A Season For Hope
By Sarra Cannon
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Sarra Cannon
eISBN: 978-1-62421-021-1
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover designed by Sarah Hansen @ Okay Creations
Editing Services by Janet Bessey at Dragonfly Editing
http://dragonflyediting.blogspot.com
Find Sarra Cannon on the web!
http://www.sarracannon.com
To Kylene Noel
You're not just my cousin, you're also one of my best friends.
Seeing you at Christmas was a highlight of growing up.
Thankful for you this season and always.
Prologue
I glance up at the clock on the wall.
It’s two minutes after and the professor is still talking. If he doesn’t wrap it up soon, I’m going to stab myself in the eye with this pencil.
Under the table, my toes tap against the ugly green carpet. My bookbag is already packed up. I sling it across my shoulder and sit at the edge of my chair. The girl next to me gives me the stink-eye and I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at her, but instead, I just look at the clock again.
Preston is waiting for me. Yesterday, he texted and said he had something really important he wanted to talk to me about, and I haven’t been able to calm the butterflies in my stomach since.
We’ve been together for just over three years, but the past few months have been rocky to say the least.
I’m praying he wants to talk about how we can reconnect. I’ve been bugging him about us taking a trip together over the holidays, but he doesn’t want to leave his twin sister, Penny, since she’s newly pregnant and had some complications in the early months. I completely understand that, but at the same time, I’m desperate to bring his attention back to me.
Most of our relationship has been a never-ending push and pull. I pull him toward me, he pushes away. I push him to make more of a commitment and he pulls farther away. I’ve learned to be a good-time girl, always going with the flow and being careful not to demand too much of him.
But the things that used to work with him aren’t working anymore.
I swallow, my mouth dry as a bone.
I have a bottle of water in my bag, but I’m not about to open it back up. My fingers tremble and I squeeze my pencil tighter, taking down the last few notes as the professor finally wraps up the lesson.
This is our last class before the Thanksgiving break, so I guess he wanted to make the most of it, but I’m so done. I’ve barely been listening as it is today. My notes make zero sense, but I don’t even care. I just want to bolt.
The moment he dismisses us, I push through the throng of students and make a run for the exit. I’m out of breath by the time I walk out into the cold afternoon air. I breathe in and out, my heart racing. My stomach feels sick with worry. Whenever your long-time boyfriend says he needs to talk, it can only mean one of two things. Either he’s wanting more. Or he’s breaking up with you.
I shiver and pull my coat tight, wrapping my scarf around my neck and over my lips.
He asked me to meet him at his car, so I’m hoping he’s planning to take me to dinner. I dressed up more than normal just in case but these high-heeled boots aren’t the best for jogging across campus. I force my feet to slow down, mentally kicking myself for being so nervous. So desperate.
Preston has his own parking spot on campus. It’s one of the perks of being a Wright. He’s practically royalty in this town because he comes from the wealthiest family in the state of Georgia. His great-grandfather started Fairhope Coastal University and his parents are still huge contributors.
As I turn the corner of the administration building, his sleek black BMW comes into view and my heart catapults into my throat. He’s sitting on the hood fiddling with his cell phone. I smile as he turns toward the sound of my boots clacking against the sidewalk.
But the way he smiles back—all sad and sorry—is like a punch straight in my gut.
He doesn’t want to reconnect with me.
My legs grow weak and I struggle to keep it together. I’ve worn a mask for him a hundred times before, and I’m good at it. The happy, carefree girlfriend. Always up for a good time. The girl who never asks for more than what I have right this moment.
Once I realized those kinds of demands only put distance between us, I learned how to be what he wanted me to be. Easy and fun.
But today I’m struggling to keep the mask in place.
“Hi,” I say. I set my backpack down on the sidewalk and lean into him. When I go to kiss him, he turns his head at the last second and my lips settle on his cheek.
I almost dissolve into frantic tears and it takes an enormous amount of self-control not to.
Deep inside, my brain is refusing to believe what my heart already knows. This can’t really be happening. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not now, please.
“Hey,” he says. He stands and slips his phone into his back pocket. He doesn’t touch me and the absence of affection might as well be a slap across my face. “Can we go somewhere?”
I want to say no. Part of me wants to tell him that I’d rather he just got it over with so I can get home and move on with my life. But part of me knows that right now, I have no life outside of Preston Wright.
“Sure,” I say. “Do you want to go to dinner or something?”
He draws his bottom lip into his mouth. “I was thinking maybe we could just go back to your place,” he says. “Maybe take a walk on the boardwalk for a few?”
My apartment is on the other side of campus, really close to the beach and the long wooden boardwalk that leads up to the pier.
“Great, yeah,” I say, playing my part of the agreeable girlfriend.
Always.
The ride to the boardwalk is tense and awkward. I try to start several conversations, but Preston’s answers are short and don’t leave much room for follow-up. I press my legs together tightly, wanting to curl up into a little ball and hide my face until this whole thing is over.
The tiniest hope still lives in my pit, saying this isn’t what I think it is. But ten minutes later, he’s walking beside me saying the words I never wanted to hear.
“Life has gotten really complicated lately,” he says. “With Penny having a baby and my internship with the company, I haven’t had a lot of time to spend with you and I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I reach for his hand and he squeezes it and lets it go. My heart sinks further into my stomach.
“It’s really not,” he says. He stops in front of a bench and stares out at the ocean. “I don’t know how else to really say this.”
Then don't say it. Please.
I swallow and my mouth feels like it’s filled with sand. I can’t say anything. I can’t even fight for this. All I can do is watch as it slips away.
“I think it’s time we both moved on, Bailey.” He looks into my eyes and I know there’s nothing I can do to change his mind. “The past three years have been amazing, but I feel like I’m changing. I want different things than I wanted a few years ago.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “What did I do wrong?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong,
” he says. He smiles. “You’re perfect, Bailey. I really care about you. I don’t want you to blame yourself. It’s just that the past few months have completely changed me. I need some space and some time to figure out where I go from here.”
I look down toward my boots, hot tears streaming down my face. I try to tell him what I’m feeling. I want to say that I’ll change with him. That I’ll figure out a way to be everything he wants. Only, the words won’t come. When I open my mouth to speak, a sob chokes me. I lift my hand to my throat and turn away, not wanting him to see me like this.
He clutches my arms and pulls me back toward his warm body. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.
Devastated. Smashed. Completely destroyed.
Preston Wright was everything I ever wanted. And as he wraps his arms around my shaking body one last time, the world around me spins faster and faster. I fall down, deep into the blackest of holes. A hopeless place where broken hearts live and die and dreams of the future become memories of something that will never, ever be real.
Chapter One
Three weeks later
“Rise and shine.”
I open my eyes to slits and groan as my roommate Monica bursts through the door to my room, a tray of juice and eggs in her hands. She pulls the shades up and sunlight streams into the room.
I sink deeper into the comforter, pulling my pillow over my head to block out the light.
Monica yanks the covers off my body and sits down beside me. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Now get your gorgeous ass out of bed.”
She smacks my thigh and it makes a sharp popping sound. I sit up and rub the area, a red hand print burned onto my skin.
“What the fuck was that for?” I say. I scramble toward the edge of the bed and pull my sheets and comforter off the floor and back up onto the bed. It’s cold in here and I had been nice and warm before she barged in like some militant nurse in a nut house.
She picks up the glass of orange juice and holds it out to me. “It was supposed to be motivational,” she says. “Now drink your juice like a good girl.”
I pout and turn away, trying to recreate my cocoon.
Monica sighs and lays down behind me. She rests her bony chin on my arm. “Come on, Bailey, you’ve got to get out of bed,” she says. “It’s been weeks. I’m starting to lose my patience, here.”
Anger and guilt go to war inside my chest and familiar tears spring to my eyes. Tears are my best friends lately. I’ve spent more time with them than anyone else.
“Just leave me alone, then,” I say. “I didn’t ask you to fix me.”
I swipe at the tears but they’re falling too fast. They soak into my pillow and my knotted hair. I haven’t showered in days.
“When was the last time you ate something?” she asks.
I shrug and close my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat,” she says. “You have to get out of this apartment. You’re missing too much class, Bailey. I’m worried about you. This week is the last week before finals. If you don’t go to class and at least get the notes, you’re going to fail.”
“I don’t care,” I say, sniffing. I know I’m being pathetic, but I don’t have the energy to be more than this.
“Fine,” she says, sitting up. “How about this? You’re supposed to work this afternoon. Mr. Edwards said if you called in sick one more time, he was going to have to let you go, didn’t he? If you miss work, how are you going to pay rent next month? You’re already behind. If I have to, I’ll find another roommate and kick you out on your ass.”
I turn and sit up. My face is twisted and crumpled. “You’d do that?”
She has her arms crossed in front of her chest and her lips are a thin, tight line. “No,” she says, her eyebrows cinched together. “But I will if it means you’ll get up and go to work.”
My shoulders fall and I reach for a tissue on the nightstand. I blow my nose and wipe my face. “I can’t do it,” I say. “I’m just so tired all the time.”
Monica’s voice softens. “You’re tired because you sleep all the time,” she says. “I promise that if you’d just get up and at least force yourself to go through the motions of being a real human being, you’d start to feel better.”
I smile through fresh tears. “I don’t feel human.”
“I know.” She sits beside me and runs her hand through my long hair, pushing a strand behind my ear. “Breaking up sucks balls. I get it. But there’s more to life than Preston fucking Wright.”
“Is there?” I ask, looking up.
She gives a sad smile and nods. “I guarantee it,” she says. “And you’re not going to find it laying in here like an invalid.”
I pick at the tissue in my hand, pulling it apart until it almost crumbles into dust. I know she’s right, but it’s so hard to face everyone. I used to walk onto campus knowing I was the girl everyone envied. I was Preston’s girl. I sacrificed a lot to earn that title. And now it’s gone. I’m no one anymore.
“It’s time,” she says. “You did a good ‘Bella Swan in the woods after Edward left’ impression, but now it’s time to rejoin the land of the living and prove to him he made a huge mistake.”
I blow my nose again and swallow back more tears. “Did you just work a Twilight reference into my already bad day?” I ask and she smiles. “Besides, you're forgetting that Edward came back to Bella.”
Monica walks to the door, then turns back and shakes her head. “Honey, Preston is not your Edward. Trust me on this.”
I laugh as she disappears.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is time. Although, as I force myself out of bed and into the shower, I wonder at the fairness of only having three weeks to mourn something that took three years to build.
Chapter Two
Campus is packed. A couple of people wave or say hi as I pass, but I’m already late for work and don't feel like being social.
I spent way too much time in the shower, letting the hot water soak into me, as if it could heal me.
It didn’t.
My heart was still broken when I emerged, my skin pink and raw. I knew I was running late, too, but I couldn’t rush getting ready. I’d already run into Preston once before when I looked like hell. Red puffy eyes. Knotty hair. No makeup. I probably looked like I’d been hit by a bus. And the pity in his eyes was too much to handle.
So I never leave the house anymore without looking perfect. Or at least not like a homeless person.
The Cup, a coffee shop and cafe where I work, is located in the student center at the other end of the quad. I decide to take a shortcut through the science building because there’s a bridge leading to the student center from there. Plus, it’s freezing cold outside.
I’m out of breath as I race up the stairs to the second floor. My feet hit the landing, but before I can reach for the heavy metal door, it flies open. My brain registers the danger, but I’m moving way too fast to stop myself as the door connects with my forehead.
Pain explodes behind my eye and across my cheek. I fall backward. My hands flail, searching for anything that might break my fall. Strong hands reach out and grab my arms.
“Shit, are you okay?” a guy asks.
I can’t answer. My vision blurs and the pain spreads like fire across my cheek. I keep my hold on the guy and sink toward the floor, holding both hands up to my face. Something warm and sticky seeps from a gash above my eye. I pull my trembling hands away and force my eyes open. Bright red blood stares back at me and my stomach churns.
I close my eyes again and take a slow, deep breath in. I’m going to faint.
The guy who hit me throws his bag on the ground and unzips it quickly.
“Lean against the wall,” he says, easing me toward the cool cinder-block. He’s squatting beside me. “Watch your hands a sec. Let me clean this up so it doesn’t get infected.”
<
br /> His voice is calm and soothing, but my heart is thumping and I’m close to tears. I never should have left the apartment. What if the rest of my life is just a series of painful events?
I lower my hands for him, but keep my palms up against my legs, not wanting to wipe the blood on my clean jeans.
He puts his hand under my chin and lifts my face up toward his. I feel vulnerable and exposed. Stupid. Who gets hit in the face by a door?
For the first time since I was hit, I really open my eyes and look at the guy who hit me. My mouth drops open slightly and I breathe in, a tingle spreading through my veins. He’s a few years older than me. A grad student maybe? And he’s hot as hell. I study him as he cleans my forehead with an alcohol swab.
His dark-blond hair is long and tousled, dipping down near the collar of his grey t-shirt. As he wipes the blood from my face, the muscles in his arms flex slightly and stretch the material at his bicep. His jeans are worn and his sneakers have holes in them. When he lifts his hand to my head again, I notice a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, but can’t see it well enough to make out what it says.
He looks up and sees me studying him. His eyes are hazel with flecks of bright green and something about him suddenly seems so familiar. In my daze, I can’t quite place him.
He reaches back inside his bag and pulls out a bandage, placing it tenderly over the cut. His fingers linger against my cheek.
I briefly wonder what kind of guy carries alcohol swabs and bandages in his backpack, but the feel of his warm skin against mine distracts me. After being out in the cold wind, I wish I could lean into him.
“Were you a boyscout or something?” I ask, my hand fluttering up toward the bandage. When he looks confused, I add, “The bandages and alcohol.”
“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Med student.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I guess in terms of running into doors, I’m lucky there was a future doctor behind this one.”
A Season For Hope (A Fairhope Christmas Novella) Page 1
