Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Not Your Fault
Copyright © 2013 by Cheyanne Young
Cover design by Clarissa at bookcoversale.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems -except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from the author at [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Amazon Kindle edition.
First edition, September 12, 2013
For Susan Connally, who trusts my crazy ideas.
And for Melissa Anderson, who encourages them.
Chapter 1
The worst part of life as a human is that I’m stuck inside my own head all day. And here’s the thing: my mind doesn’t shut up. I’m always on. In the mornings, at night. When I’m shopping for groceries or taking a shower. Even when I sleep, I dream. It’s like spending an eternity locked up in a basement, handcuffed to the world’s most annoying person and duct tape is over your mouth but they’re talking. And they’re reading your personal journal and they’re bringing up every embarrassing memory of your past and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re in handcuffs and they just keep talking.
For once, I would just like to shut off my brain. Even just for a minute. I’d give all my worldly possessions for the ability to spend an entire sixty seconds in a private, no thinking moment. Because then I wouldn’t have to listen to my heart whine about being forced to show love and affection to a man I’ve grown to have less actual feelings for than my neighbor’s obnoxious Pomeranian. I wouldn’t have to think about how all my life’s accomplishments aren’t even worthy of a kindergarten field day participation sticker.
I punch at the worn button on my car’s radio, drowning my eardrums in alternative rock music. I know I’m just being overly stupid and allowing the painful grip of self-loathing to close too tightly around my neck. My life isn’t bad. It’s perfectly acceptable. Good, even. I’m just not happy. And I can’t help that, or make excuses for it. I am not happy. It is what it is.
Grandma’s voice pushes itself into my already overcrowded mind. I focus on the highway in front of me as I remember how her voice sounded, all raspy and worn from a life of hard work. If she could hear me now, see me now, in this state of apathetic numbness, she’d smile, but it would look like a frown from all the wrinkles on her mouth from decades of smoking. She’d wrap an arm around my shoulders and pull me close and say what she always liked to say. “The things you take for granted are what someone else is praying for.”
My index fingers drum on the steering wheel of my seven-year-old Ford Mustang. Music blasts my eardrums and my teeth dig into the inside of my lip. It’s been nine years since my seventeenth birthday when my brother Tyler died. I was supposed to have it all figured out by now. I was supposed to be an adult, with a real education and not some two-year community college thing. My brother was supposed to be a lawyer. Hell, he was supposed to be alive. My future was all shiny and bright, with a real career and a husband and kids. I was going to marry my high school sweetheart. A painful lump rises in my throat at the thought of him, and I swallow it down. Then I turn the radio up even louder. I will not think of Kris Payne.
I’m daydreaming about what could be an amazing breakthrough in medical technology when I pull into the parking lot of Carson’s Gym. If only some skilled doctor could figure out a way to install a toggle switch on the back of my neck, where half the time I could have it in the normal position, and then when I feel like escaping my thoughts—bam! Instant lobotomy. I laugh, in spite of myself and grab my workout clothes from the passenger seat.
Susan presses a manicured hand to my chest as I walk inside the gym. In her other hand is a glass of red wine, custom painted for her with a pink and zebra print S monogram on the glass. “Oh no you did not get here two hours early again,” she says, taking a long gulp of her favorite liquid. “Your shift starts at seven, and it always has.”
“I’m going to work out,” I say, pushing past her and sliding behind the employee’s-only sliding door at the front desk. I drop my purse in my cubbyhole and head to the locker rooms to change clothes, ignoring her rant about how I need to live my life and not spend all my time at the gym.
I am living my life. It’s just, you know, at the gym. Guilt prickles me as I change clothes. Normally, I tell Susan everything because I’ve known her forever and she’s old enough to be a mother figure to me, but young enough to be the big sister I never had. She gives me the advice that my peers can’t give, because all my girlfriends are fairly stupid. But I haven’t told her why I’ve been getting to work two hours early every day for the last week.
Because she’ll want to talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it. About how I’ve been dating the nicest, most educated and successful man I’ve ever dated for over a year now and yet I’m tired of being around him. He wants to spend every waking moment together, and even the non-waking moments, like when I’m sleeping during the day after my night shift and he uses the house key I should have never given him to come in my house and crawl into bed next to me.
He doesn’t do anything wrong. He’s sweet and he’s caring and I’m just an asshole. I need time to myself without him, so I may have lied a few times lately, saying I have to teach an aerobics dance class at the gym before my shift. It’s not my fault he doesn’t use his gym membership so he wouldn’t know I’m lying because there is no aerobics dance class at this time of day. It’s yoga.
My phone buzzes at three forty-five in the morning while I’m half-asleep in my chair. Knowing it’s probably my kid sister Cat, drunkenly texting me how much she fucking loves me and other sentiments after her night of barhopping, I take my time reading the message. When I sit up in my chair—a cushiony fake leather monstrosity that should be behind an attorney’s desk instead of at the gym, someone laughs at me.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
Covering my yawn with a fist, I stretch my arms back and wave at Austin, a meathead who lifts weights here every morning before heading to work at the oil refinery down the road. He’s the only one here at this hour, but soon all the night shift nurses will arrive for their after work spin class. Those women are rock stars.
“I wasn’t snoring, was I?”
He drags a towel across his silky shaved head. “Nah, Sunshine, you sleep like a little angel.”
My phone buzzes again and then again a second later. The incoming texts aren’t misspelled lines of adoration from Cat. It’s a text from Nathan.
Hey Beautiful
Hope work is going well. I can’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking about you.
Love you!
My thumb types I love you too, and sends the reply. A knot forms in the center of my chest and I let out a sigh that turns into a yawn. A year ago I would have fal
len to pieces had he texted me something so sweet at such a random time when he should be sleeping. Now…it just feels like nothing. I used to pray that Nathan would ask me out when we met through mutual friends. And then he did, and life was awesome. What happened?
“What’s wrong, Sunshine?” Austin coos from across the gym. He racks his weights and heads over to the weight bench. “You look all sad and shit.”
“You don’t have to call me Sunshine all the time, you know.” I head to the coffee machine and shove my mug under the spout. “My name is Delaney.”
Austin leans back on the bench and begins shoulder presses. “I can’t help it, Sunshine. Maybe it’s that charming personality of yours.”
I flip him the middle finger while I sip from my coffee. “Hey now,” he says between bench presses. “Don’t go suggesting things you can’t fulfill.”
I roll my eyes and head back to the front desk to hide the red that rushes into my cheeks. Yeah okay. My life isn’t perfect. But I have a boyfriend who loves me, a round ass from doing squats during slow work hours, and my job may not be very glamorous, but it pays well for tiny Texas town of Mixon. I glance back at Austin and he gives me a wink, the veins in his biceps bulging with every press. Watching hot guys pump iron and talk smack to me all night isn’t exactly terrible working conditions. Maybe my life isn’t so bad after all.
Chapter 2
Nathan bounces out of his bed and my body flies an inch off the mattress as the old box spring screams for mercy. “What the hell?” I groan, pulling the sheets up over my breasts as he runs across the room and turns his back toward his bedroom door. Catapulting out of bed right before I begin one of my world famous blowjobs isn’t exactly polite.
“Sorry babe,” he says, right before releasing a fart into the hallway that is as gross as it is loud.
I throw my arm across my eyes and roll over, pressing my head into the pillow. “God, Nate.”
The bed sinks as he lowers himself under the covers next to me, sliding a smooth hand over my lower back. “What was I supposed to do? I can’t let one rip under the sheets!” He snorts as his hand grazes slowly over my ass and back up again, in what is his attempt to get me back in the mood. “Probably shouldn’t have had Mexican food,” he murmurs as his hand slides up and cups the side of my boob. His lips graze the back of my neck.
And here’s the thing: I feel nothing.
With a sigh, I roll over and face him. “What happened to us?”
The brief flicker of panic that crosses over his features doesn’t escape me. He props himself up on one arm and those big blue-green eyes search mine for a sign that everything is okay. “What do you mean, babe?”
“You never used to fart in front of me before. Now you do it all the time.”
“Babe, we’ve been together for six years…I think we can fart in front of each other now.”
I pull the sheets tighter around my body, suddenly feeling dirty. “No, Nate. Just…no. You can’t just do that in front of me. It’s not sexy.”
He lifts an eyebrow and pushes himself toward the other side of the bed. “You’re over reacting, Delaney. It’s a normal body function. Are you going to get all pissed off the next time I get up to take a leak?”
“Your point is valid,” I say with a sigh. “Of course you’re allowed to pee, I just—” I suck in a deep breath and let it out. “I can’t give you a blow job tonight. Not with the fear of getting stink bombed while I’m down there.”
He laughs, drawing his hand down his beard. “I deserve that. Come on, we’ll skip to the fun part.”
He presses his body against mine and goes in for a kiss, which I reluctantly return. He bites my lip and I pull away. It’s right about now that a lobotomy toggle switch would be really helpful. “What is wrong with you?” he whines, going in for another kiss.
I press my hand to his chest. “I’m just not in the mood right now.”
He rolls closer to me, the hairs on his chest brushing against my arm. “What can I do to get you in the mood?” he whispers. I look down to avoid meeting his sad little puppy gaze, but instead I focus on his chubby man boob pressed against my skin. I’ve never had a problem with him being overweight. And I still don’t. But right now, I am not the least bit turned on and this is not helping. I just want to go home.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up and grabbing my shirt from the nightstand. “I think I need to leave.”
“What the fuck, Delaney?” Nathan throws himself out of bed and crosses his arms, his boner pointing straight at me as if it’s accusing me of treason. “We haven’t had sex in over a week because of your stupid job.”
I jump into my clothing as fast as possible, buttoning my jeans without bothering to zip them. I never meant for this to turn into an argument. This was supposed to be a good night. I don’t know why I’m ruining it by getting upset over something stupid. But my gut tells me to leave because I know I’ll be happier at home, on my own couch, watching old episodes of whatever is on Netflix.
I press my lips together and keep my voice calm. There’s no need to yell, because I’m not angry. But he’s been with me for six years and he deserves to know what’s in my heart. “We haven’t had sex in over a week because I haven’t wanted to.”
Susan shakes her head from the elliptical machine next to me. “Honey you’re gonna make that boy cry. I can’t believe you said that.”
The lime green LED lights on my elliptical show how many calories I’ve burned, and it’s not nearly enough to make up for this morning’s two glazed donuts. And bacon. And, well, that third glazed donut. I raise the machine’s resistance and give Susan an apathetic smile. It’s my day off work and yet I’m here with Susan, working out instead of doing something fun. I think that says a lot about my situation. “I can’t believe I said it myself. I feel like an asshole.”
“Nah…” she begins, trailing off, I guess, after she realizes there’s no truthful way to deny what I just said. I am an asshole to Nathan, and he doesn’t deserve it.
“There was just something about his hairy man boob,” I say with a shudder that makes her laugh. “I couldn’t bring myself to have sex with someone who farts loudly in front of me and then presses his boob against me.”
Susan eyes the dashboard on my elliptical and then raises her resistance level to where it matches mine. “I thought you two had a great sex life. Why did you suddenly change your mind?”
It wasn’t sudden, but she doesn’t know that because I’ve kept her out of my private life for a few weeks. I wonder if I should tell her the truth, about the total life-hating assholery adventure I’ve been on lately, or if I should just continue with the lie and let her think I’ve suddenly fallen out of love with my boyfriend.
Someone lets out a low whistle. “Damn that ass, Sunshine.” I glance back to see Austin and his sixteen-year-old brother walking past us toward the weight room. “He shoots a finger gun at me and then at Susan, giving us a wink. “Both of those asses.” He shakes his head and covers his brother’s eyes. “You’re not old enough to see gorgeousness of this magnitude, bro.”
“Jesus Christ, Austin. Stop teaching the boy to be a pig like you,” Susan says in a horrible imitation of someone who’s actually annoyed by the compliment instead of flattered. She turns back to me. “Thank God for sixty dollar ass-lifting yoga pants, eh?”
She’s right. The yoga pants are magical. “Oh, my god!” Susan squeals right as my arm stings from where she slaps me. “You like—” she glances toward the weight room and then lowers her voice. “You like Austin!”
“What?” I spit out, gasping for air as I race against my own endurance on the elliptical. “No I don’t.”
“Girl, you’re red as hell, and it’s not from working out.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I saw the way you looked at him just now. And don’t even act like you didn’t stand straighter to make your ass look better.”
“You are out of your mind,” I mutter as I stare straight ahead. “Austin is m
erely eye candy. Nothing wrong with that.”
She rolls her eyes and lowers the resistance on her machine. “Sure, whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“He’s slept with just about every girl who graduated with me in high school. I have no desire to be with him, ever.”
She finally shuts her freaking mouth long enough for us to finish our workout, shower and get dressed. I’m halfway through applying my eyeliner when she brings the subject up again. “I think I know what your problem is,” she says, tousling her long blond hair into a messy bun.
“That I have a nosey friend who needs to shut up?” I say as I glare at her through the locker room mirror.
Susan presses her lips together in a sarcastic duck-face and slides two bobby pins under her bangs. “You’re surrounded by sexy men. You need to date a sexy man.”
She says the last two words as if all I need to do is go to the man store and pluck one off the shelf labeled Sexy. “Nathan is sexy,” I say. “I think maybe I’m just not good at relationships.”
“Do you want to break up with Nathan?” She asks the question as if it’s a threat and I’m not sure how to answer. Though the thought has occurred to me a lot lately, I can’t bring myself to think or even say the words break up. It’s just so…harsh. I mean, he hasn’t done anything wrong. This is all my fault.
Her cold fingers grab my shoulder. “Your silence says it all, sweetie. Get out there and ask Austin to take you lunch.”
“Oh my God, shut up,” I say, shoving my mascara wand at her. “I do not like Austin. He is probably crawling with diseases. In fact, we should go sterilize the weights.”
Susan perches on the bench next to me, touching her finger to her lips and then pointing to me. “Do you remember why you went after Nathan in the first place? Because he was cute and chubby. The last—what?—four guys you dated were total beanpoles and you spent all your time bitching that their skinny asses made you feel fat.”
Not Your Fault Page 1
