by Ginger Scott
“For sure. It makes your wild hair make sense, too. Like cosplay,” he says.
I pause from straightening my collar in the mirror and stare at his reflection. He finally meets my gaze and gives me his usual palms-out, “What?”
“Just what every girl dreams of when going to prom. Oh, I hope my date shows up looking like a cartoon.” I roll my eyes and get back to work on my tie, trying to emulate what I learned from my grandfather.
“I didn’t say cartoon. I said cosplay. Very different.”
I laugh at his reasoning. Is it, really?
With my third tie attempt complete, I turn to face my friend and he brushes his hands down my sleeves to straighten the fabric. Grandpa pokes his head in and cuts Jake off, undoing my work and giving me an actual Windsor knot.
“You’ll get it. It takes time,” he assures me, pulling it a little too tight against my neck. I cough and loosen it when he turns.
My mom came home early. I heard her milling around downstairs, and Jake has been in constant communication with Gemma across the street. I’m actually sweating from nerves, and if I hover in my bedroom much longer, I’m going to sweat this powder blue suit right into navy. I give Jake a nod and he leads the way out of my room and down the stairs. My mom is waiting at the bottom, and the minute I step into view, she starts snapping photos with her phone. She is maybe the only person on the planet who I will not give grief to for keeping the fake camera sound installed.
“You look—”
“Beautiful?” I finish.
She gives me a sideways glance and steps closer.
“Handsome, I was going to say.” She does the mom thing, pulling on my collar that does not need her touch, but I let her have her way. She hands me a small box with a pink flower inside.
“Corsage,” she explains.
“Ah, right,” I say. “It goes well with the baby blue. At this point, I look like a gender reveal party.”
My mom lightly slaps the top of my hand.
“The flower is for her, Jonah. You get this handkerchief,” she says, tucking a silk square into my pocket. I catch the dark blue initials stitched on the corner and move my gaze to her eyes, waiting for her to finish making the fold perfect. She nods to my unvoiced question, and I touch the tips of my fingers to the embossed R and W stitched on the silk. This was my dad’s.
The doorbell rings and a new wave of adrenaline spills down my spine. Nothing about this thrown-together gala is traditional. For example, if this were four months from now and Eleanor were not leaving for Texas, I would be backing out of my driveway and pulling into hers to pick her up for steak or lobster followed by some really bad dancing with an overpriced DJ in our high school gym.
But that’s not the prom I’m getting. And neither is she.
I ball my fists at my sides while Grandpa goes to open the door, welcoming Gemma inside. She’s still wearing her jeans and sweatshirt, which means Jake wasn’t kidding when he said this special night is solely for me and Elle.
What felt weird a second ago stops the instant Eleanor Trombley steps through my door. Her black gown drapes to the floor and fits every curve of her body as if it were tailor-made for her. A slit cuts up the side, making it more than just possible for her to walk—it also shows off her long muscular leg every other step. Silver shoes with crystals shine on her feet and lift her a good four inches, making her exactly my height. Even though in terms of attractiveness in this room, she blows me out of the water, she still blushes and looks down while biting her lip when my eyes adore every inch of her face.
“Holy wow,” I utter, fumbling my way through holding out her corsage and stretching the band for her wrist.
My mom is serenading us with her fake camera sounds, capturing every embarrassing and wonderful moment, and I already intend to use my newfound video skills to compile it all for the first email to Eleanor when she leaves.
Tomorrow.
She leaves . . . tomorrow.
I shake off the sadness and focus on the now. Eleanor lifts her wrist and smells the flower, touching the soft petals to her nose.
“My mom helped with that part. I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I stammer. Even if everyone weren’t staring at us, I’m pretty sure I would be babbling like an idiot. I’m wearing a seventies leisure suit and I’m being paired with a supermodel.
“I love it. Thank you,” she says to me, then looks over her shoulder to my mom, who the words are really meant for.
I take advantage of the twist in her neck to admire the way her hair is pinned up on top of her head, thin curls falling around her face and along her back. This must be the magic Jake spoke of in terms of Gemma’s talent. She catches me admiring her when she turns back and our eyes meet.
“Do I look okay?” she asks.
I guffaw because damn, if that’s not fishing.
“Uh, yeah. You—” I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat, glancing down to gain more composure before meeting her eyes again. “Elle, you look beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” she repeats that last word, lips closing in a deep red, satisfied smile.
I hold out my arm for her to take as everyone parts, giving us room to walk back out the door. “Shall we?” I ask. “I’m sure your parents want photos, too.”
“They do,” she confirms.
For the next several minutes, life goes slow. It’s like a little gift for the two of us as her mom fusses over how cute we are, and her dad gets misty-eyed over his little girl. We take care to pose for a few shots with Addy’s picture, too. Her spirit is everywhere and in everything, always. A new house won’t change that, but the feel of her with us isn’t what they’re running from. They’re just bringing the good parts along for the ride.
Somehow, in the middle of all this chaos with moving boxes and the business of getting two people ready for a formal dance just for them, Gemma managed to transform my garage into something damn near enchanted. Grandpa raises the door while Eleanor and I cross the street, and the space is filled with silver balloons and lights and a punch bowl that I’m pretty sure they put there for me.
Eleanor giggles nervously at my side, burying her face against my shoulder as our family and friends all look on while we step into our own private milestone backdrop. “I can’t believe you guys did all of this,” she says.
I spin her to face me and lift her chin with my fingertips. I hold her gaze for a long, quiet moment, enjoying the tension. “They did it all for you. Because you deserve the most amazing prom ever, even in December,” I say.
My mom takes the thin silk wrap that Eleanor has been wearing over her shoulders, and I hold up one hand and rest the other on her hip, electricity popping with every brush and touch of skin to skin. The music fills the garage and I begin to sway her around the room with everyone still watching. It’s her favorite song, which I hoped it would be. Behind her, flurries dance in the night sky, landing on the driveway and sticking long enough to coat everything in a glaze of crystal and white. Grandpa’s heater roars inside, keeping the chill at bay just enough, but I would dance on ice if that’s what I had to do to live this moment with this girl.
My eyes meet Jake’s as everyone backs away to give us privacy.
“Thank you,” I mouth to my friend. He offers a quick wink and puts his arm around Gemma, leading her to his car.
It’s strange to be in here with Elle alone all of a sudden, but I don’t let it change a single thing about our path. We dance through a dozen songs without stopping. All of them slow, and when the fast ones come, we treat them like slow ones too. I memorize her scent, and draw a million lines with my lips along the curve of her neck.
“I love you, Jonah Wydner,” she says.
And I know she means it.
I spin her around, her feet leaving the ground just long enough to pull the world’s best laughter from her chest, and under the spell of joy, I make the same promise to her.
“I love you, too, Eleanor Trombley.”
; Epilogue
Eleanor Trombley
I’m sure leaving my childhood home forever would have left a mark no matter when the time came, but the circumstances I ended up with were devastatingly spectacular. I never expected to fall in love so completely. I never expected to lose my sister. More than that, though, I never expected to be so strong.
I danced with Jonah until the sun was close to coming up. At some point, we ran out of music. It didn’t matter. That garage—his garage—was our tiny little bubble where time stood still. Neither of us were going to do a thing to burst that precious capsule until life forced us to.
Maybe we were both all cried out. Or maybe we both knew it would be okay. Whatever the reason, I didn’t shed a single tear when we left. And neither did Jonah. At least, he says he didn’t.
I left with hope.
I left with a letter.
The same one I’ve read a thousand times over the last five and half months. Gemma keeps begging me to read it to her, but I refuse. Jonah’s note, written in the most perfect handwriting I’ve ever seen, was only meant for me.
That letter contains instructions for goal number one. That goal comes due today. To get here, we both had to commit to actual face-to-face video chats once a week. We had to write something—even if it was only a joke—to the other person once a day. We had to listen when the other person needed understanding ears. And we had to believe that when this day came, we would both show up at the same time ready to set a new goal, and another one after that, all the way until we’ve strung together a future where we’re finally together in the same place, maybe even with the same last name.
But life is short and precious and unpredictable. So his letter, it only asks for us to both have faith for things one at a time. I do, and so does he.
I’ve read this note so much the paper has wrinkled. I had to retrace the map he drew for me with an ink pen to make sure I wouldn’t get lost. It’s taken me this far though. A blue line drawn from a star for Austin, Texas to this spot—Little Rock, Arkansas. It’s not quite halfway. My trip was shorter, and his was longer. He gave himself more to do, as Jonah would.
“Of course I’ll drive more,” he said.
Of course he would.
Even through keeping our promises, there’s still a giddy sense of uncertainty sending tingles all over my body. I haven’t seen him in person in months. People are different when you can touch them, kiss them.
I intend to do both.
I see the Bronco turn from the highway in the distance along the flat horizon. I parked right under the FREE CUP OF COFFEE sign for Olga’s Diner, like he said to do. It’s not my old Volkswagen I’m in, but I probably wouldn’t have made it in that thing anyhow. Dad insisted I have a good, reliable form of transportation to get to and from college in the fall. He expects me to visit home often. I think he also knows there will be many trips to Arkansas.
The Bronco tires kick up clouds of dust as Jonah pulls into the parking lot, and my heart skips two beats when he comes to a stop right in front of me. I feel deliciously faint, and I can hardly feel my hands or feet. I force them to work, though, and open my door and step out of my car as he does the same. I wore the yellow sweatshirt just like he asked, and he’s wearing his gray button-down, this time no long-sleeved shirt underneath. It’s a little warmer than I expected, so I push my sleeves up as I step closer to him, my palms shaking while I hold on to my own arms.
“Hi, Eleanor,” he says, his voice like velvet home.
I bite my lip and grin in relief. Sometimes, life carries on as you want it to.
“Hi, Jonah,” I say, holding out for a single second before leaping into his ready arms and remembering what his kiss feels like.
Two weeks exploring Arkansas, and then we’ll make a new plan and pick a new date. And I believe we will always pull through.
Because Jonah and I are. And we always will be.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Holy moly, this book was a joy. Don’t get me wrong, it wrung out my soul a little, but wow! It felt good. I have so many people to thank for this story, and it starts with my heart and home—my boys, Tim and Carter. The family theme is strong in Candy Colored Sky, and I owe that to them. We are this strong, perfect little triangle, a pod of 3 in a world full of family four-packs, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I have many more to thank for helping me along the way through this Candy Colored journey. First, Tracey Breeden, I don’t know what I did to deserve a truly inspiring friend like you, but I’m glad I got you. You never even flinch at my often strange research questions. Thank you for schooling me! Dylan Allen—THANK YOU for your trust and guidance (and for inspiring me so damn much with your own words). Mariah Dietz, I don’t know that Candy would have made it to the finish line without your encouragement. Thank you! Enormous gratitude goes to my patient and awesome betas, Jen, Shelley and TeriLyn. For once, I gave you something rather finished. Please don’t expect this often LOL! And Aly Stiles, best CP in the world, you push me to be better and I can see myself growing because of you.
Brenda Letendre, you are my polish and shine. Without you, as Jonah would say, I would be derivativeless. And Tina Scott, aka mom, thank you for always helping me send these babies out into the world knowing I did my best.
If you have discovered my words, it’s likely because of the incredibly hard work of Autumn and Wordsmith Publicity (unless I just wore you down on my own). I got a soul sister when I got you, and the faith you have in me gives me life.
If you liked this book, please don’t be shy about it. I wanna hear. More than that, I would be so grateful if you would tell others. Reviews are life for us authors, but so are things like recommendations in person or on websites, posts on social media and those ever-adorable stars on Goodreads. I am so grateful for your help in sharing my words with others. My readers amaze me on the daily, and the fact that through all my awkward weirdness so many of you have stuck around is just mind-boggling. I promise to write my heart out for you, always. But first, I have to go catch a sunset.
If You Liked Candy Colored Sky, You Might Also Like:
The Hard Count by Ginger Scott
Nico Medina’s world is eleven miles away from mine. During the day, it’s a place where doors are open—where homes are lived in, and neighbors love. But when the sun sets, it becomes a place where young boys are afraid, where eyes watch from idling cars that hide in the shadows and wicked smoke flows from pipes.
West End is the kind of place that people survive. It buries them—one at a time, one way or another. And when Nico was a little boy, his mom always told him to run.
I’m Reagan Prescott—coach’s daughter, sister to the prodigal son, daughter in the perfect family.
Life on top.
Lies.
My world is the ugly one. Private school politics and one of the best high school football programs in the country can break even the toughest souls. Our darkness plays out in whispers and rumors, and money and status trump all. I would know—I’ve watched it kill my family slowly, strangling us for years.
In our twisted world, a boy from West End is the only shining light.
Quarterback.
Hero.
Heart.
Good.
I hated him before I needed him.
I fell for him fast.
I loved him when it was almost too late.
When two ugly worlds collide, even the strongest fall. But my world…it hasn’t met the boy from West End.
For More Info:
https://books2read.com/TheHardCount
Also By Ginger Scott
The Varsity Series
Varsity Heartbreaker
Varsity Tiebreaker
Varsity Rulebreaker
The Waiting Series
Waiting on the Sidelines
Going Long
The Hail Mary
Like Us Duet
A Boy Like You
A Girl Like Me<
br />
The Falling Series
This Is Falling
You And Everything After
The Girl I Was Before
In Your Dreams
The Harper Boys
Wild Reckless
Wicked Restless
Standalone Reads
Candy Colored Sky
Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel
Drummer Girl
BRED
Cry Baby
The Hard Count
Memphis
Hold My Breath
Blindness
How We Deal With Gravity
About the Author
Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice and Rita Award-nominated author from Peoria, Arizona. She is the author of several young and new adult romances, including bestsellers Cry Baby, The Hard Count, A Boy Like You, This Is Falling and Wild Reckless.
A sucker for a good romance, Ginger's other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. When she's not writing, the odds are high that she's somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son swing for the fences or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork 'em, Devils).
FIND GINGER ONLINE: www.littlemisswrite.com
SIGN UP FOR GINGER’S NEWSLETTER:
www.littlemisswrite.com/newsletter
