years after the incident. It manifests itself in a variety of ways.” I look down and pick the nail polish off the last nail —my pinky nail. “Anyways, shortly after that, I started dating Charlie. He made everything better. He took my mind off of things. He paid for my school so I didn’t have to work. He took pity on me and made me forget. But then after college, something changed. We changed. Instead of being grateful for his money and his support, I began to resent him. Our relationship is… okay. He doesn’t physically abuse me, but sometimes he makes me feel worse about myself. About everything. He’s manipulative.” Dr. Kostas nods. “So now, because of his support early on, you feel like you’re stuck with him. You feel obligated.” “Yeah,” I admit. “He’s given me too much. I can’t walk away. I owe him my life, in a way. He kept my mind off of everything those first few years. I ran straight from the trauma and into his arms. Literally, the very next day.” “I see.” Dr. Kostas grabs his notepad and writes something down. I bite my lip. I wonder if he’s writing psycho on his notepad. “I think that’s enough for today. But I have an assignment for you. I’m not going to put

you on medication just yet; let’s wait a few weeks and see if we can work through this together. A lot of PTSD can be worked out via therapy. Depression and anxiety are another story. If you feel like harming yourself, at all, in any way, I want you to call me.” He hands me his business card. I notice his personal cell phone written in pen on the back. “For any reason, day or night. Okay?” “Okay.” I look up at him. “What’s the assignment?” He studies me pensively. I feel like he can see right through me. “Do one thing every day that scares you. Whether that means ordering something different off the menu, talking to a stranger, paragliding, whatever. Sometimes, shaking things up a bit can really bring the emotions forward. That’s what you need: an outlet. We have to clear the pipes before we can fix them. Does that make sense?” I nod. “I can do that.” “Good.” He stands. “I’ll see you next week.” “Thank you,” I say quietly, and just as I turn to leave, he calls out to me. “And Marlin? See if you can find something that puts a genuine smile on your face.” I grimace. I’m not sure that’s a promise I can keep. “I’ll try.” It’s the best I can do.

Chapter Eleven PRESENT

Sleep doesn’t come. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m forcing myself to stay awake or because Sebastian snores. Really loudly, too. I can’t help but find it endearing. He rolls over, totally content, and I get out of bed. Lying here analyzing everything isn’t going to help anything. I throw on an old terrycloth robe and the Scooby-Doo slippers I now have a love/hate relationship with. I turn the heat up and walk into the kitchen, and I start boiling water for a cup of tea. I don’t know what will happen when I wake up tomorrow. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified to go to sleep. I haven’t had much time to contemplate what’s happening to me—I was just trying to take it one hour at a time, one minute at a time. I was playing a part, but now I want to know why I was cast in this play. At first, when I bend over to get some tea out of one of the lower cabinets, I think it’s just dizziness or vertigo causing the room to swirl around me. But when I stand and steady myself, it doesn’t go away. I don’t have to think about what’s happening. This

life is chipping away, slowly, but it’s happening. I don’t know how much longer I have. It’s as if my body is punishing me for thinking too much. I try to claw the memories of yesterday out of my mind, and I’m met with more dizziness and the urge to lie down. I fill up a mug, dunking a bag of cinnamon spice into the steaming liquid. I walk over to the patio, and the falling snow outside mesmerizes me. The yellow streetlight glowing in a bulb right outside our patio is almost eerie, but I find it beautiful, quiet, serene. It illuminates the snow, and I find myself walking out onto the patio to be closer. The light shines brighter, and I’m suddenly drawn to it. I set my tea down on the banister. It’s freezing out, but I’m not cold. I look up and smile as the snow falls on my face. I stick out my tongue and twirl around—air this cold is so clean. It feels so good to be back in snow. I swear, most people are water, earth, or fire—but I’m snow. Down to my very bones, I am snow. The dizziness comes back, worse this time, and I grip the banister tightly so I don’t fall over. I grab the mug, and it no longer feels hot—I can’t feel boiling water. I can’t feel snow. This life is slipping away from me, one sense at a time. The first one to go is touch. I go back inside, latching the door behind me. What will happen to Sebastian when I go? To Emma? To our house? To the baby? I bring the mug up to my nose and

inhale. Nothing. My sense of smell is gone. That’s two. I set the mug down and make my way into the bedroom, fumbling around. Sebastian doesn’t stir, but I don’t want to miss any more of him while he’s still here. I take all of my clothes off and crawl into bed with him, but I can’t feel him, can’t smell him. He stirs, ever so slightly, and the rustle of the sheets doesn’t meet my ears. Hearing—gone. I whimper, but I can’t hear myself. I hold on to Sebastian, though I can’t feel him. I bite my tongue—I don’t taste blood. I don’t taste saliva. All senses but sight are gone. This might just be the strangest and most heartbreaking thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t close my eyes, for I want to prolong this for as long as I can—the sight of Sebastian’s back, the caramel color of his skin, the small mole in the center of his back. The tufts of brown hair curled at the base of his neck, the muscles of his shoulder, the sharp angle of his elbow. I can’t taste him, smell him, touch him, or hear him, but I study that back for what seems like hours. I’ve memorized it. And then, eventually, my sight slips away into nothingness.

Chapter Twelve YESTERDAY

I probably shouldn’t be teaching a class titled “Relaxation Flow,” since relaxed is the last thing I feel, but they needed a teacher last minute. Gwen is sick, which is code for hungover. I try to act nonchalant as the man from earlier this week sits front row center, watching my every move like a good, diligent student. I hate myself already when his smirk causes me to blush, and I’m grateful that the nighttime yoga class is dimly lit. “All right, when you’re in this position, you need to be sure your back is arched completely.” I’m on all fours, a compromising position, and I feel my body heat under his stare. Why am I having this reaction? “Like this?” he asks, watching me raptly. “Very good.” I look away, and too soon, class is over. I guide them through a quick sun salutation and then a tadasana. “Namaste,” I chant peacefully. “Namaste,” the guy says, directly to me. I quickly turn and walk towards the door. It’s a small class today, and I don’t want to be stuck with Mr. Flirt. “Hey, Marlin?” he calls, jogging over to me. “I’m Nate.”

“Hi, Nate.” I grab my purse from the locker by the door, not even bothering to slip on my sandals. “I was wondering, if you’re free, do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” I turn towards him, and he looks so hopeful. I’m sure he’ll be crestfallen when I decline. Just as I’m about to utter an apology, he continues. “I know you said you have a boyfriend,” he says cautiously. “It’s just a cup of coffee. That’s all. I promise.” I laugh. “Why? Why me?” “You’re interesting,” he says, shrugging. He looks down at his shoes and shoves his hands in his pockets. I remember Dr. Kostas’s words from yesterday. Do one thing every day that scares you. “Okay. One coffee. Thirty minutes. I can guarantee you won’t find me the least bit interesting afterwards.” He nods, and we leave the studio. I don’t glance back at Sia. I’m sure her eyebrows are as tall as mountains, and I’m sure she’ll want every detail tomorrow. Except there won’t be any juicy details. There can’t be. “What about Peet’s? It’s just down the street. I can drive you, and then I’ll take you back to your car.” I shrug. “Sure. Sounds good. Anything but Starbucks.” He laughs, though I’m not sure why. Everyone hates Starbucks now—being anti-Starbucks is not unique or trendy. I follow him to a generic-looking silver Honda.

He comes around and opens my door for me, and all of a sudden I’m worried about smelling like sweat. Teaching a flow class is harder than taking a flow class. There’s a reason yoga-teacher training is so intense— you have to do the poses perfectly, and you have to speak while you do them. This leads to a countless number of sweaty clothes, and when Nate closes the door and walks around to his side, a sneak a sniff under my arms. Thank god for deodorant. Besides, it doesn’t matter how I smell. We’re just two yogis getting coffee. “Lived here long?” Nate asks as he starts the car. I’m surprised to see him shift. You almost never see anyone driving manual around here. “Um, five years,” I say. “I grew up in Wyoming and went to San Diego State College. Then my boyfriend and I moved here. He grew up in Newport.” Nate lets out a low whistle. “Ah, Newport.” He looks at me, and his face gives everything away. He laughs, and so do I. Everyone knows the types of people who are “from Newport.” “No, but in all seriousness, Charlie is great.” I want to make that very clear. “I’m sure he is.” I change the subject. “What about you?” Nate hesitates, and he strokes his chin thoughtfully. I’m aware, by studying his profile, that he’s very

conventionally handsome. He looks like a young Ashton Kutcher, which I can appreciate. Ugh. I will not be appreciating anything tonight, Marlin. “I’ve lived here for three months. Company transfer,” he says, giving me a wink. I wonder what he does. “I lived in San Francisco for the last ten years. Grew up in Central California.” “I love San Francisco,” I say wistfully. I visited once with Charlie, and I fell in love with the hilly streets and all of the Japanese cherry trees. “You should go back. I always tell people they could live there for ten years and not see everything the city has to offer.” “I should go back,” I agree. Nate doesn’t say anything else on our short drive over to Peet’s Coffee. The whole way, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Am I cheating? Is this what it’s like to cheat? No, I don’t think so. Nate and I are acquaintances. Friends, even. When we pull up to the fake Spanish promenade, Nate parks and comes around to open my door. Do men open doors for friends? I’m not sure. I don’t have any male friends. Well, other than Stuart, but I’d hardly call him a friend. Especially not after the other night. We walk inside and both order decaf coffees with milk. Even though it’s dark, Nate suggests we sit outside. I’m glad I’m wearing a sweater. We chat for a few

minutes, and I’m surprised to find myself relaxing, little by little. My guard is down, and it feels nice to be connecting with another human being. I can’t remember the last time I had a meaningful conversation. “Do you want kids?” Nate asks, and though our questions have gotten more and more forward, this throws me off. Up until recently, I was sure I never wanted kids. But over the last few months, which, ironically, have been some of the worst months of my life, I’ve had that classic yearning to become a mother. “I think so,” I say carefully, looking down at the table. “And not for the usual narcissistic or obligatory reasons. I have this dream sometimes, where I have two kids running around, and the house is messy and my hair is greasy, and it seems like such chaos. But then I close my eyes, and I’m happy. I’m not saying having kids will make me happy automatically, but raising decent children has become a high priority for me. The world needs more decent people, so I think it’s a win-win.” “You don’t think the world has enough children?” Nate asks, and though his question could be insulting, I know he’s coming from a place of inquisitiveness. “Of course the world has enough children. Of course adoption should be considered whenever possible. In fact, I would love to adopt. But it’s not a good enough reason for me not to have children,” I finish, and I sip the last of my coffee. “Whoa, our conversation got pretty serious, pretty

fast,” Nate says, laughing and finishing his cup of coffee as well. “You’re easy to talk to, Marlin.” “Thanks. You are too.” I look up at him, and he’s watching me, his face a mix of confusion and awe. “I know this is forward, but would you want to come back to my apartment?” My head screams no. Of course that would be wrong. Charlie is expecting me; in fact, he’s probably wondering where I am right now. I will stay loyal. I have to. If I lose my fidelity, I lose everything. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, giving him a stern look. He’s teasing me, testing the water, wondering if I’ll be unfaithful. “Okay,” he says, his voice disappointed. “I understand. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” “Maybe we can stay friends,” I suggest, and he smiles. “I’d like that.” It’s raining again. We drive back to my car in awkward silence. When he pulls up next to it, he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he looks at his hand, which is placed on his steering wheel. I can tell he wants to say something. He opens his mouth and inhales, only to close it again. Finally, he faces me. “Look, I’m not going to mask my intentions here. I like you. I like you more than a friend. I know you’re happy with your boyfriend, but something about you is compelling. You fascinate me. I only wish you weren’t

already taken.” I blush at his words. In all of the seven years I’ve been dating Charlie, no guy has ever been that forward with me. A very small part of me wants to scream, I’m not happy! But I have integrity, and integrity means I will stay faithful, even if my body doesn’t want to. If nothing else, I’m flattered. “Thank you,” I say quietly as the rain pounds on the windshield. It’s disturbingly romantic, being in here with a handsome man, feeling things, knowing he thinks I’m beautiful. Knowing he’s different. Knowing he would cherish me, just like Henry from the bar. Just as I turn to say goodbye, he leans in. I have about two seconds to decide what to do. I can pull away and leave, or I can meet him halfway and kiss another man. I choose the latter. Our lips touch, and I immediately feel guilty. I know I’m only doing this because I’m curious about how it will feel, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. The fire in my belly starts to burn, and I pull away. I’m breathing heavily, and I look down, avoiding his gaze. His green eyes are so enrapturing. I can’t be swindled into repeating my offense. “We shouldn’t have done that,” I say, and then I exit the car. I get into my car, and the rain pelts my car from above. Once my door is closed, I look over at Nate. He’s watching me, his beautiful eyes sad, and then he

reverses. He’s gone. I’m left alone with my guilt. And it suffocates me. I get sick into a spare plastic bag I keep for sweaty yoga clothes. * I fidget with my hands, idling in front of our townhouse. I have to tell Charlie. I have to be honest. Healthy relationships are built on honesty. It’s still raining, and I can’t tell if Charlie is home or not. I slowly get out of my car, not caring if my hair gets wet from the downpour. If I thought I hit rock bottom yesterday, today I feel like I’m in the center of the earth. I can’t possibly feel any lower. I unlock the door, calling out for Charlie. He answers from the living room. Football and beer: I should’ve known. “Hi,” I say, my voice morose. He turns around. “Hey baby, what’s wrong?” I want him to hug me. I need human contact right now. I need to feel his warm skin against mine. But he stays put. He probably thinks I’m on my period or something. That’s always his first question. I don’t want to skirt around it. I need to tell him. “I kissed someone.” His body goes rigid, and a small thread of fear works its way into me, starting in my belly

and sliding down my legs. I can’t see his face right now —his back is to me—but I can tell what I just admitted did not please him from the stiffness of his back. “You kissed someone?” he hisses, standing and turning to me. I’m thankful that there’s a couch between us. “Explain.” He slams his beer down on the coffee table. I wonder how many he’s had. “A student. He’s been asking me out after every class, and today I decided to get coffee with him. Afterwards, he kissed me.” I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing else happened. I just wanted to let you know.” I turn and start to head up the stairs, but Charlie is by my side in half a second. He grips my upper arm and spins me back around. His face is red, and I wait for it. “I want to hit you so bad right now,” he growls. His face contorts, and then it softens. He lets my arm go, and I feel my lip trembling. The thing is, he’s never actually hit me. He threatens to sometimes, and every once in awhile, he’ll roughly grab me, but he’s never actually hit me. “I’d deserve it,” I whisper. “Yes, you would,” he agrees, glaring at me. He rubs his lips with his fat fingers, and I can’t help but start to cry. “I thought we had a deal.” I cry harder. “I know. We did—we do.” “Repeat it to me.” “You’ll pay for everything. You’ll give me a good life.”

“And?” “And… I just have to promise to stay faithful. I have to promise to stay with you.” “I would die without you,” he says, sighing heavily and looking at me. I feel the familiar sting of shame. He needs me. “I know.” “I give you everything, Marlin. And what do I get in return?” “I know. I’m sorry.” “Go take a bath. You stink,” he says, walking past me to the kitchen. I hover between wanting to cry and wanting to walk out the front door. I’ve considered it, much more this past week than any other. But he’s right. He’s the reason I don’t need a real job. He’s the reason I have nice things. He’s the reason I have even a miniscule speck of happiness. If I were alone, I’d be worse off. He’d be worse off. He’s made that very clear. I’m stuck, and I think that’s the most terrifying thought I’ve had all night. I take my clothes off and start to run the bath. I hear Charlie banging around, and every noise makes me flinch, because I know he’d rather be inflicting pain on me. The water fills quickly, and I watch it for a while before shutting it off. It’s too hot at first, but then my skin turns pink and I get used to it, like I do everything. I’m strong, right? I

stick it out because he needs me, and I think I need him. Besides, every once in a while, I’m reminded of why I fell in love with Charlie. Tonight is just an anomaly. I clean my body and put my head under the water to rinse my hair. When I emerge, I hear Charlie coming up the stairs. A flicker of fear passes over me, but then I shake it off. He would never hurt me. I’m being ridiculous. I pull my legs into my chest and brace myself. He slowly opens the door, and when he sees me, his face grimaces. “You betrayed me,” he says simply. He starts to pace. “I’ve honestly never wanted to hit you more than tonight.” “Then do it,” I say quietly. I stand, the water splashing all around me. I’m facing him, totally vulnerable, totally bare, totally stripped of any and all emotion. I feel nothing and everything all at once. “Sit the fuck back down, Marlin,” Charlie snarls. His eyes scan my body. “I can’t believe another man touched you. You’re tainted now. Tarnished. Ruined.” “You think I don’t know that?” I screech. “Hit me. Just do it, Charlie!” I feel the tears run down my face. My breathing is heavy and labored. He takes a step forward and pulls his hand back, readying himself. “I just want you to know how you’re making me feel,” he whispers, and then his hand flies forward, smacking me on the cheek. I cry out and stagger backwards, splashing water

onto the floor, clutching the place where his hand made contact with my skin. The tears come quicker now, and I see one of them drop into the pool of water in the bath. “You’re disgusting to me right now,” he says under his breath. His cruelty shocks me. This whole incident really sent him over the edge. “I’m going downstairs. I can’t look at you anymore, knowing another man’s lips were on yours. After everything I’ve done for you…” He leaves the bathroom, and I’m left standing, my hand on my cheek, my breathing tortured. Never mind what I said earlier—this is rock bottom. I sit down and sob into my knees. I feel restless. The pain is too much, and I need to do something about it. I need to feel numb. I need to feel nothing. I reach over to the small inlet where I store my razor, the one I use on my legs and armpits, and occasionally my wrists. How did I get here? I suppose it doesn’t matter. There’s only one way out. I finger the razor, and I feel overwhelming, unbearable, emotional pain. I’ve heard people say that when they end their lives, it’s methodical, numb, unfeeling, and systematic. No one commits suicide in the throes of emotional pain. I want to feel nothing, but I feel everything. I slide the razor up, fileting my flesh, vertical instead of horizontal. Blood spurts out, pulsing. My mind is racing, yet I slice methodically. It’s instantaneous relief. I draw another line. More blood.

The water around me starts to turn pink. And then red. I don’t care. I can feel everything draining out of me. My feelings, my blood, my life… I know I’m letting Dr. Kostas down, and that’s the only regret I have. I just want it all to end. The red swirls in the water, and it’s kind of beautiful. The room starts to spin. I drop the razor after four cuts on each wrist. I lower my arms into the hot water. It stings, but then I feel it—weightless, nothingness, relief. Instead of feeling the weight of the world, I feel free. The need to escape was almost overwhelming, and now, I am going. I start to see spots. The water gets darker. The room goes black. Nothing… Nothing… Nothing.

Part Two: Marlin

Chapter Thirteen PRESENT

Beep, beep, beep... I know in an instant that I am in a strange and unfamiliar place. The smells are alien, sanitary. The beeping is distinctive. The noise is frantic and erratic. Voices—that’s what I hear—hushed, urgent, worried voices. My mouth is gummy, my saliva sour. I can tell I’ve been asleep for a long time because of the way my eyes feel sealed together with sleep. Beep, beep, beep... The noises and smells become stronger with each passing second. I feel something stinging my forearm— an IV? The weight of a blanket presses me down into the bed. I can’t move my legs very well because the blanket is wrapped tightly around me. I move my left arm ever so slightly, and the hard mattress creaks. My body is sore, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been asleep for a long time or because something happened to make it sore. Beep, beep, beep... My heartbeat. It sounds slow, but then as I try to open my eyes, panic seizing my throat, it quickens. Where am I? Beepbeepbeepbeep...

The beeping must alert someone, because suddenly I feel a warm hand on my forehead. I know in an instant that the hand belongs to my mom. “Marlin,” she says quietly. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t panic.” Her words are calming, but I claw at the IV nonetheless, pulling away from her, from the beeping. It feels like someone is lying on top of me. She pushes me back down, using her velvety-soft hands on my arms, but not too hard. She pulls back instantly so as not to hurt me. Delicate. I’m delicate. I know that instantly. My god, what happened? “Where is…” I start, my brain too slow for my own liking. The wheels aren’t spinning fast enough. “Sebastian?” “What?” she asks, and then I feel another presence. I open my eyes slowly, and Charlie is watching us, a look of worry on his face. “Nothing,” I say. I look down at my wrists. Bandages are patched onto each wrist. I remember what happened. I know why I’m here. I close my eyes and sigh heavily. “Who is Sebastian?” Charlie asks, his voice higher than normal. “It was just a dream,” I say wistfully. I want him to leave. “Where’s Dad?” “He’s getting some coffee,” my mom answers, and she grabs my hand tenderly. “Honey, we are worried

about you.” “I tried to kill myself.” It’s not a question but rather a statement. She looks over her shoulder at Charlie, and then back at me, her eyes watery. She nods. “I didn’t succeed,” I say, my voice glum. At this, my mother starts to cry. I know I’m hurting her. She had no idea things were this bad—how could she? I hadn’t seen her in over a year. “I was so worried.” It’s Charlie’s voice now, and he bends over my mom and gives me a warm smile. “You have no idea how scared I was, finding you like that…” He trails off and looks away. “How long was I unconscious?” Pieces of Vermont, the cheese shop, Emma, the Jeep, our apartment, Sebastian… they begin to fill my mind, and I fight back tears when I realize they were all figments of my imagination. They were all some sort of dream. “A couple of days,” my mom answers, and she brushes my hair away from my face. “Your father and I came as soon as we heard.” I lean back against the bed and sigh, closing my eyes. I don’t want to deal with any of this. I don’t want to be here. The weight is back, sitting right on top of my shoulders. I think back to my day in Vermont, and it seems absurd that it was all a dream—somewhere, somehow, it must’ve been real. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about people who almost die and see heaven. Maybe Sebastian was my heaven.

“Knock knock,” my dad says, coming in and walking over to me. “I’m so glad you’re awake, baby girl. I was so worried. No dad ever wants to get a call like that.” He envelops me in a warm hug, and that’s when I lose it. I begin to cry, my tears getting his blue button-up shirt wet, and my dad pets the back of my head. “Shh, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” I feel my mother grab my hand, and I squeeze it tight. I never realized how much I missed my parents— how much I needed them. “We need to talk about the next steps,” my mother says softly, and she nods at my father. I know instantly what my next move will be. “I want to come home,” I cry, snot dripping out of my nose. My parents pull apart, first looking at each other and then back at Charlie. He nods, and then he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. I wince. “Catheter,” I say, and he hops up as if he were burnt. “Marlin, we can talk about this once everything settles down,” Charlie starts, taking my hand. I pull away. “No, I’ve made up my mind, and I want to go—” “Marlin Winters?” A female doctor sets my chart down on the table and walks over to me. “I’m Dr. Hale. How are you feeling?” “I’ve been better,” I say, not to be rude but just to be honest. She laughs dryly. “That’s to be expected.” She looks

around at Charlie and my parents, and they seem to understand, because they all file out, leaving me alone with her. “Marlin, we need to talk about what happened.” She eyes my wrists. “Are you a doctor doctor, or a psychiatrist?” “I’m the attending physician at this hospital. If you have a psychiatrist you’d like to call, please let me know. But first… can you tell me what happened?” I think of Dr. Kostas. I’m not sure if I want to call him. On the one hand, I really liked him, and I opened up to him in a way I’ve never opened up to anyone. On the other hand, I feel like I let him down. “Could you call Dr. Philip Kostas, please?” She nods, making a note, and I relax. “I don’t know what happened. Honestly, it was just a normal day. My boyfriend and I got into a fight. I was feeling… everything. I just wanted it all to end.” “So, something set you off?” “Yeah, I guess so.” She nods and writes something down on the clipboard. “Marlin, is your boyfriend abusive?” “What? No. Oh, god, that’s not what this was about.” “Okay. I just want to make sure.” “Yeah, Charlie isn’t the issue.” “What is the issue?” I think about my life here with Charlie, teaching yoga, scooping up the newest trendy purse with my “allowance” or redecorating the townhouse. I don’t

really have friends here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. And I think of Sebastian. “I’m just not fulfilled here. I don’t think I’ve ever been fulfilled here.” “You chart says you went through a pretty traumatic experience a few years ago. PTSD has many manifestations. I’m not going to suggest anything outright—Dr. Kostas can do that—but I think you should consider a treatment program. Inpatient or outpatient, it doesn’t matter. There are many programs out there aimed at decreasing suicidal ideation and behaviors. A mental health center that specializes in depression and/or suicidal ideation is one of the most effective types of intervention available.” “You’re not going to involuntarily hospitalize me? Lock me up?” I smile, but she just scowls. Her short blond hair is perfectly in place, and she’s showing off toned legs beneath her white coat. “I will let Dr. Kostas decide that.” I nod, and she stands up. “I’ll check in on you later.” “Dr. Hale?” I look down at my hands. “Is it possible to dream while unconscious?” I look up at her, and she gives me a tight smile. “You know, Freud believed that nothing we do occurs by chance. Every action and thought is motivated by our unconscious at some level. Technically, it’s not possible to dream while truly unconscious, but many people claim to have experienced it.”

“If it wasn’t a dream, then what was it?” She studies me for a second, clutching the clipboard to her chest. “Like a child, our unconscious acts on its urges and impulses. It does not follow logic or reason, but rather those innermost desires and basic urges that we all possess. It represents those wants and needs we didn’t even know we had while awake. In dreams, or whatever it is that you’re referring to, your subconscious is trying to show you how it perceives the world in this conceptual form. It shows you its fears and its desires—but not necessarily as you would expect to see them.” I nod. “I see.” “Many people have surprising dreams while hospitalized. Don’t look too much into it. Just get some rest. Okay?” “Okay.” After she leaves, Charlie wanders in. “Where are my parents?” He sits down on the bed (more carefully this time) without answering me. Finally, after a loud sigh, he speaks. “I don’t think you should go to Wyoming.” I look away, and my next sentence comes out through my clenched teeth. “Charlie, I slit my wrists two nights ago. I wanted to die. Do you understand that?” “Stop with the dramatics, Marlin. Let’s talk about this like adults.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, which doesn’t

really help to disprove his point. “Why don’t you want me to go? Because if I’m away from you, I’m out of your control?” “My control?” “Yeah. You manipulate me. You abuse me emotionally. I’ve known it all along. My unhappiness is a catalyst for your happiness.” He gawks at me. “That’s not true. I love you, Marlin.” He bends down and kisses me softly on the lips. “I think we should talk about what the next step entails.” “I’ve told you what I want. And what I want is to go to my parents’ house in Wyoming.” “What about our future?” He looks sincerely concerned now. “Charlie…” I start, sitting up straighter. I clear my throat. “Can you honestly say we’re happy together?” He looks shocked that I would even bring it up, but once he ruminates on it for a few seconds, he just shrugs. “We’re not unhappy.” “No. You’re not unhappy. I am. And when I go to Wyoming, I think we should take a break.” He stares at me, unsure if he heard me right. And then he gets up and begins to pace the room. “A break,” he repeats, stroking his chin. “You hit me,” I say matter-of-factly. In a matter of seconds, he lunges towards me. “You told me to hit you,” he hisses.

“Real men don’t hit women,” I answer, glaring at him. “Real men don’t guilt their girlfriends into staying with them.” Just then, my parents slowly shuffle in. I can tell by my mom’s pale face that they overheard the last part of our conversation. Good, I think. “I think it’d be best if you leave, son,” my dad says, his voice stern. He faces Charlie head on, and though he’s smaller than Charlie, I know he’d win in a fight between the two. I love my dad for that. I want to whimper with delight, but I keep my mouth in a tight line. I’ve never had the courage to say any of this to Charlie, and having my parents’ unspoken support means the world to me. A small weight is lifted off of my shoulders, and I know I’m taking a step in the right direction. I really should have done this years ago. “Goodbye, Charlie,” I say, and he looks between my dad and I. “I’ll send for my things.” Angrily, he balls his fists and storms out of the room, his heavy, shuffling steps echoing down the hall for what feels like minutes. God, I hate the sound of those fucking Birkenstocks. “Good thing I talked you out of signing the deed to the townhouse, eh?” My dad says, chuckling. I laugh. Co-owning a house with Charlie would complicate things, and I’m so relieved to be done, to be here, to be with my parents. “You’re always right, Dad,” I say, shaking my head.

“I had a hunch.” Both my parents come and sit on the bed with me. “You’re coming home with us,” my mom says, and I nod in agreement. I’m coming home.

Chapter Fourteen TWO months after

“Marlin, lunch is ready!” my mother yells, her voice carrying over my shoulder and startling me. I feel the meditation high slowly fading away at the unexpected interruption. I lift my hands slowly and stretch them above my head, taking a deep breath. “Okay, thanks,” I answer, standing. “Hurry on in. It’s getting cold.” Before going inside, I lean against the porch railing and study the view in front of me. It’s easy to meditate here. The farm is behind us, so looking out, there’s nothing but rolling green fields and blue skies. The nest in one of the porch alcoves provides the only soundtrack I need for my mornings here—chirping birds and the slow rustle of wind are the only therapy I need. I’ve forgotten how regenerating the spring here can be. I walk inside feeling happy and relaxed. “Mmm, this looks good,” I coo, drooling over the grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup. I don’t hesitate to dig right in. My father is out tending to the crops, so I know we won’t be saying grace. My stomach rumbles happily. Mom sits down across from me after plopping a glass of milk down in front of me. I don’t think she realizes I stopped drinking milk at meals

when I was ten. I take a large sip anyways, smiling and smacking my lips. “Oh, someone named Darcy Kavanagh called for you a few minutes ago,” she says casually, eating her soup slowly. “Awesome.” I bite into my gooey sandwich. “That’s a good sign.” My mother is quiet, and I know that’s her way of showing her disapproval. After a few minutes, she speaks. “You know that you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you need. Now that everything’s settled in San Clemente, you don’t have to be in any rush to leave.” “I know, Mom. Thank you for the offer. While I’d love to stay and get fat from your cooking, I’m really starting to feel better about everything.” “Okay. I get it. I just worry about you.” She studies me intently from across the table. But I know that I’m okay now. I can feel it when I’m alone at night, about to fall asleep. The demons stopped chasing me weeks ago. But I get it—she’s my mom. It’s her job to worry. “I’m on medication now. I’m fine. I promise.” I reach out and grab her hand, smiling reassuringly. The medicine Dr. Kostas put me on has done wonders. I was diagnosed with clinical depression, and I’m supposed to take a very small dose of Wellbutrin every day to stay leveled. It’s a small sacrifice for the sake of my life. Mom shifts in her seat, and I can tell she wants to say something. “Spit it out,” I say, laughing between bites of

sandwich. “Nothing, honey.” She reaches out and touches my arm, and then I see it. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, my only concern is… why Vermont? And why the retreat? Won’t it be triggering?” “What, helping others with mental illness? No. I think it’ll be very rewarding.” I look down at my brightred bowl of soup. “I don’t know why I chose Vermont. I dreamt about it a little when I was… you know… and I think it was a sign.” She nods and smiles. “Okay. If that’s what will make you happy, I think you should do it. You’ve always been very perceptive, so I trust you.” She gets up and walks over to the kitchen, and I join her, bringing my dishes over and placing them in the large farmhouse sink. She reaches for the sponge, but I intercept her. “Let me. You cooked. I’ll clean.” I wink and take the sponge from her, and she gives me an appreciative grin before leaving through the front door to check on the hens. I searched for Sebastian after I got out of the hospital. Actually, if I’m being honest, the minute I was alone in the hospital room with my phone, I tried to find him on Facebook, to no avail. There is no Sebastian Juares living in Brattleboro. There is no Sebastian Juares in all of Vermont. I’m not sure why I’m so sad about that. He was never real to begin with. He was a figment of my imagination, as Dr. Kostas said during

one of our sessions after my incident. The mind constructs fantasies, and he was merely my fantasy. After I finish the lunch dishes, I call Mrs. Kavanagh back. She picks up on the third ring. “Ah, Ms. Winters, so nice to finally chat with you on the phone.” Her Irish accent is startling at first, but I continue. “Thank you for the quick response. I appreciate it,” I say. I play with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I’m nervous for some odd reason. Perhaps it’s because this volunteer job is my ticket to Brattleboro. “Not a problem. I do have to ask, though… how did you hear about our facility?” I laugh. “Google.” It’s true. After I moved in with my parents, I’d researched job openings in Brattleboro, feeling mysteriously linked with that place. A volunteer position at Brattleboro retreat was one of the first results. I thought about it for weeks, and when I finally got the courage to apply, I was delighted to see that the advertisement was still active. “Ah, very well. So, we do have a volunteer position opening up next month. There is a three-month commitment, and the possibility to come on board fulltime in any capacity that you’re qualified for. I’m going to be honest with you… it’ll be tough. Some of the patients we have can be difficult. Do you think you’ll be able to handle that?” “Yes,” I say, nodding my head even though she

can’t see me. “That sounds fine. I work well under pressure.” “Lovely. The position starts on May 10, and I’ll send you some information in an email—procedures, protocols… that kind of thing.” “Great!” I shout, a little too loudly. I clamp my hand over my mouth. “That sounds great.” “Do you have any questions for me?” she asks, and I know I should have something prepared, but I can’t think of anything. “Not at the moment.” “Very well, then. Welcome on board, Marlin.” We exchange pleasantries, and then we hang up. I hop up and down in excitement, which I guess could be construed as odd, since I’ll be volunteering for free at a psychiatric hospital. But the need to help others, especially those with mental illness, has become a calling of sorts for me. I’d like to help out in an area that I’m familiar with. I log onto Facebook and scroll through my feed. I’m surprised to see pictures of Charlie with another woman. Well, that was fast. When I look closer, I realize its Elizabeth Pierce, the woman he was married to in my dream. She’s real, and according to her profile, she just got back from three years of volunteering in Africa. They look happy, and though I know it should bother me, instead I know now that I deserve better. I

must’ve seen her picture somewhere in Charlie’s Facebook, and my mind put two and two together. That’s the only explanation. My dream wasn’t real. I flip onto my stomach and put my headphones in, blasting a Florence and the Machine song and closing my eyes. To get a dream of life again A little vision of the start and the end But all the choirs in my head sang, no oh oh oh Music is another one of my therapeutically charged routines, and one of Dr. Kostas’s suggestions before I left was to listen to music for an hour every day. Furthermore, I’ve been playing piano every day, which feels incredible after not playing for so long. The lyrics resonate with me, and the beat pumps through my veins. Before I doze off (mom’s lunches always make me sleepy) I roll over and think about how proud I am of taking a stand and moving away from San Clemente. I’m starting to learn about how the smallest decisions and choices can affect the paths of our lives. What may seem insignificant can deeply impact our future—choosing a college, accepting a job in another state, delaying your path by just a few seconds so you never meet your lover… or maybe delaying it a few seconds and meeting someone entirely new. Everything is affected by every decision you ever make. It’s daunting, but you just have to pray that the right path aligns with the path you’re on.

It was never the decision to go to a different college that forged my path and led me to unhappiness, but instead, small, seemingly insignificant choices along the way that contributed to me not feeling content. I know life is going to be good from now on—I feel it. Even though Sebastian doesn’t really exist, even though that life wasn’t real, I still carry the happiness of that day around everywhere I go. I know that one day, I’ll have that with someone. I just have to find a way there.

Chapter Fifteen THREE months after

I pull up to Brattleboro Retreat early—so early that the fog still clings to the air in thick, misty droplets, and it still hurts to take a full breath. Once I see the magnificent building, I know that I’m in the right place. I park and caress the tender skin on my forearm, where last night I had a guy named Derrik at Faithful Few Tattoo and Body Piercing permanently write the word fate across my scar. The inky letters are supposed to be a daily reminder that fate brought me here, and right now, sitting in front of this building, everything comes together in a culmination of fate, destiny, choices, decisions, and outcomes. All of it led me here, idling in front of Brattleboro Retreat, ready to start my new life. I step out of my car and smooth my dress out. I love this dress—it’s my good-luck charm. The 1970s pattern is kind of crazy, but I think it suits me. I take a deep breath and walk down the long path to the majestic front steps, passing under an arched sign that reads Brattleboro Retreat. The trees and surroundings are so green this time of year, and as the fog starts to burn off, I can tell it’s going to be a beautiful day. I don’t really know what to expect from this place, but the lobby itself is a surprise. It’s green, blue, yellow,

and funky. Swirly, wavy patterns line the floors and walls, and for a second, I forget that I’m in a psychiatric hospital. “Can I help you?” A young, blond receptionist greets me. Her nametag says Cecelia. “Hi,” I say, reaching my hand out for a handshake. “I’m here to volunteer. I’m supposed to meet with Darcy Kavanagh.” “Ahh,” Cecelia says, nodding. “So you’re the new volunteer. Darcy is busy with her rounds right now, but her daughter is here somewhere. I’ll have Emma show you the ropes.” The name Emma surprises me, but I brush it off. There’s no way… it’s not possible. None of them exist. I nod and sit down. Cecelia calls Emma, whispering, and a few minutes later, the Emma comes walking into the lobby like she owns the place. My breath gets caught in my throat. I suddenly put everything together, and though it’s impossible to know how my brain knew this, this job must be the job she left to work at the shop in my dream. I remember she mentioned that she used to work with her mom. “Hi!” she says, her voice and demeanor perky. “I’m Emma.” I want to say, “I know,” but I don’t. Instead, I smile and bite my tongue. I feel like I’m about to cry. It’s Emma! She’s real! “Hi, I’m Marlin.”

“You’re going to be shadowing my mother today, but right now she’s busy with patients. She should be done in a couple of hours, but until then, you can shadow me and help out.” I nod, keeping quiet, and she continues. We walk down a bright hallway. “We’re so glad that you’re here. We’re pretty thinly stretched around here thanks to all of the budget cuts, not to mention all of the overwhelmed public hospitals.” “Oh, sure, it’s no problem,” I say, my voice strained. I study Emma as inconspicuously as I can, and I notice a thin wedding band on her ring finger. “Are you married?” I ask in my girliest voice, indicating to her ring. “Yep,” she gushes. “Two wonderful years. My husband is in construction.” I nod, and then I realize a normal person would answer her. “That’s cool.” But I want to grab her by the shoulders and ask her if she knows Sebastian. Now, more than ever, I believe he has to be real. He has to be, right? I did all kinds of searches—Sebastian Juares simply does not exist. But Emma does, and presumably Jeb. That has to mean something. “Are you in a relationship?” Emma asks, leading me into what looks like an employee lounge room. “No. I just got out of a seven-year relationship.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma says, her voice sympathetic. She looks exactly the same—red hair, fiery disposition. I

only “met” her the one time at the cheese shop, but I longed for her friendship over the last three months. I can’t believe she’s here. “I’m fine,” I say, smiling. “It was very much for the better,” I assure her. She just smiles and nods. “Well, in any case, there’s not a whole lot of time to think about boys here.” She giggles, and I want to hug her. “That’s okay. I need to work on myself for a while.” I don’t elaborate. She hands me a neon vest, a trash bag, and a contraption that looks oddly like a long probe. “I’m afraid this morning calls for tidying the grounds. Isn’t my life glamorous?” She laughs, and we both put on our vests. As we walk back outside, our conversation becomes amiable and lighthearted. Before long, we make plans to meet for coffee this week. I agree and tell her that my small apartment is close to downtown Brattleboro. I stop trying to question how she’s real, and instead, I focus on the fact that we get along so well in real life. Deciphering my dream won’t do any good— who knows how the brain works? I could drive myself crazy, or I could just accept the fact that Emma is real and I should be grateful that I found her. The morning is over before I know it, and once we’re back inside, I meet Darcy. She’s just as fiery as Emma, and she dismisses me for the day. She tells me to

come back tomorrow, and we’ll figure out a schedule then. I thank them both, and I’m sure to give Emma my number so that we can hang out. When I walk outside, instead of going straight to my car, I walk down the long driveway, past the parking lot, and to the embankment I saw earlier with Emma while we were picking up trash. I think I saw a path leading down to the water, and I’m in the mood for discovering new things. My Doc Martin boots are sturdy, so I don’t even flinch at the mud. Just as I suspected, the path leads to a small overlook with a rock. I think this is the West River— Vermont geography is still very new to me. I sit down and sigh, because today was a good day. I felt like myself again. A few minutes later, as I’m about to get up and leave, I hear leaves crunch behind me. I wonder if someone else knows about this spot. I hear the person begin to leave, as if they’re embarrassed about imposing their company on me. I wonder for a second if it’s Emma. “I don’t bite,” I say jokingly, but it comes off as harsh. I turn, and the sun is rising over the buildings, so I have to shield my eyes. The first thing I see is a wheelchair. A man. A man with long hair. A man with a beard. Sebastian?

Sebastian. Sebastian. I’m frozen, and I know he knows that I recognize him, because his facial expression goes from annoyed to unsure. I feel like crying, screaming, and running, all at the same time. A million thoughts pass through my mind, like: How is this even possible? Does he know who I am? Does he recognize me? “Is it really you?” I whisper. I’m surprised at how quiet my voice is. I’m not sure if he hears me. He watches me skeptically. In an instant, I stand and walk over to him, but he pulls away. He rapidly starts to spin his wheel, but it’s stuck on a rock. I have to help him. I walk closer. He has two casts—one on each leg. “Sebastian, how did—” “Stop.” He holds a hand out so that I don’t come any closer. Hearing his voice, even just one word, is enough to make me believe in miracles. “Just… leave me alone. I don’t know how you know my name, but it’s obviously a mistake.” My heart breaks into a million little pieces. Before either of us can say anything more, he frees himself and wheels away quickly, leaving me there, wrecked and broken and confused. After a few minutes of standing still in shock, I bolt into action, running in the direction of his wheelchair marks. I see him ahead, almost at the ramp leading up to

the lobby, and I run harder, faster. It’s him—it’s undeniably him. He turns and looks at me, and it stops me dead in my tracks. It’s a cruel stare. A cold stare. A get-the-fuckaway-from-me kind of stare. I want to run after him. I want to see what he remembers, and most of all… why he’s going back into the building. I eye him just as he turns and wheels himself up the ramp and into the lobby, and everything clicks into place. Sebastian is a patient here.

Chapter Sixteen PRESENT

The next day, I’m still frazzled from my encounter with Sebastian. He was so… different. He looked so forlorn and damaged. He looked like me three months ago. And why were both of his legs broken? I’m wearing a mustard-yellow sweater and black skinny jeans, with brown combat boots. Cecelia complements my outfit twice. I get a weird vibe from her. Darcy greets me, and today she’s going to let me shadow her as she checks in on all of her patients. Normally, volunteers do all of the boring dirty work, but she’s taken a liking to me, and she thinks I’ll do well interacting with the patients. I think I’d make a good nurse. I need to remember to keep that in mind for the future. I follow Darcy down the hall, and by the time we get to room seven, I’m wringing my hands together. Darcy knocks twice in quick succession, and once we’re inside, I see a young woman with stringy auburn hair. She’s curled up in bed. Darcy walks over to her. “Lily, this is Marlin, my new helper.” I see Lily eye me skeptically. “She’s going to be helping me most days.” Lily slowly sits up and reaches out to shake my hand.

“You’re probably wondering what’s wrong with me,” she says, her voice blunt and much higher than I expected. “Oh,” I say, startled. I look over at Darcy, who is opening the blinds and seems not to care. “No, I was just —” “I’m kidding. But really, I’m an alcoholic.” She mimics a drinking gesture, and then she laughs. “Withdrawals are a bitch.” I nod. I’m so under qualified for this—these people have real problems. I should be volunteering to pick up trash and answer boring emails. I might say the wrong thing. Is there a wrong thing to say to someone like Lily? “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?” “You can smuggle me a handle of vodka,” she suggests, and her laugh tells me just how young she is. She can’t be older than thirty. Darcy clucks disapprovingly. “No vodka for you.” She swats Lily’s hand gently and then pulls me behind her as we leave the room. I look over my shoulder at Lily, and she’s already curled up under the covers. Darcy closes the door. “This is Lily’s third stint here.” I bob my head in understanding. “Next up: Mr. Kringle.” I can’t help but laugh. “Kringle?” “Yep. Adult Onset Schizophrenia.” She leads us to

room eight, and I hear banging inside. She looks at me and then gestures to the next door. “We should come back later. Mr. Kringle can get fussy in the morning.” “I see.” I can’t help but smile, because Darcy seems to know her patients well and expresses fondness for all of them. “Room nine: home to my favorite patient. But don’t tell anyone I said that. Mr. Rivera. He’s moody, so don’t take offense. Suicidal ideation and clinical depression.” Before I have a chance to respond, she throws the door open. “Wakey, wakey, Sebastian. I have a new friend for you to meet.” Sebastian? Sebastian is being treated for suicidal tendencies and clinical depression? His last name is Rivera, hence why I couldn’t find him in any of my searches. Sebastian Rivera is Sebastian Juares. The room is dark, and as Darcy throws the curtains open, I see him move underneath the covers. I feel like we’re invading his privacy, and I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to see first thing in the morning. Once the light floods the room, I realize his back is to us. “Sebastian, don’t be rude. Turn around and introduce yourself to Marlin, my new helper.” He stirs, and when he turns over, I am again floored with emotion. The recognition is still there, but it’s been replaced with confusion. “Hello, Marlin,” he says, his voice gruff. He gives

Darcy a curt smile, obeying her orders like a good little student. “Hi.” I wave meekly, and then I look down at my boots. I know my cheeks are bright red. He flips the covers off of the bed, and holy moly, he’s shirtless. His body looks exactly the same as I remember, except his hair and beard are longer, and his eyes are more vacant. “Marlin is the new volunteer at the retreat. She joins us from Wyoming, by way of California. Isn’t that right, Marlin?” I nod. “Have you ever been to California?” I hate how condescending my tone is, and he must realize it too, because he doesn’t answer. Darcy walks over to help and helps him into his wheelchair in one swift motion. He wheels into the bathroom without saying anything else. I look at Darcy, startled. “Did I say the wrong thing?” She just chuckles. “No, dear. Like I said, the man is quite moody.” I swallow, and then I follow her out of the room, and we backtrack to Mr. Kringle. All I want to do is go back to room nine. * An hour later, after we’re done with morning

rounds, I follow Darcy around the office, helping with various tasks. First, I answer a few emails. Next, I man the phones while Cecelia takes her lunch. Around one in the afternoon, Darcy excuses me. As I’m packing up, she studies me thoughtfully, folding generic white towels that are fresh from the dryer. “I think tomorrow I will assign a patient to you. Do you think you could handle Mr. Rivera by himself? Don’t mind his temper and sour mood. He’ll warm up to you eventually.” I choke. “Alone? Am I qualified? Don’t I have to be a nurse?” She laughs. “For some things. I’ll administer his medication, but he needs a bit of help with his clothes, and as you know, his wheelchair. Sometimes he needs help bathing.” I gulp at that thought. Helping him bathe? “Um, sure.” I slowly pack everything up into my purse. “Darcy?” She spins around, and I try to think of how to phrase my question without causing offense. “What happened to him? Why are his legs broken?” She tsk-tsks, something she does often, and she puts her hands on her hips and makes a cross with her fingers, muttering something under her breath. She’s already done this a few times throughout the day, and I have to wonder if she’s Catholic. “He jumped off a bridge. Tried to commit suicide. Broke both legs,” she finishes, clucking again. I can tell

this bothers her. She takes his accident personally. I can see it in her face. I have a feeling this isn’t Sebastian’s first time here. I swallow the spit that’s been pooling in my mouth. “When?” “Three months ago.” Three months ago. I nod. “That’s intense.” I throw my purse over my shoulder. “Have a good day, sweetie,” she says, smiling. “Thank you for all of your help.” “No problem.” I begin to walk into the lobby, but something stops me. “Why do you want me to work with Mr. Rivera?” She looks at me and then over my shoulder. I know in that moment that she must really like me if she’s entrusting me with her favorite patient. “He’s a painter, did you know that? I’ve been badgering him to paint something every day for the last three months.” She looks back at me. “Today he painted something,” she says quietly. “I have to assume it had something to do with you.” I freeze in place, and I let her words sink in. Doubt creeps up into my mind, black and inky. “It’s probably just a coincidence.” Darcy stares at me while she folds. “I don’t think so. One look at that painting, and baby, that was all you.”

Chapter Seventeen PRESENT

I clutch my tan cardigan tightly against my body as I walk into the building. Vermont is experiencing an unusually cold spring day today, and I’m still not used to living in a place with seasons—aka carrying outerwear whenever there’s a chance for unpredictable weather. Cecelia greets me, ushering a polite hello. I get the feeling she doesn’t like having me around. I say hello back before I walk down the hall and into the employee lounge. I see Emma texting on the couch, and I plop down next to her, though I have to remind myself that we’re not best friends yet. I don’t want to come off as too clingy. “Morning,” I chirp, sipping the coffee in my to-go mug. I tried switching to tea, but it just didn’t do the trick. “You’re awfully chipper for seven thirty,” she groans, taking a big gulp of coffee. “Not a morning person?” “Not really. Dealing with crazy people all day doesn’t help.” Darcy walks over—I didn’t see her behind the door of the refrigerator—and she smacks Emma on the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper. “Ow, Mom!”

“Don’t say crazy.” I stifle a laugh, and Darcy hands me a manila folder. “Marlin, here is Mr. Rivera’s chart. All you have to do is note any personality changes, aside from the normal moodiness, open the blinds, and help him however necessary. You may have to help him into the wheelchair.” I nod. “Okay.” I take the folder, clutching it like I would clutch a million dollars. Everything about Sebastian is in here, and though it’s against protocol, I really want to read it. “Sebastian is the woooorst,” Emma grunts. “He yelled at me the other day because I was too loud putting away his clothes. Chauvinistic asshole.” I look away, because on the one hand, I want to fervently defend him, but on the other hand, I would be the crazy one if I did that. “Sebastian is having a hard time,” Darcy pipes up. “Give him a break.” “Poor little rich boy,” Emma retorts. “He’s rich?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent. Emma blows out a loud breath of air and whistles. “Room nine is the suite of this place. Three grand a month, not including food and private care, both of which his parents pay additional money for.” “Emma,” Darcy warns, smacking her again with the newspaper. “Enough.” I had no idea about his parents, but then again, I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know about him.

“I’ll see you guys later,” I say, letting myself out of the room. I walk down the hall, passing Lily’s room, Mr. Kringle’s room, and finally stopping in front of Sebastian’s room. My heart is racing, causing me to sweat slightly. I knock three times, gently, and silence greets me on the other side. I open the door anyways. The room is dark, just like yesterday, and I hear Sebastian shifting in his bed. I set his chart on the dresser and walk over to the window. I never noticed before, but his room is quite bigger than the others, and nicer in a lot of ways. For instance, his window overlooks the river, and he has a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. I pull the curtains back, letting the light from the grey morning in. I crack the window open. It’s a bit stuffy in here. “Good morning,” I say, my voice proper. He doesn’t answer, but as I slide the curtains to either side, I hear him sit up. “How did you sleep?” I turn around, and he’s watching me raptly. There is pure hatred in his stare, and I feel goose bumps erupt on my skin. “Darcy is just fetching your medicine. I’ll bring your breakfast shortly. Do you need help into your chair?” I try to avoid looking anywhere but his face, but I can’t help it. He’s shirtless, again, and his shaggy hair is unkempt. He needs a haircut and a proper shave, desperately. Even still, he takes my breath away. I let my

eyes run down his chest and then back up to his face. I want to reach out and stroke his jaw, nibble his earlobe, eat Wendy’s together… “Do you like the color of baby poop or something?” he asks, his voice hard. “Excuse me?” I look down at my cardigan—sure enough, it’s light brown, and now that he mentioned it, I guess it does faintly resemble baby poop. “First, the dress with all of the poopy colors. Then yesterday, with the brown sweater—” “It was mustard yellow,” I retort defensively. He continues. “And then today, this…” He gestures to the air around me, making a circle. “You resemble baby poop.” I cross my arms, slightly affronted. “At least I don’t have the whole Unabomber thing going on,” I say, mimicking his gesture and making a circle around his head from where I stand. “Do you insult all of your patients?” he asks, no hint of a smile on his face. “Do you insult all of the workers?” I snap. “I really don’t like you,” he chides matter-of-factly. “I really don’t like you either, so we’re even.” “How about we just don’t talk?” he suggests. I nod vehemently. “I think that’s a fantastic plan.” “Good.” “Great.” I realize I’m breathing heavily from our arguing,

so I take a deep breath and uncross my arms. I’m about to say something snarky when he interrupts me. “Can you leave now?” he asks, annoyed. I push aside every memory I have of him and stare at the man before me, placing my hands on my hips. He is pissing me the hell off, and quite frankly, it’s hard to imagine the dreamy guy I’d seen in my dreams is the same man before me. This man right here in front of me is a pain in my ass. Right now, all I want to do is punch him in the nuts. I throw my hands up in the air in surrender. “I’m gone,” I hiss, and then I turn on my heel and leave. “You need to help me into my chair,” he calls out after me, and I stop mid-step. I slowly rotate on my heel and walk back inside. Damn. I really wanted to make a dramatic exit. “Fine,” I say, exasperated, even though I know he can do it himself. “I have no idea why Darcy thought us working together would be a good idea,” I say, walking over to him. I place my arm underneath his, lifting him slightly, or as much as I can. He doesn’t budge. “I’ll just do it myself,” he answers, and I squeeze my lips together. “Very well.” I look around the room one more time before I leave. I swallow and take a deep breath. Fighting with him won’t get either of us anywhere. I shouldn’t let his sulkiness get to me. I need to be the bigger person.

“Darcy said you painted something yesterday. Can I see it?” I’ve been restlessly curious about that painting since yesterday. One look at that painting, and baby, that was all you. He looks up at me, his eyes wide in shock. And then anger. Again, he doesn’t grace me with an answer. Instead, he lurches forward and slides into his chair with ease. Then he rolls himself into the bathroom. “When you bring my breakfast, I’ll need help changing into my clothes.” He slams the door shut, and I’m left gripping the edge of his bed tightly. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, and I want to find that painting and destroy it, like he’s destroying my heart right now. Chauvinistic asshole is right. * My hands are shaking when I bring his tray of food into his room. Darcy informed me that she’s already given him his medication, and I’m to stay until he finishes most of his breakfast. Apparently, the medicine only works with food. I wonder if the medicine turns him into a dickhole, too. The door is slightly ajar when I walk in. He’s drying off his hair with a towel. I stop, unsure if I should approach him or hold back by the door. “I don’t bite,” he says, and it takes me a second to

realize he’s mimicking my words from two days ago. “Note to self: showering gives you a sense of humor.” He whips around and glares at me. “Note to self: my new nurse thinks she’s funny, but who is she kidding?” He turns back around, his back to me, and continues to dry his hair. It’s for the best, because I’m the color of a beet right now. “I’m not a nurse. I’m a volunteer.” I feel my lip quiver, and I bite it. I set his tray down on his bed, a little too hard. His apple juice slops over the side, but I don’t care. If he were nicer, I’d wipe it up for him. He’s not an invalid. He can wipe the juice up himself. “Have a good day,” I say, standing straight and upright. I can’t let him know that he’s getting to me. He doesn’t answer, so I turn around and walk out the door. “Did you bump your head sometime in the last twenty minutes? You have to help me into my clothes,” he yells. I groan, and I don’t even try to hide it. I plaster on a smile and walk back in. “Of course. How could I forget?” My voice is saccharinely sweet—mockingly sweet. I hope he notices. He’s facing me now, and he just rolls his eyes. I try not to get distracted by the single droplet of water running from the tip of his hair and onto his chest. I walk over to him, and he smells good for someone with such an acrid attitude.

“Here,” I say, grabbing a shirt from the drawer. He doesn’t need help with that; he throws it over his head and then nudges his neck to his bare legs. He’s only wearing boxers. “Shorts are in the drawer. I can’t wear pants with the cast.” He looks just as uncomfortable as I feel. I grab a pair of dark jean shorts. “Not those,” he growls. I hide my irritation and grab a pair of tan corduroy shorts. “Not those either,” he says, and when I look up, he’s smiling—SMILING!—and watching me with glee. What a fucking tool. I slam the pants on the ground and stand. “If you’re going to be picky, you can dress yourself. I know you’re just trying to humiliate me, but I’m tougher than I look.” “Oh really?” he says, still smiling. He’s stroking his jaw and looking at me carefully. “Because you’re bright red.” I sigh and close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose in the process. “Do you not want my help? Because I can go.” “Then by all means, go!” He waves his arms and gestures for me to leave. In one big harrumph, I stomp out of the room with my hands on my hips. I want to punch something, most likely his face, and I don’t care if he’s depressed or moody or suicidal. He’s a jerk, and he knows exactly how to push my buttons. All I tried to do was help. If he doesn’t want my help, then fine.

I walk into the employee lounge, and Emma is heating something up in the microwave. I plop on the couch and sigh loudly. “What’s wrong?” she asks, coming to sit next to me a minute later. She’s eating what looks to be a delicious breakfast burrito. My stomach grumbles. I wish I’d had more than some granola and a banana for breakfast. I’m still fuming, so I only give her one word. “Sebastian.” She nods, chewing slowly. “Ahh, I see. Say no more,” she says between bites. I wrap my arms around my chest. “Is he so unhappy that he has to insult and humiliate me at every chance?” “I suppose so.” “Was he always like this?” My voice is pleading, and Emma gives me a funny look. I have to know. Is the old Sebastian in there somewhere, hidden underneath the monster? “Well,” she says, finishing her burrito and wiping her hands on her jeans. I can’t help but smile. She’s such a slob. “In high school, he was always the weird kid.” My eyes go wide. “You guys went to high school together?” She nods. “Yeah. He was a year ahead of me, but we were friends. Freaks and geeks,” she adds, laughing. I see a sad smile begin to appear on her lips. “The first couple of years of college were good for him. He went to Williams College in Massachusetts. Anyways, he

studied abroad in Florence his junior year, and I think he got homesick. His classmates eventually had an intervention, and they sent him home. He never went back to college. It went downhill from there, and we sort of lost touch after that.” I look down at my hands solemnly. Not only did we never meet, but both of our lives are worse off because of it. If we’d found each other sooner, things might be different now. So, so different. I place my hand on my stomach, remembering what it felt like to be pregnant, remembering Sebastian’s smile, remembering how happy our life felt. “That’s too bad,” I say, looking up at Emma. “Yeah. But it doesn’t excuse his behavior. We have plenty of depressed people roaming around these halls, and they’re all perfectly agreeable.” “Like me,” I mutter. It slips out, but the instant I say it, I don’t regret it. It’s now or never, and I have a feeling it’ll come up eventually. She studies me in surprise. “Depression? Huh. I never would’ve guessed. You’re the perfect example of an agreeable depressed person,” she laughs. “It’s true. I am lovely. But three months ago, I was a wreck.” “What’s your story?” Emma asks, reaching down to the coffee table for her mug. I sigh and wring my hands together. As I begin to

tell my story, she nods ardently, like she’s already invested in my story. When I finish, she’s staring at me in awe. “Three months ago? You’ve got your shit together, woman. But seriously, are you okay? Do you need me to reserve a room for you here?” I burst out laughing. “I’m okay now. Honestly, I think it was a mix of my situation and not being on medication. I feel normal now—even-keeled, balanced. Happy, even.” “I have a question,” Emma says slowly. “Why Brattleboro?” Oy. This is a question I dreaded. I just shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I dreamt about Vermont when I was in the hospital,” I add, not giving away too many details, “and I feel like it was a sign.” I shrug again. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed to admit the truth. Maybe because it might make me sound like a lunatic. Emma nods and smiles. “I like you. You’ve been through hell and back, and yet you’re so… hopeful. You’re optimistic.” “I have to be,” I say timidly. “I never used to be. But what do we have if we don’t have hope?” “Try telling Sebastian that,” she says, standing. “I don’t think the guy’s felt an ounce of hope in a really long time.”

Chapter Eighteen PRESENT After my first week is over, I feel like I’ve learned a few things about life as a volunteer. First, it doesn’t matter how I treat Sebastian… he will inevitably bark orders at me and try to intimidate me in any way that he can. I think it’s some sort of defense mechanism; I think he’s attempting to push me away. Though I try to remain calm and professional, on an occasion or two, I’ve hidden in a bathroom stall and cried. Secondly, Emma and Darcy are angels for dealing with the crazy shit that goes on at Brattleboro Retreat on a daily basis: food being flung, new patients arriving every day, angry outbursts, MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder—I’m looking at you, David/Hubert) and general malaise of the rest of the staff (Cecelia is the laziest person I know). Emma can be snarky, but I can tell that she genuinely cares for her patients, just like her mother. Thirdly, there are three distinct cliques here, which is both hilarious and sad. The first group is the popular girls. This includes Lily (addiction), Dana (anorexia nervosa), and Dina (bulimia nervosa), and Angela (addiction). The second group is the schizophrenics,

which includes Mr. Kringle and two other middle-aged men, both of which I’ve never met. They prefer to stick together, and they’re all very sweet and nice. The third group is the outcasts. You could say Sebastian is a part of this group, but he generally prefers to be alone and sticks to himself. There are a couple of other people with chronic depression or anxiety, and one woman around my age with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My days are certainly interesting but very fulfilling. After I leave on Friday afternoon, I drive back to my downtown studio. I already love it here, and even though aspects of the retreat are tough (Sebastian), I am finally starting to find my groove. I change out of my work clothes and into some running clothes. I haven’t practiced yoga since the day of the incident, but I do run and meditate daily. Today I’m jogging over to the local coffee shop to see if I can acquire a paying job. The bills have to be paid somehow. I start out slow, dodging the people I encounter on the sidewalk. After the first light, I pick up the pace, breathing in the warm air and trying to keep my smile in check. My ponytail swishes behind me, and I’m starting to feel strong and lean from my daily runs. Downtown Brattleboro (if it could even be considered “downtown”) is the epitome of quaint, and I feel lucky to live here. Awnings, vintage stores, coffee shops, record shops, and co-ops line the street, as well as

the guy selling homemade raw honey. It’s very primal here, in a farmhouse, homestead kind of way, and the complete opposite of San Clemente. Everyone here makes his or her own jam, and it seems like everyone is an artisan of some kind. I’ve never seen so many blownglass shops in my life. A few blocks later, I’m ducking under the quaint blue awning of Mocha Jean’s Coffee. A few people are scattered around tables, but for the most part, it’s empty for two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. “How can I help you?” A man behind the counter asks. He’s older, and he reminds me of Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer—wise and witty, with a spectacular pair of round glasses. “Hi,” I say, sidling up to the counter. “Are you hiring, by any chance?” He gives me a sly smile and starts to stroke his chin. His face is weathered, though I’d guess he’s no older than fifty. His hair, which is mostly hidden beneath a pageboy cap, is tinged with silver. “It depends. Who’s asking?” He winks. I raise my hand, and he nods. “Can you fill out an application?” “Of course. I just moved here, and I’m volunteering at the Brattleboro Retreat in the mornings.” “Fantastic,” he says slowly, reaching down into the cubby below the cash register. He hands me a slip of paper and a pen. “Thanks.” I take the application to a nearby table

and fill it out. When I hand it back, his eyes scan my answers. “Okay. You’re hired. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t crazy.” That’s debatable, I think. “Wow, finding a job is so much easier than I thought it would be.” He laughs. “Can you come in for training tomorrow morning at eight?” “Sure! I’m only at the retreat during the week.” “Great. I’ve been looking for someone to help around here. My wife works most days—she runs a tight ship, and she’s been insanely picky about hired help. But I’m putting my foot down now,” he jokes. I chuckle. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.” I start to walk away. “I’m Dave, by the way.” He reaches his hand out, and I walk back to shake his hand. “Marlin.” “Were your parents Marlins fans? Go Miami!” I laugh. “No. My dad is big into fishing, and I guess they thought it would be cool to name me after his favorite fish.” Dave nods and chuckles. “Parents.” As I walk out, I have a new spring in my step. I jog back to my apartment and call my mom, filling her in on everything. I leave the details of Sebastian out. Nothing will bring me down today—not even the grumpy man in room nine that I might’ve loved in another life.

* Monday morning comes too soon, and I’m slow to arrive at the retreat and even slower making my way to Sebastian’s room. Dread would be the right word. I open the door slowly, setting his breakfast tray on his dresser before moving to open the curtains. I’ve started bringing his breakfast first thing. It minimizes the contact I have to have with him. I hear him stir as I throw the heavy shades open. “Morning,” I say, my voice curt. I look down at my outfit. Maroon tank top, black cardigan, light-colored jeans, and black flats. No one will be resembling baby poop today. “I brought you some breakfast, and Darcy will be in shortly with your medication.” He sits up in bed and moves his legs slowly over the side of the bed, using both hands to lift the heavy casts. I imagine they’re pretty heavy. I walk over and slip my arm under his arm, helping him into the wheelchair. He grunts, and his smells are slightly intoxicating. It’s a mix of peppermint, vanilla, and sweat. I pull away quickly as he adjusts himself in the chair, and I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, avoiding his gaze. He looks up at me and grimaces. “What?” “What?” I cross my arms. “You were staring at me.” “No, I wasn’t,” I say quickly, my voice raising an

octave. “Like the day I saw you by the river. You acted like you knew me.” “I do,” I blurt, and then I cover my mouth. “Right, like you and I would ever run in the same circles,” he says, beginning to wheel himself away and shaking his head. “You look like someone I used to know.” He turns to face me again. “I have a billion brothers and sisters. Most of them are in Mexico, but maybe that’s why I look familiar.” He shrugs. “Mexico?” “Yeah. My dad used to be in the cartel. Tito Juares. You’ve probably seen him on wanted posters.” “You’re joking.” Juares. “Wait, are you joking?” “I wish. He got my mom pregnant. She fled to California and then eventually Vermont. That’s where she met and married my stepdad, all before I was born. My real dad has tried contacting me a few times. That’s a whole other story. My life is a fucking Mexican soap opera.” Tito Juares. I’d heard of him. I wonder why Sebastian’s last name was Juares in my dream, and not in real life? “You look nice today,” he says, and then he wheels himself off to the bathroom. I’m paralyzed next to his bed. Did he just compliment me? What is the world coming to? Just as I’m about to leave, I hear him come

to the bathroom door. “Please don’t overanalyze what I said. I was just making a platonic observation.” I nod, my cheeks turning pink. “Oh, I know. You hate me too much to like me.” A small smile forms on his lips, and I feel victorious. I got him to smile! “That is true.” “Why are you so mean to me?” I ask without thinking. “I’m only trying to help.” He looks down, ashamed that I called him out. He shrugs slowly. “Maybe it’s because we’re so different. Maybe I resent that you’re trying to help me.” He looks up. His eyes are soft, and for a second, I see some sort of vulnerability. I’m startled by his honesty. “We’re not different,” I reply, walking over to him. “You and I… we’re the same.” I don’t elaborate—I’m not ready to tell him my life story. He shakes his head slowly, and his long, messy hair moves in front of his face. I never noticed before, but it curls up at the ends. When he looks up at me, his eyes are dark and stormy. “We’re nothing alike, Marlin. I don’t know why you wanted to volunteer here. Perhaps you wanted to make yourself feel better after your breakup, but please don’t place us in the same box.” “Who told you about my breakup?” He shrugs. “Nurses talk.” “Well, Charlie is not the reason I’m here.”

“Whatever you say, princess.” I guffaw at his words. Princess? I don’t wait for him to apologize. I quickly walk out of the room and down the hall, wringing my hands and scowling. Every time I feel like I’m making progress with Sebastian, it’s like we take one step forward and three steps back.

Chapter Nineteen PRESENT

Another week passes, and a routine of sorts develops. I start my day at the retreat, whereby I bring Sebastian his breakfast and dodge his veiled insults as best as I can. Every so often, he lays a compliment on me, but usually he’s in a terrible mood and wants to be left alone. I find solace in Emma, and we become close in a short amount of time. I spend my mornings helping with various mind-numbing tasks. Sometimes I see Sebastian wandering the grounds or playing poker with Mr. Kringle. I used to wave hello, but he never waved back, so I stopped. Most mornings, he locks himself in his room and paints. Then in the afternoons, I drive to the coffee shop to start my shift. Dave has me scheduled every afternoon during the week, which is nice because that means I have weekends off. The coffee shop is entertaining, and the time passes quickly. I learn how to do latte art. I figure out how to make the perfect macchiato, and by week’s end, I can make a mean dry cappuccino. I only manage to mix up the decaf and regular coffee once. Evenings are the hardest, to be honest. I meet Emma for drinks a couple of times, and once Dave invites me to an open mic night, which is fun. Other than that

though, nights are lonely and long. I go to bed early, excited to start my day at the retreat. After another weekend consisting of multiple trips to the farmer ’s market, cleaning my tiny studio, and getting my finances in order, I walk into the retreat the following Monday feeling good. I like routines, and this one I have going on is pleasant. “Where is everyone?” I ask Cecelia, who is picking at her chipped nails and looking utterly bored. The entire retreat is unusually quiet—the normal hum of voices is gone. “Field trip. You better hurry or you’ll miss the bus.” “Thanks.” I walk quickly towards the back door. When I walk to the back parking lot, a small white bus is sitting at the curb, idling. Darcy is standing by the door holding a clipboard. I jog over to her. “Hey,” I say, surprising her. “Oh, Marlin, I’m so glad you’re here.” She swats at the schedule on the clipboard irritably. “I realized I completely forgot to tell you about movie day. You’re welcome to come. We should be back after lunch, so you should be able to make your shift at Mocha Jean’s.” Darcy has visited me on several occasions. In fact, Darcy and Emma have taken me under their wing in a way, and I’m very grateful for the Kavanagh family. “Yeah, I can help out.” We both climb in, and I immediately look for Sebastian. He’s sitting all the way in back, staring out of the window. “What is movie day?”

“We try and get everyone out and about a couple times a month. Sometimes we go to a museum, sometimes we go on a picnic… anything to take their minds off of real life for a few hours.” “What movie are we going to see?” I ask, excited. This could be fun. I look around for an extra seat— Emma occupies the one next to Darcy. She waves at me and sips her coffee slowly. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll vote when we’re at the theatre. And I’m sorry, honey, but it looks like the only seat open is next to Sebastian.” I suspected as much. “No problem,” I say glumly. I shuffle down the aisle to the last row. Sebastian still hasn’t seen me, and I’m not sure he’s going to like being stuck next to me without being able to wheel away, something he loves to do. I sit down, and he turns to face me, a look of surprise on his face. “Last seat,” I mumble by way of explanation. He doesn’t respond, and instead returns to peering out of the window. “How are you today?” “I’ve been better,” he says without facing me. “At least you’re getting out and into the real world. Fresh air. This spring has been beautiful,” I add. “Yeah.” He runs his hand through his shaggy hair, his bicep tight against the fabric of his shirt. Oh Sebastian, why do you have to be such a beautiful disaster? “So, what kinds of things do you normally paint?” I

ask, my voice chipper. I’ve never really asked him about his art, except for that one time I asked to see the painting he created after we met. “Abstracts, mostly. But lately I’ve been really into impressionist-type stuff. Things without borders— undefined.” He swivels to face me. “I aim to see what’s invisible to others.” I smile. “I like that.” He doesn’t say anything, and instead turns back to the window and crosses his arms. He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt, black shorts, and black hi-top converse. With his hair and the permanent frown on his face, he looks and acts so different from the Sebastian in my dream. I wonder where the disconnect happened—what made him this way instead of the dream way? And then it hits me. The answer is almost too simple. Me. That’s the disconnect. I sit up straighter, and I realize with a jolt that not only was my own life affected by my choices, but Sebastian’s was, too. The realization is disconcerting. One small revision, and we’d be here but living in entirely different circumstances. He needs me just as much as I need him. I look over at him. The light from the window is reflecting off of his chocolate-brown eyes, and his skin is smooth where the stubble stops. Suddenly, he turns and catches me staring. “Do I have food on my face or something?” he

jokes. “No. I’m sorry. You just look so familiar.” “Marlin,” he starts, and then he stops, biting his bottom lip. The movement is sexy, and I have to remind myself that he’s not the same guy who made love to me and called me mi amor. “I know you think we may have a lot in common. Hell, you might even like me for some strange reason.” A look of horror must pass across my face because he clarifies. “As a friend. You might even like me as a friend. But I think it would be best if we weren’t. Friends, that is.” I swallow, unsure of what to say. It feels like the air is being sucked out of my lungs. He must notice, because he sighs and continues. “I’m fucked up. Seriously, honest-to-God fucked up. You don’t need to befriend me just because you feel bad for me. I get out of here in a week, and I’m going to disappear, so really, it’s for the better.” My mind goes fuzzy for a second as I take in his words. “Disappear?” I whisper. I instinctually grab his hand, but he pulls it away, withdrawing from me and from the conversation. He turns towards the window again. “You don’t mean…” “It’s not working.” It takes me a second to register and comprehend his words. I think I know what he means, but I ask anyways. “What’s not working?” “Therapy. Medication. Group sessions. Field trips.”

He spits the last two words. “I’m rotten at my core. I’m no good.” Though it pains me to hear him say that, it startles me how similar we actually are. I remember thinking those exact words about myself the week before attempting suicide. “No,” I say, a little too loudly. Both Mr. Kringle and David/Hubert (I’m not sure which one he is today) turn and look at us, affronted. “You are good.” “You barely know me, Marlin,” he says, avoiding my gaze. I want to slap his pretty face and make him believe it. How can this be happening? He didn’t come out and say it, but I suspect he’s still having suicidal ideations. When he gets out of the retreat, there’s no telling what he might do. “You’re right. I don’t know you. But I can tell you that it gets better. Life gets better.” “No, it doesn’t.” He’s fully facing me now, obviously frustrated. “Everyone always says that, and quite frankly, I think people are full of shit when they say that.” I sigh and lean back against the seat. There’s only one way to convince him. I look at him square in the eyes. “I tried to kill myself three months ago. I thought I was happy for a very long time, but I wasn’t. I tried to end it all. I am living proof that it gets better, Sebastian.” He watches me for what seems like minutes. Neither

of us breaks eye contact. I’m breathing heavily, and he’s tapping his finger on the window of the bus. We’ve started moving now, barreling down the main road. The greenery around us is stunning, but I don’t really notice any of it. I push the sleeves of my sweater up my arms, displaying my scars. His eyes travel over them slowly, lazily, taking their time examining me. With one simple gesture, he reaches out and traces one of them with his index finger. When he looks back up at me, I have tears in my eyes. “Maybe we’re not so different after all.” He removes his finger from my arm, watching his movements, and then his eyes flick back up to mine, a little less hard now. “I could never do the razor thing. You’re brave.” “I’m not brave. What I did wasn’t bravery.” He doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away again. “I jumped off of bridges.” “I know. Darcy told me.” He just chuckles. I’m glad he’s not angry that she told me. “She’s such a gossip.” “Now do you believe me?” I ask, my voice insistent. “That life gets better?” “I’m glad it got better for you, Marlin.” His simple answer unsettles me, like he’s brushing me off. I want him to understand. I need him to understand. “I’ll prove it to you.” I sit up straighter and face

him. “Do you trust me?” “I barely know you.” He watches me skeptically, fidgeting with his thumbs. “Give me until Friday. I will prove it to you.” “What, like bucket-list shit?” I think about that for a second. “Yes, but less cheesy. I like it. Bucket-list shit.” He grimaces, his lips tight. I can tell he’s trying to read me, trying to figure out if I’m going to keep bugging him about this. I cross my arms and sit up straight, not taking my eyes off of his. He has to know I’m one hundred percent serious. “Fine. I don’t like it, but I feel like I have no choice.” “You don’t,” I confirm, excited for the first time in a long time. “The first thing you need to do is make a list.” “Let me guess—bucket-list shit.” “Precisely.” I nod, and he smiles. God, it’s so wonderful when he smiles. I reach into my purse and pull out a piece of paper and a pen. “You can start now.” He looks down at the paper and pen and then back up at me, his eyes icy. Just as I think he’s going to yell or turn away, he takes them and begins to write on the back of the seat. I try not to snoop, so I busy myself with my phone and check my email. After a few minutes, he hands the piece of paper back to me, and I’m more than eager to read it.

1. Change my name and reconcile with my father. 2. Fly a helicopter. 3. Get a tattoo. 4. Visit the Louvre in Paris. 5. Visit a nudist colony. 6. Paint a live model. 7. “There’s one thing on the list that I didn’t write down, to save my embarrassment. But on Friday, I’ll let you know whether or not it’s been achieved.” “Deal,” I agree. We shake hands. “By the way, there’s only seven. Aren’t most bucket lists like hundreds of items long?” He shrugs. “I’m low maintenance.” He flashes me a cocky smile, and I feel my heart flutter. God, if he weren’t so depressed, he’d have the ability to break so many hearts with that smile. “And one of them is pretty impossible before Friday,” I add. He stretches and raises his hands above his head. “It was a long shot.” “Don’t underestimate my abilities. If we don’t go to the Louvre this week, we’ll go another time.” He watches me for a second too long, his face softening. For a second, I think he’s going to agree. But then he turns around and doesn’t say anything else, so I

tuck the list into my purse and hope that I can change his mind about everything.

Chapter Twenty PRESENT Once we get downtown and everyone gets off of the bus, I pull Darcy aside and explain my plan. In the real world, I really do need to get this cleared by her. “And so I’m going to try and make this the best week. I want to try and prove to him that life is worth living,” I finish. I know I’ve bombarded her. Emma is standing close by and listening, tapping her foot on the sidewalk. I can tell they’re both skeptical. “Wait, did he actually come out and say he intended to attempt suicide again?” Emma asks, her voice hushed. The patients are all lined up in front of the movie theatre, and Sebastian is having an animated conversation with Lily from his wheelchair. I try to suppress the jealousy blooming in my stomach. “Well, no, I believe the word he used was disappear,” I explain. “But he’s just so melancholy. I… I want him to be happy.” “You’re a good person. I’m happy to let that asswipe wallow in his own misery,” Emma whispers, and Darcy swats Emma’s shoulder with her hand. “Marlin, we don’t normally do this kind of thing for inpatients. They pay us for a very structured life— twenty-eight days of the best care possible. We’ve never

done anything like this before. Field trips are for special occasions. Contracts have been signed, and we have to do our jobs.” I look down and nod. Of course that makes sense. “That being said,” she adds, giving me a small smile, “we make exceptions for patients all the time. Knowing Sebastian, and knowing it’s his last week, I think this might actually be good for him.” My head perks up, and I grin. Emma groans. “Good fucking luck,” she says, laughing. “Thank you,” I say to Darcy. “I really do think this will help.” “Just make sure to clear everything by me. Daytrips only. He has to be here in the morning and evening for his medication.” “Got it! First thing—instead of seeing a movie, is it okay if I took him to the tattoo parlor down the street? He has expressed interest in getting a tattoo,” I add, hopeful. Darcy sighs. “If anyone asks, I wasn’t aware that you weren’t with our group the whole time.” She puts her hands on her hips and scowls. “Be back here in two hours, please.” “Text me if he gets to be too much,” Emma whispers in my ear. Now that I have permission, I walk over to Sebastian and motion for him to come with me. “Where are we going?” he asks, confused.

“You, sir, are about to get your first tattoo.” He hesitates and looks around, his knuckles white as he grips the armrest on his wheelchair. “Marlin, that list was kind of a joke,” he starts. I quash the disappointment I start to feel and raise my chin up. “Was it, though? It seemed like a pretty serious list to me. And I got everything cleared by Darcy. So we can either go to Faithful Few Tattoo and Body Piercing or we can go watch a cheesy Rom Com with everyone else and pretend nothing’s wrong. Face the music, Sebastian.” From where I’m standing, I can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling—the sun is bright behind him—but I start walking in the direction of the tattoo shop. I hide my smile as he sighs exasperatedly and begins to follow me in his wheelchair. * A few minutes later, we’re scanning the rows and rows of posters they have set up with examples of tattoos. Sebastian doesn’t strike me as someone who would get a tattoo he can pick from a book, so we veto the pre-drawn tattoos, and he goes into one of the back rooms with Derrik, the guy who did my tattoo. I hear them discussing ideas—typing, a computer, a printer. After a few minutes, Sebastian peeks his head around the corner.

“Are you getting one too?” I shuffle my feet. I’m kind of a scaredy-cat, and the tattoo I got on my wrist a few weeks back was well thought out. I shrug. “I’ve always wanted to pierce my nose,” I add. A few minutes later, I’m seated next to Sebastian as Derrik inks him and Rob, the owner, squats in front of me. Sebastian won’t tell me what he’s getting. My heart starts to race as Rob swipes my nose with some antiseptic. “Your eyes might water,” he adds, fingering a long needle. I gulp. “Oh, come on. You’ll be fine,” Sebastian interjects. He doesn’t have to say it. I know what he means. I’m willing to slit my wrists, but a small nose piercing is scary? Without saying anything, Rob pokes the needle through one nostril, and I cry out. I guess I’m a wimp when I’m not the one inflicting pain on myself. “All done,” Rob says, his gruff voice light. “Just be sure to clean the area around the stud twice a day.” He hands me a mirror. It looks red and irritated right now, but I kind of like it. “It looks good,” Sebastian adds. I see Derrik hovering over his right bicep. “Thanks.” For the next two hours, Derrik works on Sebastian’s arm. I decide to go to the front room of the

shop to wait for Sebastian to finish. When he emerges, he has a triumphant smile on his face. The sleeve on his right arm is pushed up, and his upper bicep is bandaged. “So? How’d it go?” I look at Derrik expectantly, and he just smiles and walks away. My eyes travel down to Sebastian, who pulls a wad of cash out of his wallet. “And I thought I wouldn’t need money in rehab,” he says, his voice light and joking. “Let me get your piercing,” he adds. I hesitate, but he sets the cash down before I can do anything. “Thank you.” Once he gets all settled, Derrik hands him a care package full of cleanser and mild lotion. “Clean it twice a day, lotion afterwards, and don’t pick the scab. Just let it be, bro, and make sure you come back! You’re an awesome dude.” Derrik walks away, and I wheel Sebastian out. “Are you ever going to tell me what you got?” I ask impatiently. “I have to leave the bandage on for twelve hours. I’ll show you tomorrow.” “See? Aren’t you glad you did this?” “Don’t you mean forced to do this?” He jokes, and I smile as we meet up with the rest of the group. “You’re sure in a better mood,” I add. He doesn’t say anything. Darcy frowns at us as I wheel him up. We made it just in time—it looks as though everyone just got back

on to the bus. “How was everything?” she asks as the driver helps Sebastian into the bus. “Good. Everything was good. I think this might work.” Darcy nods, approval ripe on her face. “Wonderful.” Her eyes wander to my nose, and she shakes her head. “You had such a pretty face… Young people these days. Always piercing and tattooing that supple skin.” I laugh. Back on the bus, I take Sebastian’s list out of my pocket and cross out number three. 1. Change my name and reconcile with my father. 2. Fly a helicopter. 3. Get a tattoo. 4. Visit the Louvre in Paris. 5. Visit a nudist colony. 6. Paint a live model. 7. “I’ll have to check into the nudist colony,” I say, slipping the paper back into my purse as I sit down next to him in the back. “I’m sure Vermont has one.” He chuckles. “It was mostly a joke. I won’t be heartbroken if it doesn’t happen.” “And Darcy said daytrips only, so Paris is out, at

least for now. I’ll think of an alternative.” “Fine.” I pick at my nail polish as the bus begins to drive back to the retreat. There are so many things I want to ask him, and I don’t know where to start. I choose the most important one—the one I can’t stop thinking about. “Are you really going to attempt suicide again? After you get out? Was that the plan all along?” He doesn’t say anything for a long time. His face scrunches in thought, and he stares out of the window as the bus winds in the opposite direction on the main road. “I honestly don’t know. It’s uncomplicated being here—people are watching you, taking care of you. I suspect that’s why my parents chose this place the first time, a few years ago. This is my third time here.” He sneers and looks away. “This place doesn’t feel like real life sometimes.” “You didn’t answer my question,” I say gently. I don’t want to instigate him, but I need to know. “The answer is I don’t know. Something needs to change. It’s miserable, this being alive thing.” “But it doesn’t have to be,” I urge, the panic rising in my throat. What if I can’t save him? What if he’s just too fucked up? “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Okay?” He’s facing me now, but I don’t meet his gaze. I have to bite my lower lip to keep from saying anything stupid. “Okay,” I whisper a few seconds later.

The rest of the bus ride is uneventful, and once we’re back, I go straight to my car after saying goodbye to Darcy and Emma. Sebastian wheels himself away without saying goodbye, and the sting of that has me wiping away tears on my way to work. What if this doesn’t work? What if Friday comes, and I’m too late?

Chapter Twenty-One PRESENT

I walk into Brattleboro Retreat on Tuesday with a renewed sense of worth. I’m saving lives left and right. I have a plan for today, and it involves a very detailed, very expensive helicopter ride (and possibly a date with Dylan, the pilot, as a bribe). Excitedly, I throw Sebastian’s door open five minutes later and to my surprise, he’s already awake and sitting in his wheelchair. “Good morning,” I chirp, carrying his hearty breakfast. I freeze when I see him. His eyes are emotionless, and panic begins to fill my throat as I realize something is off. I quickly put the tray down and walk over to him. I lay my hand gently on his shoulder, and my touch seems to startle him into movement. He looks up at me but doesn’t say anything. “Sebastian?” “Mmm?” he responds a few seconds later. “Are you okay?” His face goes from stony to slaphappy lazily. “I’m great,” he says, his voice calm and mellow. “What did they give you?” I ask, already at the door. “I had an… incident last night. They gave me the little white ones,” he answers wistfully. I slam his door shut, and I march off to the

employee room. Emma is sitting on the couch doing some paperwork, but Darcy is nowhere to be found. “What did Darcy give Sebastian?” I ask, my voice unsteady. She cranes her head up at me and shrugs. “Sometimes he throws these fits, and she has to give him Xanax. It knocks him out for a good day.” “Fits? What do you mean, fits?” At this she stands, and she walks over to me with narrowed eyes. I clasp and unclasp my hands, and I have to tell myself to act normal. These people, everyone here including Emma and Darcy, are trained professionals. They know what’s best for him. I fidget with the button of my sleeveless salmon-colored blouse as she studies my face. “Oh… my… god…” she says quietly. “You have a thing for him, don’t you?” she accuses, and I fold my arms together and cluck my tongue. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.” She jabs a slender, pale finger into the flesh of my shoulder. “You do. I’m calling it right now. And I think it’s a terrible idea.” Her words gut me. “I don’t. I just… I had plans with him today, and now they’re ruined. He certainly can’t fly a helicopter while he’s high, can he?” She chuckles. “I don’t understand why you’re helping him, anyways.” I shrug. “He and I are alike in a lot of ways. I don’t

know. I feel bad for the guy—his bucket list was only seven items long.” She ponders that for a minute, and then she starts to pace the room. “I have to do rounds, but just know that he’ll be fine tomorrow. You’re a good person, Marlin. Too good.” I blush. “Thanks.” After she leaves, I realize she never answered my question. What are these fits, and why does he get them? Just then, Darcy walks into the employee room. “Oh, good, you’re here. We had a long night—I got called in at 4:00 a.m., and we had to subdue Mr. Rivera.” “What… what happened?” “He has anxiety… it gets bad sometimes. The Xanax always helps. You won’t be able to do anything today, however.” “That’s okay. I’m just glad he’s all right.” She looks at me thoughtfully. Her coarse red hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and her white blouse is wrinkled. She’s beautiful—an aged version of Emma. Damn their ageless Irish genes. “Marlin, he’s sick. I don’t want you to become too attached. Okay? This is a job; he is your patient. Lines can’t be muddled.” I couldn’t possibly be any more red than I am at the moment. “I… I know. This is strictly professional. I promise.” Darcy nods but doesn’t look away. “At this point,

we’ve tried everything. Some people get better, and some just… don’t.” You haven’t tried everything, I think. The fucking helicopter. “I understand. I just want… I just need to try.” She nods again and starts to walk out of the room. “Well, in that case, good luck.” * A couple of hours later, after I’ve finished for the day, I decide to stop by Sebastian’s room before leaving. I’m technically done for the day, but I want to see how he’s doing. When I open the door, I’m surprised to see him feverishly painting. He’s hunched over a large workspace, and his brush is aggressively attacking the canvas with paint. His hair is wild, and his shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his chest. He has paint on his face. And he’s very clearly in the moment, so I slowly close the door again. Except it creaks, and he spins around. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m going.” He sighs loudly and throws the paintbrush onto the desk. “I need a break anyways.” Before I can say anything, he takes his shirt off, revealing the tattoo on his right bicep. “Hey, that’s Starry Night!” I exclaim, moving closer

to examine it. “Wow, that’s so cool.” He gives me a tight smile but doesn’t say anything. He still looks out of it. “Is Van Gogh your favorite artist?” He nods. “We’re similar.” Right, because Van Gogh shot himself. I don’t acknowledge that fact. Instead, I let my eyes slide over to his painting. “Similar because you’re both incredibly talented?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows and leaning in to take a closer look at the painting. It’s gorgeous—a forest setting with blooming wildflowers. All of a sudden, Sebastian slams his hand against the desk, sending the painting toppling over and onto the desk, face first. I cry out, and when I look over, his face is clouded with anger. “You don’t need to blow air up my ass all the time, Marlin,” he growls. “Stop taking pity on me. Okay? I know what all of this is—it’s you feeling sorry for me. Stop. Just fucking stop,” he yells, gripping the wheels of his wheelchair. He starts to back up. “You think I pity you?” I hiss, crossing my arms. “I don’t pity you, Sebastian. I know you. I know you’re in pain, because I’ve been there. I—” “Stop fucking comparing us! Jesus, Marlin. We’re not the same.” His words really sting, and I fight back tears before continuing. “All I’m saying is, I want to help. Is that so hard to believe?”

He slams his fist against the handles of his wheelchair, and it makes me jump. “Why? Why do you want to help?” “Why do you care?” I yell back. “If you’re going to off yourself on Friday, at least have a little bit of fucking fun!” I scream. I know I sound insensitive, but at the same time, he can be so maddening. Maybe he needs to hear the truth. He clenches his jaw and runs his hands through his shaggy hair. “Leave. Just go.” “Fine. But I’m coming back tomorrow, and we’re going to check something else off of your list.” “Fine!” he yells. “Goodbye!” I take the hint and spin around, slamming the door behind me. When I look up, Emma and Darcy are staring at me in horror from the hallway. Clearly, they overheard everything. “It’s been a very long day,” I say, my voice terse. “I’d rather not talk about it, but if you must know, I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” I continue down the hall without looking back, and I try and hide the hope that blooms through my entire core when I hear Darcy whisper to Emma. “I’ve never heard him yell. That has to be a good sign, right?”

Chapter Twenty-Two PRESENT

My shift at work goes by slowly that day. I can’t stop thinking about Sebastian. On the bright side, Dave, the owner of Mocha Jean’s, is delighted I came into work after all. I’d initially requested today off in hopes that Sebastian and I would be flying around in a helicopter right about now, but since that got squashed, I decided to work in order to make some extra money. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Dylan,” Dave says, referring to his nephew, the helicopter pilot. “I’m hoping it’s a go for tomorrow,” I reply, sweeping the floor. It’s past closing time, and I’m eager to get home so that I can plan the rest of the week. Since we lost a day, tomorrow and Thursday are going to be busy—that is, if Sebastian is still up for it after our fight today. “I think he’s pretty fond of you,” Dave adds. “Hmm?” I ask, confused. Dave chuckles. “Dylan. I think he likes you.” I give him a small smile. “He’s really sweet to let us up without paying.” I don’t mention the date I promised him in return. Yesterday, after Sebastian’s tattoo, I came into work and asked Dave how to go about finding a helicopter

tour company. He referred me to his nephew, Dylan, who works for a local news station… and is licensed to fly the station helicopter. He pulled some strings, and he agreed to take us up for free as long as we agreed to tag along during the five o’clock traffic report. Oh, and he asked me out, so of course I felt obligated to say yes. I’m daydreaming when Emma walks in. Dave says hello; they’ve met before. After I finish up, she escorts me to dinner down the street at Rocky Tap Tavern. She’s quiet most of the walk over, and it’s only when we sit down and order that she gets down to business. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” she starts, sipping her beer. “I just don’t want you to get your heart broken with Sebastian.” I nod and smile, taking her hand. “I know. You’ve been a really good friend. Thank you for that. But I know what I’m doing.” “I’m glad you’re trying. I’ve known the guy for like twelve years. He’s really… suicide is… it’s intense… he won’t get better overnight. It’s not something you can just cure,” she adds. I look down, wondering how to phrase what I’m about to say. “I know. I know suicide is intense. And I know there’s no cure. But I’ve gone on to live a normal life. I want that for him too.” Emma nods. “I see you, and it gives me hope for him.” She runs her hands through her loose red hair. “I guess if anyone can break his mindset, it’s you.”

“Thank you.” I give her a genuine smile. “That’s why I want to help him.” I don’t elaborate—I haven’t told anyone about my dream yet. Maybe I’ll tell her one day, but for now, one thing at a time… “Just… be careful. Not everyone can bounce back as quickly as you have.” “I know. I understand what I’m getting into.” “All things aside… he’s a really nice guy.” I laugh, choking on my beer. “I thought you hated him? I believe you called him a chauvinistic asshole?” She giggles. “I know. He is, most of the time. But it’s a front.” She looks away for a second, her face becoming morose. “We were in band together in high school. Did you know that?” “Really?” I ask, suddenly interested. She mentioned she knew him, but I didn’t know to what extent. “Yeah—Jeb, Sebastian, and me. We were all really close.” “What instrument did you each play?” She takes another sip of beer, a mischievous smile on her face. “Well, see, I didn’t really play an instrument, but I had a huge crush on Jeb, so I volunteered to play the triangle slash tambourine.” “That’s awesome.” The waitress brings our food, and once we each take a couple of bites of our burgers, she continues. “Jeb played the drums. He still does! He’s sooo good,” she says dreamily.

“You have to say that. You’re married to him,” I say with my mouth full of food. “No, he really is. And Sebastian played the cello.” I stop mid-bite. “Really? The cello?” “Yeah. Why, does that surprise you?” “I love the cello.” We both stare at each other, and I realize how absurd that sounds. After a beat, we both burst out laughing. Once we recover, I continue. “No, it’s just that I play the piano, and I always admired cellists.” “He was very talented. But then, you know, the whole depression thing hit. He got really into art, which is great, because he’s really talented at that, too. The struggling artist.” She takes another large bite. “I heard he got a tattoo.” She eyes my nose. “Nice piercing, by the way. It’s cute.” I nod proudly. “Thanks! Yeah, I made him. I’m trying to prove to him that life is worth living, and he wrote down some bucket-list shit.” “Bucket-list shit?” “Yeah. That’s what we call it.” “That’s so cute,” she adds, feigning adoration. She rolls her eyes. “Just please, for serious Marlin, be careful.” “I know. I will, I promise.” We finish our meal discussing mostly Jeb’s construction business and how I have a fantasy that he’ll remodel an old Victorian for me one day. I don’t explain where this fantasy came from, but it feels good to laugh

and to actually connect with someone for a change.

Chapter Twenty-Three PRESENT On Wednesday, I am determined to knock not one, but two things off of Sebastian’s bucket-list shit. So when I barge into his room at eight fifteen, I’m delighted to see him dressed and eating breakfast. “Good morning,” I say, my voice unwavering. I don’t want him to think that he got to me yesterday. “We have a big day planned, so I hope you’re ready.” He just stares at me. I continue. “I know someone with a helicopter, and then when we get back, you’re going to call your birth father and apply for a name change.” I nod once and put my hands on my hips. “That is a busy day. I guess I better eat a hearty breakfast,” he says, his voice joking and light. Thank god. “Yes, eat up. We have to go soon. Dylan is meeting us at the station at nine thirty.” “Who’s Dylan?” Sebastian asks between bites of his buttered toast. For some reason, the memory of that dream morning comes to mind—“You need to gain weight. I’ll make you bacon and toast every day if I have to. Fatten you up.”—and I’m overcome with sadness. “He’s the pilot.” Sebastian just nods, and I study him as he sips his

orange juice. I see the other Sebastian in there—under the hair, under the aching sorrow. Peel the layers away, and he’s there. I just have to figure out a way to penetrate those layers. I’ve arranged to borrow the wheelchair-accessible van. Once we sign out, Darcy salutes us. Cecelia glowers in our direction the whole time. I’ve figured out by now that she has a thing for Sebastian, and I like her even less. I get Sebastian all settled in the van, and then we’re off. I drive slowly down the main road, taking my time, and at approximately nine twenty, we’re parked and I’m wheeling Sebastian to the front of BCTV News 9. It’s a small brick building, and I see a chain-link fence leading to the back, where the helicopter and the landing pad sit. “Good day for a helicopter ride,” I say, breaking the silence that’s been lingering since we left the retreat. I rock back and forth on my heels. “The weather, really?” he asks, incredulous. I narrow my eyes and look away. I fidget with the raw hem of my long-sleeved black shirt, not answering him. If he wants to talk about something other than the weather, he can start a conversation. “When’s this guy supposed to meet us?” “Soon.” I check my phone. We’re in the right place. A few tense minutes later, a tall, athletic-looking man comes out of the door to greet us. He’s handsome, with short black hair and grey eyes. He’s wearing

trousers and a button-down shirt. He’s very dapper for a helicopter pilot. “Marlin?” he asks, reaching his hand out. It’s rough and calloused. “Nice to meet you, Dylan!” I pull my hand away and gesture to Sebastian, ever aware of his presence. He’s scowling. “This is Sebastian.” Dylan bends down and reaches a hand out. “How’s it going, buddy?” he says, a little too loudly and slowly. I cringe. “I broke my legs, not my fucking brain,” Sebastian mumbles, wheeling away towards the fence. I jog over to Dylan and apologize as Sebastian wheels himself ahead of us. We all walk over to the fence, which Dylan unlocks. “He’s a bit moody. And I just want to say… thank you so much for doing this.” “Yeah, no problem,” Dylan replies casually. We walk over to one of the helicopter doors, and Sebastian is waiting for us, annoyed. He can really move fast in that thing. “Besides, I’m looking forward to our date,” he adds, eyeing my body and leering. The minute he says it, Sebastian noticeably stiffens, and he looks from me to Dylan and back to me. I stutter, noticing Sebastian’s discomfort. “I a-am t-too,” I say, giving him a small smile. I don’t look at Sebastian, and instead, go to help him into the passenger seat without making eye contact. When I

put my arm underneath him to hoist him up into the cockpit, he leans in and whispers into my ear. “You’re really going to go on a date with that douche?” I don’t respond, and in a matter of three seconds, he’s seated comfortably. I lean his folded-up wheelchair against the wall of the building, and Dylan helps me into the back, but not before winking once. Sebastian totally sees, because the look he’s giving me in the rearview mirror right now is pure disgust. He shakes his head and looks away. Judgmental prick. From there, it’s a fairly simple process—we get buckled in, Sebastian in front, me in the back—and then all three of us put on a pair of headphones to both block out the noise and also to be able to communicate. Sebastian doesn’t know, but I’ve asked Dylan to let him fly for a minute or two, if possible. Dylan agreed over text, so I hope he remembers. I hope we don’t die because of Sebastian’s stupid list. A few switches are flipped, and the engine is turned on, and then the whirling sound starts. I grip the edge of my seat. I hate heights, but I’m doing this for Sebastian. This is all for him. When we lift off, I squeal in terror and delight, and I instinctually look in the rearview mirror. Sebastian is watching me with careful concern—his face is soft, unburdened. He looks almost like he’s

having fun but doesn’t want to admit it. We rise up higher and higher, and my knuckles are white as I grip the seat harder and harder. I peek down below me, and I feel my head start to rush with panic. I close my eyes. “Marlin?” It’s Sebastian’s voice. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I answer, my voice weak. “Just a little scared of heights.” A thin layer of sweat breaks out on my forehead. I open my eyes again. “How’s everyone?” Dylan’s voice says, crackling in my headphones. “Who’s ready to fly this baby?” Oh, god. We’re going to die, I think. Dylan barks instructions to Sebastian, and I can feel Sebastian’s loathing from back here. “I’ll do the footwork since you’re obviously incapacitated in that area,” Dylan adds. “But you can steer. It’s almost the same.” Ugh. I hate him already for making Sebastian feel as small as possible. “I think I can handle it,” Sebastian answers. I look up, and he winks at me, giving me a lopsided smile and taking the controls. The helicopter dips slightly, but otherwise it stays steady. He’s doing it. He’s doing it! “You’re flying a helicopter!” I squeal. “I’m flying a helicopter,” he repeats, a huge grin on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than his smile. And I did that—I helped put that smile on his face.

“Pilot Rivera,” I add, smirking. “Pilot Juares soon,” he corrects, winking. “All right, time for some traffic,” Dylan interrupts, and I want to smack him. Doesn’t he know we’re having a moment right now? Once Dylan takes over the controls again, he steers us towards the highways of Vermont, and I plot the big thing on Sebastian’s bucket-list shit. I have an idea for tomorrow. It will require a very early morning and borrowing the van again, but it’s not impossible. When I look into the rearview mirror again, Sebastian holds my gaze, and it burns me from the inside out. I squirm, unable to handle the intensity. His dark, moody eyes are bright and joyful for the first time since I’ve known him (in this life at least). I don’t break eye contact, not even when he smiles—not even when he mouths something I know I’ll never forget. Thank you. * When Dylan flies us back to the station, we land smoothly, and I jump out to help Sebastian out of the helicopter and into his wheelchair. He’s been quiet ever since our descent a few minutes ago, and I’m nervous that this whole helicopter thing wasn’t what he was expecting, or not as life-changing as he thought it’d be. I reach around underneath his arm to help him

down, and he unexpectedly puts an arm around my waist to help balance everything out. I suck in a silent mouthful of air at the contact, but he doesn’t seem to notice as I lift him down and into his chair. When I let go, he looks up at me and gives me a tight smile. “I still can’t believe you’re going to go out with that jerk,” he mutters before wheeling himself away towards the street, leaving me alone with Dylan. My mouth is still open in surprise when Dylan walks up behind me. “So, does tonight work for you, or is tomorrow better?” Dylan asks, running a hand through his jet-black hair and giving me a shit-eating grin. Ugh. “I’ll call you,” I say, reaching out for his hand. “I have a pretty busy week, so maybe over the weekend?” “I’m busy this weekend,” he answers, his voice tainted with annoyance. “Oh, well, we’ll work something out for next week.” I give him my most flirtatious smile, and I begin to follow in Sebastian’s footsteps, eager to leave. “What’s with you and that guy?” Dylan calls out, his tongue in his cheek. That guy. The jerk knows Sebastian’s name—he’s just being petty. “I volunteer at the hospital where he’s staying.” He walks over to me, but all I want to do is leave. Can’t he take a hint? “Is he, like, crazy or something?” I feel myself snap, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying something obscenely rude. “Nope, not

crazy. Thank you for the ride.” I spin around and walk away before he has a chance to reply. When I round the corner, Sebastian is sitting in front of the van, watching me with his arms crossed. “Let’s go,” I say, keeping my chin high to avoid his interrogation. * I turn the radio on for the drive back to the retreat. Sebastian’s smug smile tells me everything I need to know: he doesn’t approve of Dylan. A few seconds after pulling into the parking lot, I reach to turn the ignition off, and the song changes at the exact same moment. It’s Sam Smith’s Make It To Me, the same song Sebastian sang to me in the car at Wendy’s. I turn it up and close my eyes. It’s a slow song, and the slow beat makes me emotional. It’s almost too much, being in a car with Sebastian, listening to this song… I try to suppress the urge to cry, but it doesn’t work. The first teardrop hits my jeans. “You okay?” Sebastian yells over the music. I wave him off and hold up a finger. I lean my head back and wait for the song to finish, and once it does, I turn the car off. The silence is stifling. “What was that about?” Sebastian asks, and I spin around to face him. He’s the same person—he looks the same, more or

less. I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “Someone once sang a part of that song to me,” I explain, feeling weird about sharing that about our past. Our past. We have no past. It was a dream. “It’s a good song,” he says, his voice even and warm. “I like it.” I give him a small smile and then turn around to open my door. I hop out onto the asphalt and unload his wheelchair. When I open his door, he’s watching me funnily again, his full attention on me like he’s studying me. I help him into his chair, grabbing one of hands and lowering him down. “Thank you,” he mumbles, squeezing my hand. It sends shockwaves up my arm, and I have to pull away. “No problemo,” I joke, a cheesy grin spreading on my face. “I’m getting some arm muscles from lifting and lowering you,” I add, flexing. He laughs and shakes his head. “I meant thank you for today.” I feel a faint blush bloom on my cheeks at his intense stare, and I look away to break eye contact. “It was no problem.” I walk behind him and start to wheel him towards the building. “But don’t thank me yet. You still need to call your dad when we get inside.” He groans, and I stifle a laugh. “Can I at least eat lunch first?” “It’s ten thirty a.m.,” I reply. “Stop procrastinating. You’re doing this today, and afterwards, I’m going to

watch you apply for a name change online.” “Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Twenty-Four PRESENT 1. Change my name and reconcile with my father. 2. Fly a helicopter. 3. Get a tattoo. 4. Visit the Louvre in Paris. 5. Visit a nudist colony. 6. Paint a live model. 7. ??? I take Thursday off of work, and as promised, I show up at the retreat bright and early at seven a.m. Today is going to be a long day—I have my surprise trip for Sebastian, and then the surprise farewell party that the staff and other patients are throwing for him when we get back around dinnertime. I’ve been invited, and Cecelia volunteered to decorate while were away, of course. When I pull into the parking lot, the sun is barely up. The pink hue bounces off of the bricks, and the warm, damp air indicates a hot day ahead. I have everything planned out, including maps, snacks, and tickets. Sebastian has no idea where we’re going, and I come armed with a bandana for his eyes so that he can be completely surprised when we get there.

I walk up the steps to the door, which is locked this early in the morning, and I call Darcy. She’s agreed to help me pull this off, graciously allowing me to borrow the van again, and even packing an emergency medication kit in case Sebastian has an anxiety attack. Once Darcy lets me in, she immediately starts barking directions and suggestions at me as we walk to Sebastian’s room. I wipe my sweaty palms on my armygreen khakis and straighten my navy-blue sleeveless blouse. “Don’t hesitate to call for anything,” she whispers, letting me in. And then she winks at me, and I have to hold back an eye roll. “I will, I promise. We’ll be back around five, depending on traffic.” “This better be good, Marlin,” Sebastian says as we walk into the room. Darcy takes his empty breakfast tray away and excuses herself, leaving Sebastian and I alone. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and rolled-up jean shorts. “It’s going to be so good,” I reply, smiling. “It’s not Paris, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.” My eyes travel down to his legs, and I gasp. “Hey, you got your casts off!” He frowns. “I did. Yesterday. But the doctor said I should take the wheelchair to our outing today. I can only walk around when I’m at the hospital.” I grin. “That’s wonderful.” I hesitate, watching him as he watches me.

“Shall we?” He wheels himself past me and out of the room, and I walk behind him. Once we get outside and down the wheelchair ramp, I hand him the red bandana. “You have to wear this until I say you can take it off.” He reaches for it and ties it around his head. “I hope they performed a background check on you, Winters. I’d rather not be kidnapped today. Rumor has it I’m free come tomorrow.” I get an achy feeling in my chest when he mentions tomorrow. To be honest, I haven’t let myself think about what he’ll do and where he’ll go after he gets out. I know his parents live around here, but he hasn’t mentioned living with them, and he hasn’t mentioned a place to live. Of course, I could be imagining the worst, but I can’t help but wonder what his intentions are tomorrow. “No kidnappings today.” Sebastian is able to stand and get into the van by himself. It startles me at first, but he seems to be pleased that he’s not reliant on anyone anymore. After we get settled into the van, I drive towards the I-91. Sebastian is silent in the back seat, and I have to wonder if he’s asleep. I would be, if I were he. A few minutes later, though, he speaks up. “Exactly how long do I have to stay blindfolded?” he asks irritably. “It’s three hours, and then we have a little bit of

walking to do. Three and half hours, tops.” “I wish I could say I were excited, but this kind of thing makes me anxious,” he replies, his voice terse. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” He nods without saying anything, and shortly thereafter, he falls asleep. I can tell because his head lolls around on his chest, and I can’t help but giggle at how silly he looks. Also, how vulnerable. Two hours and fifty minutes later, ahead of schedule, I’m waking Sebastian up. He’s really out, and it takes a couple of tries to rouse him. Drowsily, he says good morning, his voice thick with sleep and completely adorable. I help him into the wheelchair, mostly just holding his hand now since he can stand by himself. By now he must have an inkling as to where we are. The sounds of people and midtown traffic are everywhere. It’s unavoidable. I wheel him up to the ticketing counter at the MoMA, and I hand the ticketing agent our prepaid tickets. It’s obvious now, but I’m hopeful he’ll still be surprised. The museum opens at 10:30, and it’s currently 10:32—we’re virtually the only people here this early, so that’s promising. “My god, I can’t wait to see again,” Sebastian complains, rubbing the area around his eyes. “Almost there.” We take an elevator up to the fifth floor—painting and sculptures from 1880-1940. I study the map as I maneuver Sebastian towards the room we

need, and once we reach it, I squeal in delight. “We’re here! Hold on…” I position his chair directly in front of the famous painting. “Okay, you can take the bandana off.” He slides the red fabric off of his face, and as he takes in the painting before him, his face remains expressionless. “Ta-da!” I say, throwing my arms in front of the painting dramatically. “It’s Starry Night! Are you surprised?” He doesn’t answer me. He just stares at the painting, emotionless, and I begin to panic. Oh my god, he hates it. Why did I think this was a good idea? I should have asked him first. He’s the moodiest person I know… I should’ve run this by him. I should’ve— “I’ve never seen a Van Gogh in person,” Sebastian says quietly, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s so much more colorful in real life.” He doesn’t look at me as he says this. Instead, he wheels himself closer and rests his chin in his palm, studying the painting like a true artist. “The texture… no matter how good the print is, nothing can replicate that fucking texture…” I hide my smile and walk away, leaving him to his own devices with the Van Gogh. As the minutes pass, the tourists start to trickle in, and the room gets increasingly more crowded by the minute. Sebastian stakes his claim in front, and I study how people interact with him because he’s in a wheelchair. Of course no one says

anything… let the disabled man stay as long as he wants! He receives many a pitying stare, but he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t budge. I wonder what he’s thinking. Almost an hour later, as I’m sitting on a bench in front of a Manet, I see Sebastian roll himself over to me. His forehead is scrunched together, and he looks agitated. “I’m pissed that you took me here,” he says bluntly. “Because now I never want to leave. I could stay here for years.” He smiles and parks himself right next to me. “Well, that’s a good reason not to kill yourself,” I reply, my voice just as blunt. “That way you can come back. No Van Gogh in heaven.” “How do you know?” I look at him and smirk. “Because I’ve seen heaven.” “Oh, really?” he asks, folding his arms in front of his chest, interested. A woman walks by and stares at Sebastian, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s good looking or because he’s in a wheelchair. Either way, I don’t like it. “Yeah, really.” He waits for me to continue, but I continue looking at the Manet. I regret saying anything—I don’t want to talk about my dream. “Go on,” he says, his voice expectant. I look at him again, and his eyes are twinkling with amusement. “You can’t just say you’ve seen heaven and then not tell me

about it.” I shrug and look down at my sandals. “It was more like a dream. An alternate universe, sort of. I think I was supposed to see what my life would look like as a happy person.” Sebastian considers my words and strokes his chin with his right hand. I see part of his tattoo peeking out; parts of it are crusty—healing. “Huh. And you remember it? The dream?” “Yeah,” I answer, keeping my eyes on my toes. “Every second. I miss it every single day, which is funny because I’m not even sure it existed. But I was loved. My heart was full. My soul understood.” “That’s interesting. I mean, I’m probably headed for hell, but it’s nice to know there’s something else out there.” “You’re not going to hell. You’re a good person.” He’s quiet for a minute, studying the Manet, and I’m not sure if he’s lost in the painting or considering my words. I look up at one of the other portraits in the room. I can’t see the artist, but the painting is an impressionist painting of a woman in the nude. She’s lying across a bed, her breasts full and supple. It’s gorgeous, and I look over at Sebastian. “Have you ever painted anyone in the nude?” I ask, my voice teasing. He smiles and looks down. “No. But I want to. Someday.”

“I’ll find you someone to paint,” I state. He’s quiet. “How did you get from”—he points to my wrists —“to… here?” He gestures to the general space I’m occupying. “I can’t figure out how you got better so quickly.” I know that whatever I say will have an impact on him, so I choose my words carefully. “Love. Honestly, it was love. Knowing someone cared about me. The medication helped, but having my parents taking care of me, nursing me back to health… I needed that. I got out of my shitty situation, and I made a change. I moved here, I started a new life. I got lucky.” I turn to face him, and our eyes meet. “It’s like that Pablo Neruda quote: If nothing saves us from death, may love at least save us from life.” His forehead scrunches together again, and he looks away thoughtfully. “Love. The one thing I don’t have.” “It doesn’t have to be romantic love. Mine wasn’t. It can be friendship love.” He grimaces. “Yeah. I don’t really have friends.” I face him and grab his hand. “Yes, you do. You have me.” I wait for the burst of anger or the onslaught of mean words. I expect him to yell at me again about how I don’t know him or how we’re not the same. But the hostile words don’t come. He looks at me with a mystified expression, his eyebrows pulled together. And

then he places his other hand on top of mine. It’s a silent gesture—an acknowledgement of sorts. I’m here, and he knows it. I shudder with emotion, and he pulls his hand away. Whatever we just shared was intense. “So, we have two options for the day. We can either stick around New York City, or we can hit up Juniper Woods, upstate, on our way back to the retreat.” “What’s Juniper Woods?” “A clothing-optional nudist park.” He stares at me for a beat, and then he folds in half, laughing hysterically. His deep, booming laugh is like music to my ears, and I can’t help but join him. “I can’t believe you thought I was serious about that.” “Hey, I’m just leaving the option on the table.” “Let’s go get some pizza,” he suggests, wheeling himself away. “And Marlin?” I stand. “Yeah?” “Thank you. Again.” I smile and nod, following behind him. Maybe this could work. Just maybe. 1. Change my name and reconcile with my father. 2. Fly a helicopter. 3. Get a tattoo. 4. Visit the MoMA in NYC, see Starry Night 5. Visit a nudist colony. 6. Paint a live model.

7. ??? Aside from acquiring a live model for him to paint, I vow to find out what this mysterious number seven is.

Chapter Twenty-Five PRESENT

“So tell me more about this ex-boyfriend,” Sebastian inquires between bites of gooey pizza. We’re sitting in a dingy pizza parlor somewhere down the street from the MoMA. “What do you want to know?” I reply, my mouth watering as I chew on my slice. “Darcy said you’d recently gotten out of a relationship. She didn’t elaborate, but I deduced from your cross-country move that things were… unpleasant.” I don’t say anything for a minute. I haven’t thought about Charlie in days. I’m sure he’ll marry Elizabeth Pierce soon, and he and his family will consider me an unfortunate blip on the radar. I shrug. “We weren’t good together. I don’t even think we realized it until the end. Your significant other is supposed to raise you up, not bring you down.” “How’d you meet?” “In college.” “California, right?” I nod. He finishes his pizza and wipes his hands on a napkin. “I knew a couple of people from California when I studied abroad in Florence. Most of them went to Cal State Long Beach. Our schools lived in the same building in Florence.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. If I’d chosen Long Beach, you would’ve met me, too. “Florence, wow. That must’ve been fascinating, with all of the classical art they have there.” He frowns and runs his hand through his hair. “It was. But then I got really depressed, and they sent me home. I don’t know. That’s right around when everything shifted. I started to feel so empty, like I was missing a part of me. That’s when things went south. I never got around to graduating.” “Maybe you will one day,” I say brightly. “You have two years under your belt. You could always go back. Get your teaching credential, teach art at the local high school,” I suggest, watching for his reaction. He just licks his lips and shakes his head. “I doubt anyone would hire a suicidal teacher.” “They can’t discriminate against mental illness.” “How’d you know I wanted to teach art?” His voice is suspicious, and he watches me intently, his eyes sharp. Damn. “Oh, I thought you mentioned something once.” Crap, crap, crap. Luckily, he just shrugs again and takes a sip of water. “Maybe one day.” “I think you’d make an excellent teacher,” I add, looking away. “Why do you have so much faith in me? Why me?” When I look back at him, he’s watching me

apprehensively, leaning away from the table. He doesn’t trust me. I went too far with the teacher thing, and I came on too strong. “I’ve said it before. You remind me of me.” My answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him, but he brushes it off and begins to wheel himself out of the pizza shop. “We better get going if we’re supposed to hit up the nudist colony,” he calls over his shoulder. I chuckle. “Let’s go, then.” * He still thinks I’m kidding, but as I pull off the highway and follow the signs towards Juniper Woods, his head perks up. “Wait, are you serious?” he asks, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I was totally kidding.” “It was on your list. We’re going.” He eyes me, and for a second, his stare is flirtatious. “Are you going to lie around in the nude, Marlin?” I reach back behind my seat and hand him a canvas bag. “Bathing suits. They have an area where we can lounge in bathing suits. Baby steps. But maybe we can find you a muse.” He doesn’t reply, which is weird, but I brush it off and steer us towards the entrance anyways. Once we get there, a large, wooden cabin greets us. I hop out, and Sebastian walks around to the trunk. It’s still weird to see him stand. He begrudgingly gets into

his chair, and I wheel him to the office. Thirty minutes later, we’re all checked in and lying on wooden beach chairs. I’ve slathered sunscreen on the both of us, and though we haven’t seen a single naked person, the atmosphere here is very relaxed. I’m wearing a black one piece, and Sebastian has on blue swim trunks. I have to lie on my stomach to avoid ogling him. “We only have an hour before we have to head back,” I say, just before a pretty, nude brunette walks by. I look over at Sebastian, and his eyes follow her for a second before coming to meet mine. The flurry of jealousy flourishing inside of me is almost unbearable. Do her breasts have to be so perfect? “That’s okay. I still can’t believe you took us here.” He spins his head and looks at me admiringly. “Best present ever.” He looks back at the nude woman. “She could be your muse,” I suggest, though the thought of him painting her pains me more than I’d like to admit. He’s watching me again. “Nah,” he answers, brushing me off. “Not my type.” “Oh? And what is your type?” I joke, grinning. “She’s beautiful.” I study her position on her beach chair and position myself similarly, flipping onto my back. “Oh, Sebastian,” I say, my voice breathy. “Paint me like your French girls.” I give him a seductive look, and all of a sudden, his smile disappears and his eyes flick up and down my body intensely. It stirs something inside of

me, causing heat between my legs. “What? Am I not doing it right?” He shakes his head and looks away. “Just… stop.” His words wound me, but I flip back over on to my stomach, sulking. “Fine.” * On the drive back to the retreat, we talk the whole way back, barely stopping to catch our breath. Whatever guard he had up last week has vanished, and with every anecdote, memory, and story, he slowly starts to unravel into the Sebastian I knew in my dream. He’s not entirely the same—parts of him are more jaded—but the hard exterior is gone, and I feel like with each passing moment, we become closer and closer. I don’t talk about suicide, not even once, and when Sebastian asks about my life in California, I tell him all of the good parts: yoga, sunshine, the beach. He’s impressionable, and my ultimate goal is to show him that he can lead a normal life, and that life is worth living, even during the rotten parts. We do talk about the retreat, and the closer we get, the more anxious he seems. I don’t think he likes to be reminded that he’s currently being hospitalized, and I hope that’s a good sign for tomorrow. Tomorrow. I can’t believe his twenty-eight days are up tomorrow. Almost everything on his list has been

checked off, and at some point during the party, I need to find a live model for him to paint. Perhaps Emma or Lily. I have to see who would agree to do it. And after that… it’s just the mysterious number seven left to check off. When we pull in and park, I sit quietly with the engine idling. I don’t want to break the spell of this day, but it’s past five, and I know Darcy is eager to get Sebastian all cleaned up for the party. I have to go home and change. Neither of us says anything as the engine hums beneath us, and the air feels thick with inexpressible emotions. Finally, he breaks the silence. “I should get inside. Darcy promised me a haircut and shave.” “I’ll help you into your chair,” I say, cutting the engine and hopping out. I know he doesn’t need help anymore, but he doesn’t say anything. I walk to the trunk and unfold the chair, and when I open Sebastian’s door, he doesn’t move. Instead, he just looks at me in a way that makes my heart race. His eyebrows are pulled together, and his gaze is intense yet soft, like he’s trying to decipher me. “So, I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, his voice light. “Tonight?” I repeat. I pretend to be dumbfounded. “Oh, please. Darcy is horrible at hiding things from me. I know there’s a party.” I scowl. “Fine, you caught us. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

I lift him down into his chair, and when I turn my head, his face is right there. We’re so close, and his breathing is sending my racing heart into my throat. When I dare to look him in the eyes, I notice that his are hooded with desire, and something catches in my throat. “I should go,” he says, staring at my lips. I pull away in agreement, nodding. “I need to go home and change for the party you’re not having,” I joke, and he smiles. “Can you give the van key back to Darcy please?” “Yes, ma’am,” he answers, saluting me and taking the key from my hand. His finger brushes my palm, and it sends an electric shock through my arm. I pull away. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later.” I stick my hands in my pockets, where they are safe, and turn to walk away, headed for my car. “Hey, Marlin?” Sebastian calls out. His voice is lighthearted, and when I turn around, he’s crossing his arms and watching me with a raised eyebrow. “Thank you for today. I’ll never forget it.” With that, he reaches down to his wheels and turns himself around. I watch him as he wheels himself up the ramp and into the retreat.

Chapter Twenty-Six PRESENT

I fling the millionth dress onto my bed and sigh. I have absolutely no clothes—nothing that feels deserving of Sebastian’s last night. I have to admit that I may be playing an unfair card here—I want to look sexy, to remind him of sex, but in addition to that, I need to look professional. It’s a fine line. The powerful looks we shared today give me hope for the future. The past doesn’t even matter to me anymore. The old Sebastian is irrelevant. The life we had in our dreams… unimportant, because although it led me here, it’s not our life. This is our life, and I have to take it by the reigns and make damn sure that Sebastian sticks around. We might actually have a chance to be happy. I just have to convince him of all of this without coming off as crazy. How do I convey all of that with a dress? After much hemming and hawing, I choose a red, button-up dress with a tie belt. It’s simple, classy, professional, and if I unbutton the top two buttons, incredibly sexy. I pair the dress with gold sandals. I throw my hair up into a loose twist at the nape of my neck, and I finish the look off with a dab of blush and an application of red lipstick.

I can’t help but fidget the whole car ride to the retreat, my nerves frazzled. I have no idea what to expect tonight. The five-minute drive seems to take forever, and when I finally pull into the parking lot, the sun is setting, and I have to take ten deep breaths to calm myself down. I grab my purse and walk into the retreat, holding my head up high. I’m not nervous, I say to myself. The colorful lobby is decorated with balloons, and as I walk down the hallway, I see Cecelia carrying a cake into the recreational room. I follow her in, but it’s empty. “Where is everyone?” I check my phone. 6:55 p.m. “I thought the party started at seven?” She sighs. “We’re running a bit behind. Sebastian is with the doctor, and once he’s done, he knows to come here. Darcy and Emma got held up with a new patient. Checked herself in today… bit of a nightmare.” I put my hands on my hips. “Is Sebastian okay?” I ask, trying to mask the worry in my voice. She nods and gives me a dirty look. “He’s fine. Routine stuff.” “Okay.” I breathe a sigh of relief and look around. Balloons… so many balloons. And there’s a bar, but I only see soda. Of course, I remind myself, it’s a psychiatric hospital. Tonight of all nights, I could’ve used a drink. A television and pool table make up the rest of the furniture. “I’m just going to bring in the table for chips. Everyone should be here soon.”

“Do you need help?” I offer. Anything to burn off some of this nervous energy… “I’m good,” she says curtly. I nod, and just as I turn around, the small piano catches my eye. I’ve seen it a few times before. Patients play it every now and then. I set my purse down and walk over to the bench, taking a seat. Before I know what I’m doing, my fingers start to fly across the keys, and Ave Maria fills the mediumsized room. I get lost in the song, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from crying. The last time I played this song was with Sebastian. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion, bit instead of crying, I close my eyes and play my heart out. Each note fills me in a different way, and pretty soon, I’m playing the last part, my eyes watery, my heart full. When I finish, I let my chin fall to my chest. One single tear slips down my cheek. “Ave Maria. My favorite.” I whip around, and Sebastian is leaning against the doorframe. Everything about him is different. For one, he’s standing. He has crutches, but still. He’s upright. Second, his hair is short and neat. Third, his face is shaved. He looks so handsome in a white button-down and black slacks. I feel my jaw drop. “Look who’s not in a wheelchair,” I say, standing. I walk over to him. My smile is so wide, I feel like my lips might fall off. He just smirks and nods, mirroring my smile. I’ve forgotten how much taller he is than me.

“Darcy is letting me walk around in these tonight. I just had an appointment with the doctor. The bones are healed, but I’m supposed to take it easy.” I nod. “And you clean up nice,” I say, my voice quiet. “As do you, Ms. Winters.” His voice is smooth, and if it weren’t for the dark circles underneath his eyes, I’d have never guessed he was a patient here. It’s miraculous what a haircut and shave will do. He reaches out and touches my dress, the part on my shoulder, and I suck in an audible breath of air at the contact. “I like this color on you.” “It’s an old dress,” I say, brushing him off. He doesn’t say anything, and he also doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he takes it and traces it up my shoulder, and then up my neck, finally resting on my cheek. He strokes my skin there for a beat, and I have to close my eyes. Surely, he can hear my heart pounding. He must… it’s beating a thousand beats per second. I swallow and look up, and he’s watching me raptly. “Sebastian, I—” “Can I paint you?” he asks, his voice soft and vulnerable—desperate. He’s afraid I’ll say no. “Wh-what?” “After the party. I’ve wanted to paint you since that day at the lake, with the sun… Please.” I stare at him with my mouth open, and I try not to get distracted by the way his eyes are tracing my lips. Is

that why he wasn’t interested in painting the nude woman from earlier? Because he wanted to paint me? “Sure. Yeah. I mean… it is the last thing on your list.” “Almost the last thing.” I laugh. “Right. Okay, if I do this for you, will you promise to tell me what number seven is?” “Of course,” he says, his voice so earnest it startles me. Just then, Cecelia, Darcy, Emma, Lily, Mr. Kringle, and a man I don’t recognize come walking in, and when they see Sebastian, everyone starts to yell. “This was supposed to be a surprise!” Darcy starts, anguish filling her voice. Sebastian pulls away from me, and I already miss the warmth he created by standing so close. He limps over to the group, his movements still a bit awkward. “What are you talking about?” he jokes, giving her a lopsided smile and embracing her in a hug. “Thank you, Darc.” “Well, that was anticlimactic,” Cecelia says, harrumphing and making her way in with a small folding table and a bowl of chips. Emma comes over to me and hugs me. “You look gorgeous,” she says, taking my hands. I do a little spin. “Thanks, love. You look great as well.” “Oh, Marlin, this is Jeb. Jeb, this is Marlin.” Jeb walks over, and I shake his hand. “Nice to meet

you. I’ve heard so much about you.” Both in this life and the other one. He’s tall, with a scruffy beard, blond hair, and icy-blue eyes. “Same with you. How’s Vermont treating you?” he asks, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s great!” I chirp, feeling suddenly very comfortable. Just as I’m about to ask about his job, Sebastian walks over and embraces Jeb in a tight hug. “Thanks for coming,” Sebastian says, his face taut with apprehension. “Of course, dude. It’s great, tomorrow is a new day.” Jeb claps him on the back, and Sebastian smiles. His eyes find mine. “You sound like her,” he says, smirking. “Hey man, whatever works.” Jeb puts an arm around Sebastian and leads him off to the chip table. “They used to be best friends,” Emma explains, watching them closely. “About a year ago, Sebastian had a meltdown and pushed Jeb away. Nearly broke his heart, let me tell you. This is progress.” I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch the two men with Emma, and I can’t help but feel nostalgic for the other life—the one where the four of us were all good friends. The one that doesn’t exist. “Sebastian looks good. Haircut, shave, no wheelchair… it’s like he’s a new person.” My lips form a tight smile. “I hope so.” “Where’d you take him today? My mom said you took him up in a helicopter yesterday? My god, Marlin.

How’d you swing that one?” She nudges me with her shoulder. I laugh. “I had to agree to go on a date with my boss’s nephew, who is awful. He took us up in the news copter. And today I took him to New York City. We went to the MoMA and saw Starry Night.” I don’t mention the nudist colony. I have a feeling Darcy wouldn’t approve. Emma blows out a loud breath of air. “Right. His Van Gogh tattoo.” She looks over at me, but I don’t meet her gaze. I know she’ll be able to see right through me. “You must really care about him,” she says quietly. I nod. “I do.” We’re quiet for a minute, and then Emma pushes herself off of the wall. “Well, I should go help my mom. I told her not to check up on Sebastian tonight during her final rounds. You know… in case you guys want to… hang out.” I gasp. “Oh my god, Emma. I’m not a hussy.” She laughs and starts to walk away. “Well, just in case…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and I feel my cheeks redden. The silent approval from Darcy and Emma mean everything to me. A second later, a warm hand touches my lower back, and I jump. “Whoa, jumpy much?” Sebastian teases, a Fanta in his hand. The coincidental irony is not lost on me. He must see me staring at his soda, because he shrugs and takes a sip, leaning against his crutches. “You know, I

used to hate soda. Rots your teeth,” he says casually. I straighten. “That’s what I always say!” I exclaim. “But lately, Fanta has been sounding really good.” “Hmm.” I look at him seriously, remembering that day at Wendy’s. I decide to reply with a joke. “Maybe you’re diabetic.” He matches my serious demeanor. “That’s not funny. My dad’s diabetic.” My cheeks flush. I reach up and put my hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I had no id—” He bellows with laughter, and it takes me a second to realize that he’s joking. “I’m kidding! Your face…” He bends in half, laughing. I put my hands on my hips. “Well, at least you have a sense of humor now,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. “I always had a sense of humor,” he says, brushing me off. “It was just hidden underneath layers of… I don’t know. Layers of discontent, I think.” “So you’re content now?” I ask, hopeful. He cocks his head from side to side. I can’t help but stare at his chiseled face—the angular jaw, the sharp nose and chin… now that they’re not hidden underneath a pile of hair. “Maybe not content, but I’m getting there.” “That’s so great to hear, Sebastian. I’m so glad.” “You helped.” His eyes wander from his hands and then slowly up to my face. I feel the blood rushing in my

ears as he watches my every move. I meet his stare, and if there wasn’t a whole room of people here, he might’ve kissed me. I can see it in his eyes, and the way they search my face for permission. “Do you want to dance?” Without saying anything else, he stands straighter and leans his crutches against the wall. It’s the first time I’m even realizing there’s music, but once the words are out of his mouth, the song comes into focus. It’s a slow Adele melody. Emma and Jeb are dancing, so at least we won’t look too out of place. “Sure,” I answer, taking his hand. He squeezes it once and leads us to the center of the room, hobbling slightly. I ignore Emma’s wink and Jeb’s smirk. This is just a dance between a volunteer medical helper and her patient on his last night. Nothing unusual to see here… Sebastian takes my right hand and places it on his left shoulder. I instinctually put my other arm around his waist, and he mirrors my movements, placing his hand on the small of my back. With a single subtle movement, he pulls me in closer, and I feel my chest explode with anticipation. Our bodies are close now, and I can feel the heat radiating off of him. Without realizing what I’m doing, I lean forward a bit and rest the side of my face on his shoulder, closing my eyes. The scent of vanilla and peppermint is overwhelmingly familiar. Even though we were only together the one time in my dream, I swear I can still smell him sometimes. And right now, he’s real.

“Where are you headed tomorrow?” I ask. My voice is unsteady. I’m feeling everything, all at once, and it’s overpowering. “Probably back to my place. I have a house down the road from the West Dummerston covered bridge.” I don’t reply. Instead, I squeeze my eyes closed tightly, never wanting this song to be over, never wanting this night to end, not wanting this feeling between us to disappear… After tomorrow, he’s on his own, and there’s no telling what might happen. I’m not entirely confident that he won’t try to kill himself again. The song ends, and we pull apart slowly. I open my eyes, and they slowly travel up to his. The look on his face nearly kills me. His eyes are so emotive, and his face is so responsive. He’s feeling all of it, too. Whatever connection we had in my dream is real. This is reality, and Sebastian is reciprocating my feelings in real life. This all might actually work. It has to work. He has feelings for me. That means he won’t do anything stupid. Right? “Let’s go,” he says, bending down and whispering in my ear. “I have to paint you right this very second, or I might implode.” “But, everyone is still here, and—” “It has to be now.” Before I can say anything, he’s leading me discreetly out the door and towards room nine, his gait

unsteady. He doesn’t let go of my hand. I wonder if he needs his crutches, but his urgency is contagious. I follow him without saying a word.

Chapter Twenty-Seven PRESENT I keep my head down as we duck out of the recreational room. I’m thankful that Emma mentioned we’d have privacy tonight. I’m sure we’re breaking all of the rules. In fact, I know we’re breaking one major rule: no visitors in the patient’s room outside of visiting hours. I push that entire fact aside and bite the inside of my lip as Sebastian pulls me behind him. His quick-paced steps echo my quickening heartbeat. I let him pull me into his room, and once we’re inside, I turn around and close the door. When I face him again, he’s already ripping through his supplies. He begins to lay paints down on his workspace—canvas, brushes, oils… he’s so fervent in his movements. His passion is so intense that it’s erotic. “How do you want me?” I ask, looking around. I sit down on the bed. My voice is unsure, and I know I look absurd sitting so stiffly. Relax, Marlin. “Actually, can you sit in that chair?” he asks, pointing to the armchair by the door. I hop up and scoot it over to the window, close to where he’s setting the easel up. He flicks a desk light on, illuminating the canvas, and walks over to the room light switch, dimming the lights significantly. I swallow nervously.

“Legs crossed?” I ask, moving one leg in preparation to cross it. “Or flat?” He’s staring at his workspace, lost in thought, and he spins around, studying me completely artistically. The eroticism is gone—he’s just Van Gogh with his muse now. “Be natural. However you’re comfortable.” That doesn’t help me at all, but I adjust myself on the chair, wondering how the hell I normally sit comfortably. I decide to cross my legs, and I drape my arms lazily on the arms of the chair. I let my body slide down a bit, and finally I feel normal. “Good,” he says quietly, unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t move.” I couldn’t even if I tried. He removes his shirt and tosses it to the ground. My nails dig into the fabric of the chair. I try to keep my face passive, but it’s hard when he removes his shoes, standing before me, in the dark, in only his trousers—my god, if he removes those, I can’t say for sure how I would react. He walks over to his dresser, which happens to be right next to me, and my eyes follow his bare chest as he searches for an old T-shirt. When he finds it, he throws it on quickly. His eyes travel down to me, and I quickly look away, keeping my face straight and my mouth neutral. “Yes, you look…” he starts, walking over to me and kneeling. Now he’s eye level with me. “Can I take your

hair down?” he asks, his voice quiet. I’m caught off guard. “Umm… sure.” I begin to reach up, but he places his hand over my arm and directs it back to the armrest. “Don’t move. You’re perfect. I’ll do it.” My arm is still burning from his touch when he reaches up and begins to feel for the bobby pins. I don’t say anything—I can’t—and I get a whiff of his deodorant. Ah, so that’s the peppermint. I inhale covertly, breathing him in. His warm hands reach around, feeling my skull with the pads of his fingers. He begins to pull the pins out, one at a time, and I feel my hair falling over my shoulder, tendril by tendril. My whole body begins to shake under the indirect intimacy, and I close my eyes to calm myself down. I feel him stop, and I snap my eyes open. He’s watching me with concern. “Am I hurting you?” he asks, taking a loose piece of hair and tucking it behind my right ear. “What? Oh, no.” He chuckles. “You look like you’re in pain,” he explains, pulling another pin out. “Nope. Not in pain,” I say by way of veiled explanation. I smile, attempting to keep my face impartial to his touch. He pulls the last three pins out. “Shake your hair out,” he orders, and I do as he says, moving my head from side to side. My hair spills over my shoulders. He reaches out and pulls most of it

behind me and over to my left side. He adjusts a few things, his warm thumb gracing my cheeks a couple of times, which makes me want to jump out of this chair and run out of the room. Or lean forward a few inches and kiss him… “Okay, good,” he says, standing. “Don’t move.” “I’m frozen,” I say, a bubble of laughter escaping my lips. “Do you want me to smile, or…?” I leave my question open-ended. “No. Just… be you. Pretend you’re watching a movie.” “But is it a funny movie or a sad movie? My face would reflect the mood.” He sighs, smiling. “Fine. It’s a documentary.” I scrunch my eyebrows together, and he must notice because he throws his hands up. “It’s an informative documentary. Not sad, not happy… just neutral.” “Okay. I hope it’s not boring, because I might fall asleep.” “Jesus, Marlin,” Sebastian says, his voice irritated. “Just… stare at the wall.” He points at the wall behind him, and I can’t help but smile a bit before nodding once. After a second, I adjust my face and look at the wall behind him, thinking of what I’ll wear tomorrow. I hope it gives my face the passive look he needs. “Thank you,” he says, pleased. He sits down behind the easel. I can only see half of his body behind the stand, but already he begins to mix

paint and pluck some white off of his palette. I try not to pay attention to the colors he’s choosing or the movements his arms make. I go through my entire closet, organizing every shirt by color and then pants by season. I make a mental list of winter gear I need to purchase. I concoct an email to my mother, memorizing it, hoping to remember to send it when I get home. It feels like hours have passed, but when I look up at the clock above the door, only twenty minutes have passed. I have to think of something else. My mind starts to wander to the house Sebastian and I were renovating in my dream. I miss the shitty apartment we were staying in. I miss the look Sebastian gave me when the ultrasound technician pointed out the blob that would become our baby. I miss the way he looked at me just before making love to me… “What’s wrong?” Sebastian’s voice rouses me from my memories—the memories that weren’t real. This is real. His illness is real. The long and arduous road he’s about to embark on is real. The choice he will make tomorrow is real. “I… nothing.” I resume my “being painted” face. He sets the brush down and walks over to me, but I don’t look up at him. I see him cross his arms out of the corner of my eye. “You had a look on your face.” “A look?” I ask innocently, maintaining eye contact

on the bare spot on the wall. “Yes. A look. Pained. Sad.” He crouches down. “Why?” Every cell in my body is screaming tell him! It’s on the edge of my tongue, dangling for me to bite and tell him everything. But I can’t. Not yet. I’ll know when the time is right, and now is not the right time. He might need a place to run to after I tell him, depending on how freaked out he becomes, and he’s stuck here until tomorrow. “Can I see the painting so far?” I ask, standing and giving him a fake smile. He doesn’t buy it, but he allows me access to the canvas nonetheless. I feel him watching me carefully as I round the corner of the easel and stare at the image before me. It’s beautiful—much more Impressionist than I’d have imagined. The colors on my face are blended imperfectly, thick lines of paint making up each pigment. He’s done my face and hair, but from the neck down, the canvas is bare. It’s a pretty accurate representation of my face, all in all, and my whole body fills with pride because he is really talented. He’s the real deal. “It’s incredible,” I whisper, putting a hand behind my neck and studying the picture more closely. I spin around, and he’s so close to me now, I’m afraid he might actually make a move. “Were you…” I swallow, the lump in my throat getting in the way of finishing the sentence. Or maybe it’s the fact that I can feel him

watching me, his expression inquisitive and bewildered. “Were you going to paint me in the dress?” My question sounds innocent, but we both know it’s not. The first question anyone asks himself or herself when they sit for an artist is, am I going to have to be naked? It comes with the territory. His eyes lock onto mine, and he brings a hand up to stroke his chin. He’s deep in thought, and I feel guilty for using this opportunity to try and seduce him. “Would you mind undressing? Your skin is just so…” He trails off, his eyes leaving my face and wandering all the way down, filling in the rest for me. “All the way?” I whisper, my hands on my top button. He shakes his head. “No. Keep your bra and underwear on.” I blush. “I, um… I’m not wearing a bra.” I look up at him, and he’s watching me with bemusement. “Huh. Well, I have an idea. Bra or not.” His smirk tells me everything, and when he walks over to his dresser, I see him sneak a furtive look at my chest. He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a clean white button-up. “Wear this. Underwear only. Unbuttoned, but covered up.” Before I can say or do anything, he walks over to me and begins to unbutton my dress. Unfortunately, the dress comprises a million buttons, and as his fingers make their way down, I begin to shake again from

anticipation. Sebastian is about to see my boobs. “I… uhh…” I mumble, and his head snaps up. “Sorry, this is okay, right?” I can’t even form words right now. “Mmmhmm.” I nod to show my approval. He continues down, and the dress stays put. He crouches down, finishing up the last of the buttons, and then he stands again. Reaching out, he slowly unties my belt, and the motion pulls me into him ever so slightly. I place my hands on his chest, and he brings his face up to mine. Now would be a great time to kiss him. I’m practically half-naked, the room is dark, and if his hooded eyes say anything, he wants this just as much as I do. “I’ll turn around now,” he whispers, the reluctance rolling off of every syllable. “It’s just art,” I say boldly, shrugging my dress off and baring all. His eyes go wide, and to his credit, he doesn’t look down—he keeps his eyes on mine. “And they’re just breasts.” I snatch the shirt from him, looking down at my bare body in the process. I don’t feel an ounce of embarrassment. I’m totally comfortable here, topless, standing in front of him. I kick my sandals and dress to the side, wrapping the large shirt around me. He can probably see my ass, too—these undies aren’t quite a thong, but the lacy red material doesn’t exactly cover the whole area. As I walk

over to the chair, Sebastian doesn’t try to hide his prying eyes. They scan my body quickly, desire overtaking his expression, and he clears his throat before resuming his position behind the easel. “Same position, or…?” I think I see him blush ever so slightly. “Yes. But can you move a little closer? I need to fill in some details.” I nod and scoot the chair closer. This time, I’m right in front of him, and I can see his face fully. I sit down and cross my legs, and I adjust the shirt so that it covers most of everything, but still reveals my cleavage and the flesh above my underwear—It’s artfully ruffled. “Let me just fix your hair,” he says, leaning over and running his fingers through the strands. He tucks a section behind my right ear, and when his finger grazes my chin, I jump, which leads to a wardrobe malfunction of sorts. The top part of the shirt opens, revealing my breasts, and his eyes automatically dip down and immediately back up to me, flustered. He pulls back and clears his throat again. “Right. Good. Now please resume your neutral position.” “Yes, sir.” My answer gets me an entertained smile, and then he begins to paint. Except this time, his eyes peruse and examine me much more than the canvas. At first, I figure it’s because he’s memorizing certain aspects, or maybe before I just couldn’t see the way his eyes rolled slowly across my

face, my neck, my collarbone… “Can you look at me?” he asks, his voice strained. “I’m having a hard time with the eyes.” I don’t say anything. Instead, I look from the wall to his face, and when I lock eyes with him, he licks his lips and gives me the same look of bewildered desire as before—like he can’t concentrate. He’s the first to break eye contact, returning to the canvas, scratching something out. It repeats like this for a few minutes—lustful look, licks lips, clears throat, paints, and back around again. His body is jerky, his movements awkward. “You seem uncomfortable,” I say, my voice light and amused. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He sets his brush down and places his hands on the desk without looking at me. “Can I see it?” I stand and crane my neck around without waiting for a reply. The result makes me gasp. “It’s… incredible…” He captured the lazy position of my body perfectly. And he’s right—the shirt makes it feel undone but beautiful and classy at the same time. The paint stops at my wrists and ankles. He’ll have to finish my hands and feet another day. “You should show your stuff somewhere. I’m not just saying this because I like you, but you have raw talent, and you need to be doing this for a living.” He watches me from his seat, his eyes soft,

defenseless. In fact, I can tell the praise hit him hard, because his whole demeanor feels unguarded. Fearlessly, I take a step closer to him and place a hand on his shoulder. He keeps his eyes on mine, and in one second, everything shifts. Here I am, standing before him, barely covered up. He just painted me half-naked, and he seems to be holding himself back. Until now. His eyes narrow as he raises a hand, placing it on my bare stomach. He silently asks for permission, and I silently convey my answer by squeezing his shoulder. He slides his warm hand across my bare skin, which ignites everything inside of me but also shifts the shirt so that one side hangs off of my shoulder. I complete the movement by shaking the shirt off entirely. In the same breath, he pulls my midsection to his lips, kissing the area around my belly button gently from his seated position, and I let out a sharp gasp. “I’m like an animal around you,” he growls, trailing his lips to my hipbone. “You drive me crazy, but I fucking love it.” I whimper, taking both of my hands and gripping his hair. When he stands, I know why he had to stay seated. “Give me some slack here,” he laughs, putting his face in his hands. “I just had to paint the sexiest woman alive, who, by the way, was very scantily clad.”

“Sexiest woman alive?” I cock my head. “Oh, really?” “God, yes,” he breathes, and in one swift motion, he pushes me up against the wall behind us and crushes his lips against mine. In a matter of one second, I come undone. I moan into his mouth, knowing this exact moment is what I’ve been waiting for—what I need, physically, emotionally… it feels so right. His lips and tongue are familiar, and I’m delighted to find that I know how to kiss him, and fortunately for me, what he likes. I nibble on his lower lip, and his body slackens as he groans. “You… are… so…” he says, the words going straight from his tongue to mine. I reach up and lift his shirt off, and with some help from him, he’s shirtless in 0.2 seconds. He bends down and kisses me again, and the feeling of our bare skin together is both sensual and heartening—our bodies were made for each other. Every movement he makes, I mirror, and vice versa. We’re two machines run by the same power source, humming in sync. As his tongue explores my mouth, his hands reach down and cup my ass, lifting me up and pushing me against the wall all at the same time. I gasp as his fingers slide underneath the fabric of my underwear, moving it to the side, and he inserts two fingers slowly. I cry out, my body already convulsing, and he rams me with his palm, quickening the pace.

“Tell me, have you always been this wet for me, or is this a recent development?” he whispers into my ear. “Always,” I utter, my lips trembling with everything unspoken. “Good.” He continues his pace, bringing me to climax soon after. Waves of pleasure roll off of my body, and I collapse against him, breathing heavily into his neck. “Will you tell me number seven?” I whisper, biting his ear lobe. He pulls away, and his brown eyes probe my face. “Do you really want to know?” I nod. “Yes. If it was so important that you couldn’t write it down, I really want to know,” I answer, echoing his words. He sighs. “I wanted to fall in love.” His words stun me, and I ask my next question with bated breath. “And?” He physically crumbles, lowering me to the ground. He looks down, resting his forehead against mine, and he takes my hands, lacing his fingers with mine slowly. His breath is quick and ragged. “Accomplished.” He slowly raises his head as the blood drains from my face. “Every single fucking thing on the bucket-list shit was accomplished, thanks to you.” He kisses me lightly on the lips and unbuckles his trousers. I’m stunned into submission. He loves me?

He pulls away from my lips to concentrate on the buckle. Precipitously, everything comes into focus. Where I am. Who I’m with. What we’re doing. The fact that he just told me he loved me. I am taking advantage of a mentally ill patient. I am supposed to be upholding my volunteering contract, yet here I am seducing, flirting, and fucking a patient. I know it’s Sebastian, but this is wrong. I’m sure we’re breaching a contract here. I’m breaching a contract here. “Sebastian,” I whisper, fighting a battle between my body and my brain. “I can’t.” Immediately, he stiffens and pulls away. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Is it because I said I was in love with you?” he asks, his voice hard. I shake my head. “No. I mean… yes. Kind of. I don’t know.” I’m mumbling. “Are you kidding me?” His eyes narrow, and he studies me scrupulously. “It’s just… things are moving a little fast, and—” “AND?” he yells, making me jump. “I think we should be taking this slow.” I look down. “Can you fucking blame me for falling in love with you, Marlin?” I bend down and grab my dress, throwing it on quickly before things get out of control again. He continues. “You wore me down from day one, doing all

these nice things for me, leading me on… did I misinterpret your feelings?” “No,” I say, my voice strained. I begin to button my dress—why are there so many freaking buttons? —And when I finish, I put my hands on my hips and look him square in the eye. “You didn’t misinterpret anything. I just think that maybe we should start something when you’re not a patient at the facility where I volunteer. It feels wrong. I don’t want to rush into anything, especially when you’re so vulnerable.” He runs his hand across his lips, nodding quickly. His nostrils are flared, and his jaw muscles are flexing. “Fine. Yeah. I get it.” He walks over to his shirt and slips it on. “You should go.” I watch him carefully, plucking my shoes and purse from the ground. When I have all of my things, I walk over to him. “I’ll be back in the morning. We can talk about this then.” I reach out for his hand, but he pulls it away. I sigh. He’s clearly embarrassed and hurt. That fact tears my heart to pieces. Knowing I’m causing the pain written across his face slays me, but it really is for the best right now. The circumstances are less then ideal, but that doesn’t mean our feelings aren’t real. As a responsible adult, I just know that they should not be acted upon in this moment. “I did all of this because I care about you, Sebastian.” He doesn’t answer me. He just looks at a spot

on the wall behind me, clicking his jaw. I can tell I won’t get through to him tonight. He needs to sleep on it, and though my body wants to stay and my heart belongs to him, I need a clear head for tomorrow. We can make a plan tomorrow. “Goodnight.” I slip out of the door with both hope and fear for the future. Hope, because what just happened in there was incredible and, if timed right, could turn into something great. But also fear, because I know he’s leaving tomorrow, I know I just hurt him, and I don’t know what the future holds.

Chapter Twenty-Eight PRESENT

I don’t expect to sleep very much that night, and to no one’s surprise, I toss and turn until the sun rises. My eyes are dry and bloodshot; my face has seen better days. I get ready slowly, playing out what I’m going to say to Sebastian in my head, over and over until I have it memorized. I love you, too, but I think we should wait a few months until you get your feet on the ground. We should stay friends for a while. We should start slow, maybe go on a few dates. This doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. It just means I cherish what we have so much; I want everything to be perfect. It sounds stupid, but he has to know that we have hope. That’s my ultimate goal—to show him what we could have down the road when he gets better. Also, I have to tell him about my dream. He has a right to know, and I think he’ll understand where I’m coming from if he knows. I throw on an oversized black sweater and boyfriend jeans, and I don’t even bother doing my hair. I pull it up into a loose bun, and without adding any makeup, I grab my purse and leave. It’s barely eight in

the morning, but the sooner we talk, the better. The whole drive over, my stomach fills with butterflies as I think of the way he kissed me, and how even in real life, we kissed each other like we’d known each other for years. In fact, and maybe I’m biased here because of the dream, I’ve always felt like I could be myself around him, and for some reason, we just click together. Despite his illness, and despite everything we’ve been through, he and I make sense. We just do. I park and jog into the building, anticipation building in the pit of my stomach like a wildfire. When I walk into the lobby, all of the balloons are gone. Life is back to normal here at the Brattleboro Retreat. I feel a pang of guilt. I didn’t help anyone clean up—Instead, Sebastian and I holed ourselves up in his room all night, even though the party was being thrown in his honor. By the time I left his room last night, everyone was gone. I make a mental note to apologize to Emma and Darcy. Cecelia is clicking away at the computer, and when she sees me, her expression is a mixture of surprise and pity. “Oh, hey Marlin.” She stands. “Darcy is doing rounds, and Emma has the day off. But you can wait here or in the lounge for Darcy to finish.” I stare at her for a second. “It’s okay. I’m just here to see Sebastian.” Like I am every day, you freak. I give her a tight smile. “But… he checked out this morning. He’s gone.”

I feel the room start to spin. I reach out for the wall and steady myself. “He already left? When?” She eyes the clock behind her. “Like thirty minutes ago. He had all of his stuff. The cleaning staff is in there right now. I’m sorry. I thought someone told you.” Her voice sounds oddly delighted, and I want to punch her for being so smug. Without answering her, I make my way down the hall to his room. “He’s not in there!” Cecelia yells after me, but I ignore her, quickening my pace. As I suspected, two women in uniforms are in Sebastian’s room, vacuuming, dusting, and wiping down the surfaces with disinfectant. Cecelia was right— everything is gone. Sorrow fills me, and my heart sinks into my stomach. I look around one more time before muttering apologies to the cleaning ladies. Just as I’m about to leave, a note in the trash can catches my eye, and my heartbeat quickens because I recognize Sebastian’s scratchy handwriting. I pluck it from the bin and walk out into the hallway. You and I are different. Shine on and goodbye, mi amor. It’s not addressed to me, but I know in an instant that it’s meant for me. Panic begins to fill me up, starting in my stomach and spreading to my limbs. Just like I know the note is for me, I also know he might be about to do

something stupid. How could I? Why didn’t I just let him make love to me? I hurt him, and now he’s out there somewhere, suicidal, and I might not get to him in time. I drop the note on the floor and sprint down the hall to the lobby. I have to get to him. I have to get to him. “Where does he live?” I demand, my voice a little too loud. Cecelia balks at me. “We cannot divulge personal information,” she states matter-of-factly. She smiles—actually smiles. I groan. “Could you stop being a jealous bitch for one second? This is a matter of life or death. I think Sebastian is going to attempt suicide again.” Her superior face contorts into horror. “Did he tell you that?” she hisses. “No, but I just have a feeling. Something… happened last night.” I sigh and put my face in my hands. “I need to know where he lives.” She clicks her pen and studies me hesitantly. “What happened last night?” I snap. “Oh my god! Just give me the fucking address! I don’t have time to gossip. Not like we’d ever gossip, but nevertheless, I need to know where he went. Did his parents come pick him up?” “Nope,” she says, her face smooth and composed. “I don’t really know how he got home. He left before Darcy got here. Broke her heart.”

I wince. “Of course he did.” I stand up straight—I have an idea. Without thinking, I hop up onto the desk and slide down to the other side. Cecelia stares at me with revulsion. “What do you think you’re doing?” She stands and follows me to the filing cabinets. “Saving a life,” I mutter, pulling out the ‘R’ drawer. “He’s not Rivera anymore. He’s Juares,” she says, her voice quiet. “Well, when the papers come in, at least.” I look up at her, and she shrugs exasperatedly. “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here when you broke in.” She throws her hands up and walks to the bathroom, shaking her head. I’ve got to remember to thank her. I pull the ‘J’ file out, and in twenty seconds, I have his address memorized. As I walk out of the office, I type the destination into my phone and jog to my car— 661 Quarry Road, right across the river from the West Dummerston covered bridge. The bridge. I accelerate and get onto W River Road, and in six miles, I’m pulling onto Quarry Road and searching for his house. It’s not hard to find—it’s pretty rural around here, and when I pull into the driveway, a quaint brick house meets my eyes. It’s tucked back into the forest, and a Jeep sits in the driveway. The same fucking Jeep as in my dream. How is that possible? How did my mind concoct

that one fact? Actually, if I’m asking questions, how is it possible that I knew things, true things, about Sebastian? The Jeep, the town, the inclinations… Am I psychic? Or was my dream really just some sort of alternate universe? Our brains are capable of more than we can comprehend. I suppose it’s possible my brain grabbed hold of some parallel universe, one that actually exists, and gave me a glimpse into it. The fact that dream Marlin and Sebastian are out there somewhere, pregnant, married, and happy gives me all the motivation I need to find Sebastian. This is our real life, and as fucked up as it may seem, I’m so grateful I got a glimpse of what could be. I jump out of my car and run to the front door. The morning is cool and misty—unlike the rest of the week, and the damp fog in the air gives the place an eerie feeling. “Sebastian!” I cry out, banging on the door—the red door with a brass knocker—just like in my dream. “Open up! It’s me!” I try the handle, but it’s locked. I walk to the front window and peer inside. Boxes are lined up against the wall. The place doesn’t look lived in. In fact, a month’s worth of mail is piled up on the other side of the door. If he opened the door, there would be a path. He hasn’t been here. “Shit,” I say, under my breath. I run back to my car and turn it off. I grab the keys and my phone. I type ‘West

Dummerston covered bridge’ into my GPS. It’s 0.2 miles away, a four-minute walk. He’s there. He has to be there. I tuck my phone in my jeans pocket and begin running down Quarry Road towards the bridge. I’m grateful I’ve kept my body in shape, because I get to the bridge in record time. I’m slightly sweaty despite the cool weather. The bridge is a typical covered bridge—wooden roof, wooden walls, single lane… and the West River beneath it. I walk into the tunnel and emerge on the other side, looking all around. That’s when my heart shatters into a million pieces, because sitting on the top of the bridge is Sebastian.

Chapter Twenty-Nine PRESENT

“Oh my god, Sebastian!” I scream, waving my arms to get his attention. “Are you kidding me?” He’s sitting on one of the sides of the roof, his legs bent in front of him. He notices me, and his face gives nothing away. “Go away,” he yells, signaling for me to leave. “You don’t have to do this,” I yell, sobbing. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” I see him sigh, and then he stands. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Without thinking, I scale the railing of the bridge, and after a few failed attempts at pulling myself up, I scan the side of the bridge for places to put my feet to hoist myself up. “How did he get up here?” I mumble to myself, eyeing the sides of the bridge. It’s impossible. I don’t see a way up, unless of course he had a ladder. I walk to the other side, watching his figure carefully in case he decides to jump before I can get to him. “If you jump, I’ll jump too,” I threaten, and I see him cock his head at me. He didn’t hear me. “IF YOU JUMP, I’LL JUMP TOO!” I scream. He just nods and turns around, walking in the other direction. Shit.

I jog to the other side, yet again, and this time I detect small rungs on one of the rain pipes. I climb up to the railing and grip the thin pole, praying the rungs hold my weight. One step at a time… I look down, and my vision begins to swirl. Fuck, I’m up really high. If I fall, I’ll fall onto the rocky cliff of the riverbed. I’m screwed. I swallow and continue up until my elbows are grazing the tarpaper roof. I can pull myself up from here. When I do, I stay crouched down, because one wrong move will send me sliding down and into the river. And I’m not the one who wants to die today. “This is really fucking stupid,” I say to no one in particular. “I don’t even know how you got up here. You’re on crutches, for Christ’s sake.” I look for Sebastian, but he must be sitting on the other side. I crawl slowly, staying as close to the roof as possible. I don’t look down, because if I do, I might lose my balance from the vertigo. When I get to the pointy top, I swing my legs over. To my relief, he’s sitting a few yards away from me. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I say, tears filling my eyes. He just watches me, his face impartial. Finally, he speaks. “Why the fuck did you climb up here? It’s dangerous.” He stands and begins to walk away, his movements steady and confident. “I told you to leave me alone.” I look down, which is something I really should not

have done, and I begin to whimper. My whole body begins to shake, and my legs feel wobbly and uneven. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins, and I know I’m too unstable to continue crawling all over the roof. I begin to sob, and I know there’s only one thing I can say to get Sebastian to stay. “I love you!” I yell, and he stops walking. He turns slowly. I really want him to sit the hell down so that he doesn’t trip and fall. “Please sit down. You’re about to give me a heart attack.” My voice breaks, and I lose it. The waterworks begin, and snot begins to drip out of my nose. “I love you,” I repeat. “I’ve loved you for three months.” I cry into the sleeve of my sweater, my body heaving with sobs. “But I’ve only known you for a couple of weeks,” he says, his voice interested. I see him take a step towards me. “Sit the fuck down!” I yell, gesturing to the roof. He begins to walk towards me and sits about three feet away, keeping his distance but close enough so that I don’t have to yell. “Why are you here, Marlin?” He runs his hand through his hair and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunched together. “I went to the retreat, but you were gone. I panicked. Can you blame me?” I throw my arms out. “Jesus, Sebastian.” “Explain how you’ve loved me for three months.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. His voice is skeptical. I sigh and take a deep breath, wiping the tears off of my cheeks. “Do you remember my dream? The one I had in the hospital?” He nods, his eyes watching me with uncertainty. “Well… you were in the dream. It was you— same name, same town, same car…” “My Jeep?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Yeah. And in this dream, we were engaged, and I was eight weeks pregnant. We were living in this shitty apartment with this ugly brown carpet, and Jeb was renovating this amazing Victorian house for us.” I dare to meet his eyes, and both eyebrows are at the top of his head. Oh my god, I sound crazy. I continue nevertheless. “Anyways, you were a teacher at Brattleboro Union High School. I worked at Graton Village Cheese, and you drove me to work every day… and we were happy. We were so happy.” I whisper the last sentence, and fresh tears fall down onto my face. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he decides against it. This happens three times. His eyebrows are furrowed, and when he speaks, his voice is uneven. “So, in this dream, we were together? Engaged?” “Yeah. We met in Florence. It was crazy… I dreamt an entire Facebook profile. I went through over a thousand pictures. My brain conjured that. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.” “Okay,” he says, studying my face. “So when you

woke up, you remembered?” I nod. “I remembered everything. That’s why I applied to be a volunteer—I needed a reason to move here.” “For me,” he clarifies, his tone tentative. “Well, I didn’t know you’d be a patient. I tried looking you up, but since you were Sebastian Rivera, not Juares, like in my dream, I couldn’t find you. In fact, I wasn’t even sure you were real. But then I met Emma, and shortly after, you. I couldn’t believe it.” He shakes his head. “You sound like a psycho.” My head dips, and I compose myself. “In my dream, I drank Fanta. You sang that Sam Smith song to me in the car. Our house had a red door with a brass knocker. I played Ave Maria on the piano.” My voice sounds desperate now, but he has to believe me. “Your mom gave us this beautiful vintage wooden crib for the baby.” His head swings around. “Baby.” He looks away, obviously freaked out. I totally freaked him out. He’s right—I do sound like a psycho stalker. “I know this sounds crazy. Trust me, I wonder about it All. The. Time.” He doesn’t say anything, and I watch his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “That’s part of the reason I helped you with your bucket-list shit. I mean, I probably would’ve helped you regardless.” I look over at him. “I wanted to save you, because you saved me,” I whisper, biting my lip. His eyes begin to water at that, and he hangs his

head. “But I didn’t save you, Marlin. I was here, dealing with my own shit. I had nothing to do with your dream.” “Did you know we both attempted suicide on the same day? Within minutes of each other, actually.” He watches me with wet eyes. I wasn’t planning on telling him that, but the date and time stamp in his file threw me for a loop. I’d seen it when I was looking up his address. “I feel like this all happened for a reason.” “Is that why you got the ‘Fate’ tattoo?” he asks, his voice breaking. “Yes, but also no. I’m not stupid. I know you’re not the same Sebastian as my dream. I’m not the same Marlin. I was different. We both were. But that dream saved my life. It gave me hope when I thought I’d never feel hopeful again. It gave me a sense of purpose. I knew I wanted to help people, and finding the retreat, in the exact same city as my dream, was just the icing on the cake.” “But you loved the guy in your dream. Do you love me?” I stare at his caramel-colored face, so stricken with grief. He’s come so far, but he still has such a long way to go. “I love this Sebastian so much more, because he’s just like me. We met in my dream, sure, but when I met you in real life, it affirmed everything for me. We have the same hiding places—the same dark parts. I see these things in you, because I recognize them in myself. I see

the sorrow behind your smile. I see the love behind your anger. I see the reason behind your silence. And I know we have a long way to go, but I want to go there with you.” He sobs into his shoulder, and it cuts me up in places I didn’t even know I had. I scoot closer, carefully, and I put my arm around him. “I didn’t have a dream,” he starts, wiping his face. “But you always gave me hope. When we met at the river, and you looked at me for the first time… I got this feeling of… homesickness. I couldn’t explain it at the time, and even though you were a stranger to me, something about you captivated me, like I was finally coming home.” “You were coming home,” I cry, bawling into his shoulder. “Your soul knew about us.” “My soul must be pretty amazing, then,” he says, his voice shaky. I’m quiet for a minute. “We can have that. Everything in my dream.” I look up at him and smile. “It won’t be exactly the same, but the love will be there, and that’s all that matters.” He’s quiet, his face forming a scowl. “That is, unless you commit suicide.” “I didn’t come up here to kill myself, Marlin,” he says, smiling. “You jumped to conclusions, flailing your arms around, climbing the damn roof… I just came here to think.” “But isn’t this where…”

“Yes. It is where I tried to kill myself three months ago. But I can say for certain that I’m a different person now. I don’t feel the same desire to end my life. In fact, for the first time ever, I’m kind of excited to live.” He pulls me into him, squeezing me tight. I let out a huge sigh of relief. “I was so scared when you weren’t at the retreat. And the note… I thought it was a suicide note. ‘You and I are different.’ What the hell was that?” He shrugs and chuckles. “I just wanted you to move on… You deserve someone who isn’t fucked up like me.” “You are pretty fucked up,” I agree. “But so am I.” “That’s true.” He unlatches his arm from my shoulder and stands. “Now, shall we climb down from this death trap?” he asks, holding his hand out. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Thirty THREE months later

Fidgeting with my new bracelet, I lean forward and scan the restaurant for Sebastian from where I’m sitting. He’s late, which normally wouldn’t bother me, but since I haven’t seen him in three months, I’m overly eager to assess his wellbeing. Reading his letters is one thing, but I need to see him in person to assuage my worry. I know he hasn’t forgotten—each of his letters came with a countdown. Eighty-seven days, seventy-five days, fiftyone days, eighteen days, five days… and now today is here. After the bridge three months ago, we agreed it would be for the best if we took some time apart. He needed time to get his feet back on the ground, and I wanted to give him space, away from me, to heal. That day was the last time I saw him, but we’ve written to each other every day. He was staying with his parents for a while, outside of Brattleboro, but recently moved back to his house. Last week, a mysterious package arrived, and it was a brass charm bracelet. On the bracelet were three charms—a paintbrush, a bridge, and a heart. Only one person would know how much each of these things means to me. My heart pounds in my chest as I finger the

delicate individual charms. I’ve been waiting for this moment for eighty-nine days. Yesterday was the longest. My morning shift at the retreat, followed by a shift at Mocha Jean’s, went by astronomically slowly. When I got done at the cafe, I walked over to one of the boutiques on Main Street to pick out an outfit. I thumb the silky material of my forest-green blouse. I tucked it into a pleated midi skirt and paired them with black flats. I’m wearing my hair down but pulled off to one side, as well as red lipstick. I’m feeling good and put together. This is our first date, after all. “Ma’am, would you like some wine while you wait?” the server asks, his face sympathetic. I shake my head no. “He’ll be here soon. I’ll wait.” I give him a polite smile. “Very well. Let me know if you change your mind.” He walks away, and I can tell he thinks I’m being stood up. Sebastian would never stand me up. Not intentionally. I check my watch. 7:12 p.m. He’s only twelve minutes late. That’s nothing. I check my phone just in case. No texts or missed calls—not that he would call or text. We never exchanged numbers, to make it impossible to see each other. It helped on those warm, lonely nights when I was tempted to call him and beg him to come over. Instead, I would sit down and write him letters instead. Handwritten letters are so underrated. I’m glad we have tangible, physical letters documenting

these last three months. It’s very romantic. The bell chimes on the front door, and I cease to breathe as Sebastian’s figure walks in, his eyes frantic, searching, excited. He spots me and visibly relaxes, a large smile forming on his perfect lips. He runs— literally, runs—over to me. I feel my body stand, the napkin on my lap dropping, the table settings clanking as my thigh hits the edge of the table. I don’t care about any of that. I see him. He’s here. He’s finally here. I feel my legs run to him, and in one motion, our bodies collide. He scoops me up and spins me around, his lips brushing mine, the room spinning all around us, and then, the sound of clapping from various restaurant patrons. He sets me down, never unlocking his lips from mine, and I feel lightheaded from the rush of blood to my head. When he pulls away, his eyes are wet with tears. “Mi amor,” he breathes. “Let’s never go eighty-nine days without seeing each other again. Okay?” I nod furiously. “That sounds like a good plan.” We walk back to our table, hand in hand, and he pulls my chair out for me. “You look stunning,” he whispers into my ear before sitting down opposite of me. “So…” I say, wringing my hands. “How have you been?” I notice I’m shaking slightly, so I place my hands on the table and will them to calm down. He smiles back, and then he reaches out and takes my hands in his. “I’ve been good. You have no idea how

great it is to see you.” “I missed you,” I blurt out. He laughs, and I take in his appearance. He’s wearing a navy button-up shirt and tan khakis, with brown dress boots. His hair is still short, but his beard has grown out a bit. The scruff suits him. He’s put on some muscle. He looks sturdy and healthy. “I missed you too,” he says, his voice soft. “I wanted to wait until we were in person, but I start my first semester at Marlboro College next week. I’m going to finish up my Bachelor ’s in Liberal Studies with a concentration in art and hopefully get my credential to teach at one of the local high schools.” He’s beaming, and I can tell he’s been waiting to tell me for weeks. “That’s incredible!” I exclaim, squeezing his hand. “It sounds like life has been treating you well,” I add, my whole body overcome with sentiment and exhilaration. I can’t stop smiling. He looks down at our hands. “Well, I had plenty of motivation to get my life on track.” “And the… depression? How’s it going?” I whisper, wanting an answer to my number-one question. “The doctor rearranged my medication, and I feel… normal. Like myself. My circumstances helped a lot, too. Just like you said. I had an outpouring of love from my parents, from Emma and Jeb, and from you. It saw me through my darkest times, and I finally feel like I’m emerging on the other side.” “That’s wonderful,” I gush.

He studies me seriously for a second, his mouth opening and closing. Finally, he speaks. “The hardest part was being away from you.” I nod. “I know. But you needed that time for yourself. Those three months I had with my parents, away from Charlie, away from everyone… I found myself again. I wanted you to heal on neutral ground, without distractions. You have to learn to love yourself before you can love another.” He smiles and squeezes my hand again. “I had about two-thousand hours of time to think.” I smirk. “Oh yeah? What about?” “I agree with your last letter. I think we should take it slow.” “Great.” I think back to my last letter to him. I’d mentioned taking things slowly—no rushing into anything. This isn’t a race. “I think it’s a good idea.” “Well, the problem with that is, as much as I want to take it slow, I’ve been cooped up for three months, thinking about you. It doesn’t help that I have that erotic painting of you hanging in my bedroom.” I gasp. “You do not! Are you serious? What if someone sees?” He chuckles. “I don’t give a damn if anyone sees it. My point is… I might not be able to control myself.” His eyes darken, and he thumbs the skin on the palm of my hand, his intentions clear. I watch him before responding. The Sebastian in my

dream was very forward, unafraid of his sexuality. It makes sense that the real Sebastian is the same way. He is a man, and we did have an incredible night in his room, even though it was cut short. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I have enough willpower to withstand the way he’s looking at me right now. “Well, I’m a lady, and I don’t sleep with men on the first date.” I raise my eyebrows, and he laughs, his smile tranquil and light. He looks so incredibly handsome. “I thought the night I painted you was our first date?” he asks, his voice hopeful. “This is our first official date.” I smirk, and his face falls. “I’ll wear you down. You’ll see.” His voice is tinged with the kind of confidence only someone as good-looking as him can possess. “You won’t. I have standards.” I don’t bring up the fact that I can feel them crumbling, second by second, as he sits before me, eyeing me like a prize he just won. I take a sip of water to cool down. Just then, the server comes over and takes our orders. I point to the mussels as an appetizer, and the house-made gnocchi as an entrée. Sebastian scrunches his eyebrows together as he studies the menu. “Pardon me,” he says, setting it down. “I was distracted by my beautiful date here, and I haven’t had a chance to look at the menu. I’ll have what she’s having.”

I blush, and the server scrawls something into his pad. “Very well. And to drink?” “Bring us the nicest bottle of Champagne you have,” Sebastian says. I immediately protest. “No, that’s crazy, you can’t —” “I can,” he says, reassuring me. He winks at the server. “We’re celebrating.” The server nods and walks away. “What are we celebrating?” I ask, reaching out to grab his hands. “Life,” he says simply. Anyone else might find that line cheesy, but to me, that one word is everything. * I’m really testing my self-control as we walk out of the restaurant, and Sebastian places his warm hand on the small of my back, igniting my whole body. I bite my lip and take a deep breath. This is where it has to end tonight. This is where I’d planned on saying goodbye for the night. Even though we had an incredible dinner, and we laughed and talked like old friends, we really should take it slow. Sebastian leans in, and for a second I think he’s going to say goodnight. Instead, his hand slides lower and cups my ass. “So, do you want to come back with me, or do you want to delay the inevitable?”

I can barely breathe. “What’s the inevitable?” I whisper back, my eyes locked on his lips and the way he licks them. “I need to finish painting your hands and feet.” Damn. I was almost in the clear, but then he had to go and mention his incredible artistic abilities. “You’re not going to deny me art, are you?” “That would be cruel.” I give him a wicked smile, and that does it—he grabs my hand and pulls me quickly towards his black Jeep. Ah, the beloved Jeep. “Isn’t it weird that this exact Jeep was in my dream?” I ask as he opens my door. He stands next to the door and watches me, stroking his chin. “Hmm, it is pretty uncanny. Dreams are strange, though. Sometimes, they tell us the truth we need to hear.” I furrow my brows. “Yeah, but how did my brain know you drove a black Jeep?” “Do you believe in alternate universes?” he counters, leaning in really close. “It’s like The Matrix,” he jokes, kissing me on the nose. “I’m serious! It’s kind of a romantic story, and it led us to here, but did you ever stop and wonder why and how?” “The universe works in mysterious ways, Marlin. I believe in alternate universes. In fact, I think every single decision made creates a counter universe. For example, today I had a ham sandwich and decided to put mayo on

the bread instead of my usual mustard. But perhaps a version of myself is out there—the one who put mustard on my sandwich. It’s probably very similar to the life I’m living right this very second, except for the fact that I had mayo instead of mustard. Then you have the bigger decisions, like where to go to college, and you have the life like you dreamt.” I look down at my heels. “Yeah, that makes sense. Different universes, different…” I trail off, searching for the right word. “Realms,” Sebastian finishes for me. I smile. “Exactly. My dream was just one of many realms. And they’re all the realm of you.” “Very poetic,” Sebastian declares, laughing. He closes my door and goes around to the driver ’s side. It’s strange how this feels so much like the dream—even the smell of the leather seats is exactly how I remembered. I decide not to dwell on the peculiar way we came together and, instead, focus on how well Sebastian seems to be doing. He starts the car and begins the ten-minute drive to his house. I’m not even nervous anymore. Over dinner, we fell into some sort of comfortable rhythm, finishing each other ’s sentences and laughing about the same things. Getting to know him via written letters helped too, so now, instead of being nervous, I feel like myself. I feel like I’m finally in the right place, with the right person.

“I love you,” Sebastian utters, and I turn to face him. He’s only ever said it to me in person the night he painted me, and even then, it wasn’t those three magical words. It was I’m falling in love with you. Which is just as special, but those three words are so domestic, everyday, yet new. I’m startled by how right all of this feels. “I love you, too.” So much for taking things slow. He takes my hand and squeezes it. I look at him and ask the question I’ve been dying to ask someone—but afraid of the answer—just as he pulls into the driveway and parks the Jeep. “Is the type of love that results from two broken people weaker or worse off than regular love?” “What is regular love?” “I guess it’s when two whole, complete, happy people come together. You know... making a good thing better. Six months ago, we were both so broken. I’m not saying that we’re rushing into anything, but do you think our love is normal?” Sebastian looks at me thoughtfully. He reaches out and traces his finger across my jaw, never breaking eye contact. “Our love is stronger. More resilient. Happy people who fall in love learn to take that love for granted over time. We’ll never do that, because we’ll always remember what it was like to walk through the hellish battlefield alone. It’s always better with you, and

our love is more potent because of it.” His words strike a chord with me, and before the tears fall out of my eyes, I lean over and kiss him gently on the lips. “I can’t believe you convinced me to come home with you,” I mutter, my mouth on his. Our breath mixes, and I catch a whiff of his peppermint deodorant. “I knew I’d win,” he answers, pulling away and opening his door. “I waited three months for you. I wasn’t going to let you get away tonight.” His eyes narrow, and he looks at me that way again. My legs turn to Jell-O as I meet his gaze, and my stomach clenches in anticipation. I get out of the Jeep, and we walk to the front door together, not saying a word. He unlocks it and turns to face me before we walk in. “Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing me like I’m a delicacy. I can tell he really doesn’t want me to say no. I’m not sure I could say no. “You know… your standards and everything,” he clarifies. “Screw my standards.” I push him against the door, my lips urgent against his. “We’re not normal anyways,” I say, biting his lip. “Thank fucking god,” he whispers, pulling me inside and closing the door behind me.

Epilogue THREE years later

“Honey, which piece should we hang above the bed?” I ask, tugging on my ear and studying the various paintings lining the wall of our new bedroom. “I don’t think the red poppy one would go very well with the blue chair.” Sebastian walks in and stands next to me. For new homeowners, we haven’t spent too much time analyzing color schemes and types of wood, but for some reason, the painting that hangs over the bed seems like an insurmountable task. It doesn’t help that all of Sebastian’s pieces are phenomenal. It’s hard to choose just one. “I have a couple of other pieces in the dining room,” he confirms, nodding. “Yeah. Maybe one of those.” He walks out, and I’m left staring at the blank wall again. When he returns, he’s carrying two canvases—one small, twenty inches by twenty-four inches. The other is quite large—at least forty-eight inches wide. When he turns them around, I gasp at the large one. “Wait, I’ve never seen this one before,” I breathe, walking over to it. It’s exquisite. Yellows, reds, and oranges are exploding all around each other. It’s violent

yet peaceful, calm yet furious. The thick globs of paint are mesmerizing. The painting itself isn’t of anything— it’s just paint splashed around, the yellows blending into the reds and oranges, forming a swirling mass of paint. “I’ve seen all of your work; how come I haven’t seen this one?” “It’s the one I painted the day after I met you.” I stare at him. “Wait... the first one you painted after your incident?” I think back to that day and how Darcy suggested I work solely with Sebastian; he’d painted for the first time in three months. I look back at the beautiful painting, and I feel my eyes swell with tears. “It’s perfect,” I say, my voice quiet. He walks over to me and wraps his arms around my waist. “It says a lot about how you made me feel that day,” he explains, and we both look at the piece together. “It’s like you caused an explosion of colors in my heart.” “You’re so cheesy,” I laugh, twisting around and draping my arms around his neck. “But I love it.” “I’m happy,” he says, nuzzling his nose with mine. We’ve made a habit out of telling each other that we’re happy. Most people might find it odd, but it’s always reassuring with him. Ever since our first date, things have been smooth sailing. I think life decided to even things out for us. We had so many imperfect years before we met each other, but once we got together, everything clicked into place.

I never believed in fate before Sebastian. I thought it was a romantic, irrational notion, and I staunchly believed in being the captain of your own life. In certain aspects, I still believe that a little bit. But for the most part, I know now that whatever brought me to Sebastian was fate. We’re living it. We might’ve been seven years behind, and we might’ve had to go through hell and back before getting here, but it was all worth it in the end. “I’m happy, too,” I say, kissing him softly. Love isn’t about loving a perfect person. No one is perfect. Everyone has flaws. You can fall in love with the flaws. You can love every atom in their body. * Later that night, as our tired bodies crawl into our new bed in our new bedroom, I sidle up next to Sebastian underneath the covers. Vermont is experiencing a freak September heat wave, and we really don’t need a blanket tonight, but I like being under the covers with him. I feel him wrap his strong legs around mine, cocooning me in. He reaches around with one arm and holds my hand. He thumbs my ring finger and brings his lips to my ear. “Are you in the mood?” His words are gentle, and they send a shiver down my spine. “King Henry is tired, but he might be up for some fun.” He reaches around and trails his hand down the side of my body. I giggle. “In the morning. You’re exhausted.”

“Mmm.” He scoots closer. “Hey, you never told me why you wanted to name it King Henry,” he whispers, his voice curious. “That’s what you called it in my dream.” I shrug. “I don’t know. That memory is lost, but I liked the idea of continuing the tradition.” He chuckles. I think he’s fallen asleep, but after a few minutes, he speaks again. “We should get married soon.” I swat his hand away. “Not until the house is finished.” I’m smiling, though. “Plus, you always ask me when you’re half asleep.” “It’s romantic in its own way,” he says, defensive. His voice is lazy, and I can tell he’s about to fall asleep. “I would love to marry you,” I whisper. “One day.” His light snoring soon permeates the room, and I drift into a dreamless sleep shortly thereafter. * Drip, drip, drip. The sound of dripping water wakes me, and before I open my eyes, panic seizes my throat. The blobs of water hit the porcelain sink with such precision every time… No. I am lying on my stomach, arms and legs spread wide. My brain is foggy with sleep, and for a terrifying

second, déjà vu paralyzes me. Sebastian. Where is Sebastian? The sheets are unfamiliar, the bed too firm to be ours... Drip, drip, drip. I squeeze my eyes shut and reach out for him, but he’s not there. The bed is not even warm. It’s possible he was never here. Did I imagine everything? The light streaming in from one of the windows lights up my eyelids. It must be early morning. Drip, drip, drip. The noise of dripping will be the death of me. I take two slow, deep breaths. I pull my arms into my chest. Drip, drip… My body goes cold as I wait for that last sequential drip, but it never comes. My hairs stand on end. All of this is way too familiar. I must be dreaming. This whole thing—it’s a figment of my imagination. Drip… More panicked than before, my eyes fly open, and the alien surroundings cause me to cry out. “Sebastian!” I wail. I collapse forward onto the sheets, sobbing. No, please, let this be some kind of nightmare… “Mi amor,” Sebastian coos, walking into the bedroom from the bathroom. Seeing him relaxes me instantly, relief flooding my body. It all starts to come back to me—first night in the new house, first night

sleeping in the new bed with the new sheets. That must’ve triggered some sort of memory. “Shh. It was just a nightmare.” He crawls into bed and envelops me with his limbs. I’m sticky with sweat, but he pulls me in closer. My tears subside, my breathing slows. “I was so scared... You weren’t here, and…” “Shh. I’m here. I’ll always be here.” His chest connects with my back, the perfect puzzle piece. After a minute, I feel his body slacken with slumber. It’s morning, but we have nowhere to be. As reality sets in, I find myself smiling, tugging his arm tighter around me. I hardly ever have nightmares anymore. Being together, being happy… we certainly don’t take those two things for granted. Life has been good for both of us —I don’t have a single complaint. Except his snoring, but I can deal with that. It’s a small price to pay to actually have him here, in my arms, day in and day out. If I’ve learned anything, it is to trust fate and listen to your dreams. What Dr. Hale said about Freud’s theory was right. Nothing we do occurs by chance. Every action and thought is motivated by our unconscious at some level. Even though, medically, it’s not possible to dream while truly unconscious, many people claim to have experienced it. I experienced it. Every once in a while, I’ll wake from a dream I’m certain was another realm. I don’t know why. I can’t

explain it. But there are so many things in life we can’t explain. I can never remember those dreams, and I’m sure some of them don’t include Sebastian, but that’s okay. I made my dream my reality, and I get to wake up to him every single day. “I’m happy,” I whisper. I think he’s asleep, but he moves ever so quietly, twisting around to face me. “I’m happy too. And I love you, Marlin. Every atom.” He kisses my nose. His comforting words wrap around my heart, twisting their way into my soul and lulling me into a contented sleep. I know he’s right. If we can defeat the odds, overcome hardship, and still find our way to each other, then we’re the lucky ones. When life gives you a second chance, you have to grab it and never let go.

The End

Acknowledgements First of all, I want to thank anyone who has ever suffered from mental illness. Thank you for telling your story, both to me and publically. I tried to keep this story truthful, and drew both from personal experience but also from your stories. Stay strong, and most importantly, know that you’re not alone. To my small group of loyal readers… you are why I do this. You motivate me and hold me accountable, and your sweet reviews, emails, and messages make my day. Thank you so much! Thank you to all of my lovely beta readers! Talianna, Stephanie, Jackie, Meredith… you guys are awesome. Thank you to Susie and Lynn at Red Adept Editing for an awesome copy edit. I know I tend to overuse commas (seriously, you guys deleted at least two hundred! Craziness) and I can’t emphasize enough the difference a good editor makes. Thank you to my family, as always. Mom, Dad, Becky… I am so lucky. Also to my grandmothers, and my awesome soon-to-be family-in-law! Hugs and kisses. And lastly, Peter. This book was hard to write, and parts of it didn’t come easy. Thank you for encouraging me day in and day out, and for being the very first reader. As I’m writing this, it’s two weeks out from our

wedding, and I feel so grateful to have chosen the path that I did. It lead me to you. I love you, always.

About the Author Amanda Richardson is an award-winning travel writer turned indie author living in Los Angeles with her fiancé and two cats. When she’s not writing or reading (which, let’s be honest, accounts for 95% of her free time), she can be found Googling cheap flights to places she’s never been, talking to her cats, or obsessing over the British Royal Family. Fun fact: her first novel is about the Tudors. One day maybe, after a lot of wine, she might find the courage within her to publish it! You can visit her website http://www.amandarichardsonauthor.com

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Excerpt from The Publicity Stunt, out in early 2016! Prologue Willa Parker—One Week Earlier

“Willa, you’re on in five.” I give a thumbs up to the production assistant who points to his watch and turns around, talking into his headset. Tasha finishes my lipstick and stands back, scrutinizing my made up face. “Gorgeous. The color suits you,” she adds in her thick, Russian accent. “Thank you as always, Tasha. You make me look damn good. If you think about it, you’re the reason I have a job,” I say, smiling sweetly. “You don’t give yourself very much credit, do you?” “Oh, come on. Everyone in Hollywood knows that looks are all that matter.” “I’m not complaining, I have a job for that very reason, but no, you are good actress. You should win award.” “That’s the dream,” I chirp, grinning. I stand up and look at my reflection. “Nice job. I like this lip color.” “Chanel,” Tasha adds as she studies something on

her phone. The door opens again, and the same P.A. points to his watch again, more urgently this time. He mouths “three minutes” and then he’s gone. I say a quick goodbye to Tasha and head out into the green room. People are swarming about, and I see a tower of food on one of the tables. My mouth waters, and I make a mental note to go back for some food when I’m done. I know Tasha won’t be impressed with the fact that I can eat three donuts in thirty seconds if it means I would ruin her hard work with food. “No. No, no, no.” My assistant, Brittany scurries up to me, frenzied. “Willa, they were supposed to put you in the black Tom Ford dress. Why are you wearing…” she steps back and assesses my dress. “What is that, anyways?” “What? It’s from Gwen Stefani—L.A.M.B.—her label?” I add, hoping I get my point across. “Yes, well, there’s a reason she’s a singer,” Britt hisses. I twirl around, flaunting my dress in front of Britt for good measure. “I like it. Much better then that boring dress you’d picked,” I tease. “Whatever. But as your in-house stylist, I must warn you that you might end up on some worst-dressed list tomorrow,” she mutters, stalking off. I can’t help but chuckle.

I hear the audience laugh, and I know we’re going to cut to commercial soon, so I brace myself. The music starts, and I know I have about ninety seconds before it’s my segment. Conan will call my name and I’ll walk into the studio, just like we rehearsed earlier with the segment producers. I straighten my dress, clear my throat, and before I know it, the P.A. is ushering me to the other side of the curtain. I wait for the famous “Conan call,” where he’ll say my name and I’ll walk out. “Please welcome to the show, Willa Parker!” He extends my name so it sounds like Willllllla Parkerrrrrr. The trumpets are much louder in person. I move the curtain and walk out onto the stage. I try not to trip in my heels. I’m bombarded by the audience’s applause, and I smile and wave at them as Conan helps me up the stairs and to my sitting chair. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, and even though I’m a celebrity, I’m nervous because hey, it’s Conan. “Welcome, you look dazzling,” he says, as the applause dies down. “Thank you,” I say, adjusting my dress as I cross my legs. “You look dashing as always.” “Stop, I’m blushing,” he jokes. He gestures to my dress. “Cool dress.” I smile, hoping Britt heard his comment from backstage. It’s a dark grey, fitted dress, with different jagged layers running up to my waist, as if I were wearing five different dresses in various shades of grey. It looks stretchy, but it’s most certainly not.

“Thanks! Can I tell you a secret?” I’m reciting my lines perfectly so far. I can’t believe that people still think talk shows are anything but scripted. Conan nods. “It’s so uncomfortable,” I groan, twisting uncomfortably in my seat. The audience roars with laughter. Always make yourself approachable. “I have to wear, like, fifteen Spanx just to fit into it.” The audience laughs again, and I keep the smile planted on my face.



Table of Contents Chapter One PRESENT Chapter Two SIX days ago Chapter Three PRESENT Chapter Four FIVE days ago Chapter Five PRESENT Chapter Six FOUR days ago Chapter Seven PRESENT Chapter Eight THREE days ago Chapter Nine PRESENT Chapter Ten TWO days ago Chapter Eleven PRESENT Chapter Twelve YESTERDAY Chapter Thirteen PRESENT Chapter Fourteen TWO months after Chapter Fifteen THREE months after Chapter Sixteen PRESENT Chapter Seventeen PRESENT Chapter Eighteen PRESENT Chapter Nineteen PRESENT Chapter Twenty PRESENT Chapter Twenty-One PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Two PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Three PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Four PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Five PRESENT

Chapter Twenty-Six PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Seven PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Eight PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Nine PRESENT Chapter Thirty THREE months later

Table of Contents Chapter One PRESENT Chapter Two SIX days ago Chapter Three PRESENT Chapter Four FIVE days ago Chapter Five PRESENT Chapter Six FOUR days ago Chapter Seven PRESENT Chapter Eight THREE days ago Chapter Nine PRESENT Chapter Ten TWO days ago Chapter Eleven PRESENT Chapter Twelve YESTERDAY Chapter Thirteen PRESENT Chapter Fourteen TWO months after Chapter Fifteen THREE months after Chapter Sixteen PRESENT Chapter Seventeen PRESENT Chapter Eighteen PRESENT Chapter Nineteen PRESENT Chapter Twenty PRESENT Chapter Twenty-One PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Two PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Three PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Four PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Five PRESENT

Chapter Twenty-Six PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Seven PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Eight PRESENT Chapter Twenty-Nine PRESENT Chapter Thirty THREE months later