by K. M. Walton
Shelly and I continue to talk, cracking each other up, amazed at the coincidences in our upbringings. It’s like we’ve know each other forever, and the uncertainness I had starts to clear itself up. Not all of it, of course. But I can’t help but think that Gram was right. I am free here. Free to live. Free to change. And yes—it’s terrifying. But it’s also exciting and full of possibilities.
So I let go and enjoy the ride.
Author photo
by Dawn Goei
Suzanne Young is the New York Times bestselling author of The Program series. Originally from Utica, New York, Suzanne moved to Arizona to pursue her dream of not freezing to death. She is a novelist and an English teacher, but not always in that order. Suzanne is the author of several bestselling books, including The Program, The Treatment, The Remedy, The Epidemic, Hotel for the Lost, and All in Pieces. Visit authorsuzanneyoung.com and follow her on Twitter @suzanne_young.
DOOMED?
A SHORT STORY INSPIRED BY MARCY PLAYGROUND’S “ALL THE LIGHTS WENT OUT”
By K. M. Walton
This song is in my “Top Five Favorite Songs of All Time” list. The quiet start and massive, rocking crescendo give me chills without fail. It’s one of those haunting songs that refuses to get old.
—K. M. Walton
SCARLETT
My arms and legs shot straight out in my normal morning stretch, and that’s when I felt the sand.
I was not in my bed.
Instinctively, I rubbed my eyes. Bad idea. Sand scratched my corneas. “Owww!”
I blinked and sat up. And blinked and blinked. Tears ran down my cheeks. I pulled up the bottom of my T-shirt and used it to dust off my face. The wind whipped my hair, stinging my cheeks.
“Hey, beautiful,” someone shouted over the howling. I snapped my head to the left, sand flying, and it all came back to me. It wasn’t morning. It was dusk. Billy and I ran across the street to check out the waves, laid down to cloud watch, and I must’ve fallen asleep. It was so easy to do here. I licked my lips and tasted coconut.
I’d kissed Billy.
Billy.
He was blurry in my teary eyes but now I could see him—lying on his back with his forearms crossed underneath his head. His muscled chest slowly rose and fell with steady, even breaths.
Blue T-shirt, long surf shorts, bare feet.
Sun-drenched brown hair, amber eyes, full lips.
Yeah, Billy. He’d been my next-door neighbor and best friend since we were six. We were seniors now.
I looked away and ran my finger over my mouth.
The ocean raged, all waves and white foam. I was glad we were up by the dunes.
Another massive gust took my breath. I tossed my head back to feel its full force. “Wow,” I shouted. “Is this normal? This is way more intense than they said it would be.”
“Nothing’s normal now,” he said, looking away, and I didn’t know if he was talking about the weather or about us. “It’ll never be the same.”
All of a sudden my stomach dropped. Dread, warm and thick, spread through my veins, my bones. My brain. Kissing him was a mistake. Right? Was that what he meant? He regretted it? It felt like kissing my brother, except I didn’t have a brother, so how would I know?
Shit.
I was not weird, or dumb, or annoying. Okay, maybe I was sort of annoying. I did ask a lot of questions. I’d admit that. But I wasn’t weird. My family ate dinner together every night, I loved my older sister Francine, and I had Billy—but I’d always had Billy. It had always been us. We were a team.
He had patiently taught me how to surf. I had taught him how to do a cartwheel. Turned out I was better at both, and he was completely fine with that. We’d stayed up all night watching Donavon Frankenreiter concerts, quizzed each other before every test we’d ever taken, puked on the beach from stealing and drinking his dad’s whiskey. Basically, we’d been glued to each other for the past eleven years.
That was the problem, though. What about me? Just me? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be an “us” before I found myself. I shook my head. Us? We kissed once. Get over yourself, Scarlett.
What if I still needed more time here?
Billy draped his arm across my legs and said, “Think we blew that fuse in heaven yet?”
I turned away. Him and that stupid, stupid dream. That’s how the whole kissing thing started. He nervously bumbled through the story for, like, the ten millionth time: in the dream I run into his house during a hurricane and head straight into his arms. He pulls back to see my face and tells me, “I love you, Scarlett. I’ve always loved you. If you give me a chance, our love could blow a fuse in heaven.” And then we make out in his little fantasy.
He called it a dream. I called it a fantasy.
Then (and this really happened—no dream), maybe it was the intense gentleness of his stare or the salty wind coming off the ocean, or maybe it was even because I was curious, but, I kissed him. I shit you not.
I had never—as in e v e r—initiated a kiss. I’d been kissed, yes, but I’d never made the kiss happen. Without hesitation I leaned over and pressed my lips to his. He kissed me back, warm and soft.
The thing was, after the kiss I could tell he was solidly convinced I was ready to move on. In addition to using the word “destiny,” he told me that he’d never love anyone like the way he loved me. That if we stayed together we actually could blow a fuse in heaven. Again, I shit you not.
I was not sure what his heaven contained, but mine did not contain fuses. I mean, what kind of heaven had fuses? Would heaven even need fuses? The whole thing was crazy.
My sister Francine had a saying: you can love someone and you can be in love with someone—massive difference.
A clap of thunder boomed overhead. Heaven definitely still had power. That was a sign, right? Fuses were not blown. My gaze dropped to Billy’s face. Right then, right that very second, I wished Billy, his soft lips and impossible fantasy, dream, or whatever you wanted to call it, could be lifted into the heavens.
We kissed, yes. I know. I remember every single second of it because I kissed him. But one kiss doesn’t mean I’m in love. It just doesn’t.
I need more time.
I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined everything.
BILLY
There was a storm coming, a big one. Scarlett’s long, brown hair billowed out behind her as we ran off the beach. Barefoot, holding hands. A sudden gust of wind stole my breath, or maybe it was the way she looked at me. I’d never be sure.
“Faster, Billy!” she shouted and squeezed my hand, pulling me as we ran.
Our houses loomed ahead, across the street from the beach. They sat side by side—mine white with tan shutters, hers tan with white shutters—with only ten feet between them.
“My house?” I asked.
Without turning around, she nodded and continued leading. We ran up my front steps and bent ourselves in half, panting just as the skies opened up. A fresh crack of thunder made us jump.
Scarlett stood up straight and crossed her arms. “Y-you’re lucky I’m faster than you, pokey-pants. You’d still be out there.”
I lifted my brows. “Pokey-pants? Wow, that’s a throwback. What are we, eight again?” I shook my head. “And I let you lead, just so we’re clear, Scarley-warley.” My pace was slow on purpose. I didn’t want to leave the beach. I would’ve stayed there forever, buried us deep in the sand to preserve what happened, what I said to her. What she leaned over and did to me.
That kiss. Holy shit, that kiss.
No one had ever kissed me like that.
Looked like my recurring dream held some power after all. If I’d known talking dreams would make her kiss me, I would’ve made one up when we were in sixth grade. No, maybe even earlier. I’ve loved Scarlett Marcy since the day we met.
She huffed. “Scarley-warley?
I hated when you called me that when we were little kids.” Her eyes darted, refusing to lock onto mine, which made one thing very clear: Scarlett regretted kissing me.
My insides sank. To the porch floorboards. “Hot chocolate?” I asked in an effort to appear totally normal. I had said too much down there. Blowing a fuse in heaven? Really? She was my destiny? Oh my God. I wanted to throw myself into the eye of the storm. To hide my shame-covered face, I bent down and brushed the wet, sticky sand from my feet.
Scarlett did the same. “Do you have whipped cream?”
I gave her a side-eye. She knew I had whipped cream. I always had whipped cream. Hot chocolate was part of our friendship, something we made almost every day. But she questioned everything.
Especially me.
Scarlett ignored me and walked into my house. “Are you coming or not, pokey-pants?”
Even though we lived in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, hot chocolate was a sacred experience with my family. My mom grew up in Pennsylvania so she knew all about warm drinks and winter. Actually, winter was how we ended up down here. She hated it and convinced my dad that moving to Florida the summer before I started first grade would be perfect. We moved next door to the Marcys—I met Scarlett about ten seconds after I got out of the car.
Scarlett and I went around the kitchen in silence, each grabbing our usual ingredients. I always got the cold stuff—the milk, half and half, and whipped cream. She gathered the unsweetened cocoa powder, cinnamon, coconut palm sugar, vanilla, and salt, placing it all next to the sink.
She rummaged through the utensil drawer. “Where’s the whisk?”
I walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder with it. “It was in the dishwasher. It’s clean.”
Scarlett whirled around and we were practically nose to nose. She lifted her big brown eyes to mine and we stared. Hard. So frigging hard. My heart battled against its cage. She is so beautiful.
“Billy?” she whispered.
I swallowed before answering. “Yeah?”
“How do you know—” She stopped, huffed, and shook her head. “I mean, no. Not that.” Scarlett turned on her heel, giving me her back. “Forget it.”
A crashing boom of thunder filled the kitchen. I walked away, legs shaking. “Let’s make this hot chocolate fast, in case we lose power.”
“Hand me the milk and cream, okay?” she said.
I grabbed both containers and put them in front of her. “How do I know what?”
Scarlett stared at the empty cooking pot for a few seconds. “H-how do you know exactly how much sugar to put in?”
Clearly she was making up something stupid instead of finishing what she really wanted to ask me, and knowing she was both embarrassed and outrageously stubborn, I decided to ignore it, play along. Like a total wuss.
“Seriously, Scarlett? You know this is my mom’s recipe and you also know she taught me how to make it. You were here, standing where you are right now, but on a chair. You could make this hot chocolate blindfolded. You know how much sugar to put in. So do I.”
She disregarded me, completely, and measured out a cup and a half of milk and poured it into the pot.
I reached across her, grabbed the half and half, measured a half-cup and dumped it in with the milk. “Do you want to whisk in the rest of the stuff?”
Scarlett shrugged and started tossing in the other ingredients, whisking as she went.
I walked to the cabinet and grabbed two mugs. I squeezed their handles till my knuckles went white. Some force of nature consumed me, filled me up with insecurity, with words. With a question. I used every ounce of restraint I could muster, placed the mugs on the counter, and asked, “Why did you kiss me if you didn’t want to?”
Okay, maybe I wasn’t a total pushover after all. Maybe my balls were swelling in my boxers. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her that question.
She was crying.
Scarlett Marcy never cried.
SCARLETT
I was crying.
I didn’t cry. I used to cry when I was younger, at the normal kid stuff like smashed knees and sunburned shoulders, but I didn’t cry anymore.
Maybe I was weird.
I turned away from Billy and quickly used each shoulder to wipe my cheeks dry. He didn’t hover or ask me a bunch of “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” questions. I knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his style. He knew to pull back and let me work through it.
My attention returned to whisking the hot chocolate. Milk and cream could scald so easily if you didn’t pay close attention. I knew because I’d done it and it ruined the flavor, made everything taste burnt. Even the sweet whipped cream had no power to save scalded hot chocolate.
I guess I’d been gripping it pretty tightly because my fingers were hurting. When I loosened up, I lost control and dropped it. The whisk clattered around inside the pot all by itself for a few seconds before coming to a stop.
“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath. I dried my sweaty palms on my shorts and began whisking again. I kept my gaze down, staring at the frothy chocolate mixture. “I kissed you because I wanted to, that’s why.” I scrunched my nose. Why did I blurt that out? Did I want to or was I just being spontaneous? Did I really want to?
Shit, maybe I’m crazy, too.
He nodded slowly and then gathered the ingredients, going from cabinet to fridge, putting everything back. He closed the refrigerator door and said softly, “You need to move on, Scarlett. Just let go.”
I held a mug over the sink, tilted the pot and poured the hot chocolate. “Here.” Billy took it from me and his fingers softly brushed mine. The other mug shook as I poured one for myself. Somehow I managed to not splash any steaming liquid on my skin.
Billy held up the red can of whipped cream. “Ready?”
I nodded. He squirted a heaping, swirled mound of perfection until I said, “Stop.” He knew when to stop. Of course he knew. I didn’t have to tell him but I did anyway. I always did.
He handed me a spoon and I stirred once, twice, and then took a small sip. Without warning Billy gently wiped the tip of my nose, and I flinched. “You had some whipped cream…” His voice trailed and his cheeks went red. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I put down my mug and thoroughly wiped my face with both hands, just in case. “You didn’t scare me.” His house shook with the biggest explosion of thunder yet. “Sh-shit.” My eyes went wide. “That scared me!”
“You know what scares me?”
“Banana spiders, duh.”
His lips tightened and he drew in a big breath through his nose. “Besides those creatures of the devil.”
“Isn’t this a fun role reversal, you asking me a question?” I slurped up some whipped cream and studied his face. He seemed so serious, maybe sad even. He did think the kiss was a big deal. I am an idiot. Of course he did. He told me he loved me. He looked me right in the eye and said it. “So what scares you? Regrets? The dark? What?”
“You.”
BILLY
Scarlett’s face. God, I wished I was able to take a picture of her face. Mouth hung open, eyebrows lifted towards the sky. Her mug slid forward, spilling the dark brown liquid onto the counter. “You’re gonna lose your whipped cream,” I said.
She put down the mug and without a word walked out of the kitchen and out the front door. I abandoned my hot chocolate and darted to catch her. “Scarlett! Wait!”
She stopped on the top step and turned around. Torrential rain poured down in sheets behind her. The wind blasted and she had to hold onto the banister. I had never felt a gust so powerful. “Me?” she shouted. “I scare you? Since when?”
Maybe everything was wrong. Maybe this was more than a bad storm.
“You know what? Forget it, Billy!”
“Come back inside. Please. Our mugs are still full.” I held out my ha
nd.
She crossed her arms and barreled past me. I followed her back inside. Scarlett plopped into a kitchen chair and looked out the window. “Guess what?” she asked.
I placed our mugs down onto the table and took a seat across from her. “What?”
“You scare me, too.”
“Great. So we’re afraid of each other. Sounds like we’re doomed.”
She laughed, deep and solid. And perfect. “Maybe. Maybe we are doomed.”
I took a sip. Even lukewarm the stuff was delicious. I nodded and then quickly shook my head. “No, wait. That can’t be true. Can it? I mean, doomed? That sounds horrible.”
“You know how if you don’t pay attention to the hot chocolate during the whisking? Like, if you lose focus for even five seconds, it can scald the milk? And then everything tastes awful?”
I swallowed a new sip and narrowed my eyes. “Uh huh.” Where was she going with this?
She spooned what was left of her whipped cream into her mouth and licked her lips. Heat. I felt heat.
She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth and dropped her eyes. “I feel like I lost focus here. On us. I think I scalded us.”
I didn’t understand. “But everything tasted amazing.”
Scarlett grinned and rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about the kiss, Billy. Jeez.”
So she agreed with me. The kiss was…delicious.
She slowly spun her mug a few times, thoughts painted her face. Even though I knew every freckle, every inch of her, I still wondered what it meant that she was rubbing her lip now. She was nervous, that was obvious. But there was something else. Something different. Something exciting almost, some kind of undercurrent. Maybe. Maybe I was misinterpreting this whole thing and she hated everything about that kiss. Maybe she wasn’t ready after all.
Scarlett cleared her throat. “Remember the car accident?”
I tilted my head and gave her a confused stare. I had misinterpreted. And she was kidding wasn’t she? Did I remember? I was there. We both were.
