Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  I trudged across the street. Lucy was working at the Bean Counter and thankfully Bella had the night off. Lucy loaned me a pen and piece of paper. I wrote my heart out, spilled all the feelings. I used the L-word. Yep, I confessed my love to Bran on the Bean Counter stationery. I went back and Miles let me inside. Bran’s room looked neat and orderly, like a guy who’s got it together. I placed my sad scrawled note on his pillow and resisted the near-overpowering urge to bury my face into the sheets and breathe in his scent.

  Even now, more than seventy-two hours later, the memory of my last hour in Melbourne makes me feel like my legs plunge into an electric current. Humiliation curls insidious fingers inside my throat, threatening slow strangulation.

  I’d left Bran my flight information in the letter.

  I waited and waited.

  But Bran never came.

  I dawdled in front of the custom area’s metal doors, watching them open and shut with grim finality. Mom’s flight to Honolulu departed first and our good-byes were curt, cold. I don’t know how we’ll ever move past that terrible conversation—the one where she basically accused me of killing Pippa.

  After Mom departed, I bent to tie my shoes, rechecked my carry-on, and feigned lots of stretching. I hoped beyond hope that Bran would come to say good-bye. Let me know I wasn’t alone in this. There are beautiful places inside him, where laughter comes easy, where sweet words appear like surprises. But I also know his bitter valleys. The dark caves where he hides his fears, his hurts, and his disillusionments.

  And he knows mine.

  I guess he didn’t love my geography the same way. Maybe I wasn’t a must-see destination. Maybe my crazy was too much to handle.

  He’d come, had a look, and left, been there done that.

  My flight changed status on the departure screen from “Go to Gate” to “Boarding.”

  And so I left.

  When the wheels departed the earth, I discovered a whole reservoir of unshed tears. By the time I met Dad by the security gate in SFO airport, I had myself almost convinced it was for the best. That I was home and needed.

  That illusion lasted exactly twenty-five minutes. As we turned onto I-280, Dad let the bomb drop.

  He’s leaving Santa Cruz, putting our house—my house—up for sale. He landed an amazing job giving lectures on expedition cruises, not the big, bloated vessels always breaking down in the Caribbean but small boutique ships that visit exotic locations like Greenland, Alaska, or the Galapagos.

  Even Dad is moving on. And when he reaches over to tousle my hair and ask me what my next adventure will be, I somehow didn’t break into a hundred thousand pieces. My roadmap is full of dead ends.

  I steer my creaky bike up the road toward my house—at least my house for the next thirty days. Then who the hell knows what I’ll do. Maybe scrape together the last of my savings and buy a van, live by the river.

  Fireworks continue to pop behind me, down by the ocean, followed by cheers. The sound reverberates through the chambers of my empty heart. I am hollow. The past few days scoured the inside of my body like a Brillo pad, removing the last traces of feeling.

  Survival instinct is amazing. A body can’t be expected to hold the hurts, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, a switch can be flipped. I know it won’t last—it didn’t after Pippa’s accident—but even a few numb minutes are a blessing.

  As much as the van and river daydream seems like enjoyable self-pity wallowing, I know what I really need to do. Suck it up and get back to school in the fall. Spend the summer developing a kickass project and execute it, turn in a senior thesis that will make my advisors weep from my brilliance.

  There’s a bazillion student rentals around UCSC. It’s high time I stop sharing a room with my dead sister and tell her ghost that it’s okay to move on. Just like Mom has, like Dad is starting to, like I need to.

  I sink my kickstand in front of the garage and spy a dead dandelion by the driveway. I impulsively bend down and blow the puff, send seeds spinning in every direction. My family has exploded; there’s nothing I can do to get them back. Life will never be like it used to be.

  The porch light illuminates the seeds as they drift into shadow. This sight should feel sad, but doesn’t. Because there’s this sense, like maybe even though my family’s scattering, we share memories and wherever we land, those memories will remain, even as we put down roots and start anew.

  I wonder when OCD will clamp down again, the powerful need to rein in an illogical control on life, the ultimate uncontrollable. I don’t think I’m cured or anything. But I’m also not so afraid.

  I remember something Bran said when we were hiking in Tasmania, about how people believe they see the same river but the water is always different.

  I am that river. I’m still me, but I’m not the person I was before Pippa died. Or when I left for Australia. Or after I met Bran.

  I am not even the same person I was five minutes ago.

  A flicker lights inside my heart, faint, as if even the most gentle breeze might snuff it out. But it’s there. And it’s hope.

  Hope for myself.

  I unearth my house key from my bike basket when I sense someone behind me. A muffled shriek flies from my throat as I leap forward, back pressed hard against the front door. Dad’s probably in bed, but if I ring the bell—

  “Talia?”

  The familiar deep, accented voice activates every cell in my body. The warm flicker inside me blazes like it’s doused with gasoline.

  “Bran.” What if I manifested this hallucination from sheer longing?

  Or what if this moment is more real than anything that’s ever happened to me?

  The security light flicks on and Dad cracks the door. “Peanut?” He notices Bran on the bottom step, gripping his backpack straps. “You all right out here? Who’s this guy?”

  “I’m fine. Just a friend…surprising me.” Dad sees him too. Bran’s really here, in California, on my front stoop. My smile reaches my ears.

  Dad gives a disapproving rumble. “I’m reading in the kitchen, going to keep the door open.”

  “So”—Bran shifts his weight after Dad retreats—“that’s your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s protective.”

  “Always.”

  “Good,” he says with a short nod. “He cares.”

  “I waited, at the airport, but you didn’t come.”

  “I searched for you, but when I found out you were gone, I took off to the beach. I thought it would help. But I’m an idiot; nothing would help—except putting this right with you. After I got home and found your letter, your flight had already taken off. So I drove straight to the airport and bought a ticket. Because I wanted to say I’m sorry and ask if you’ll still consider Tasmania. Do the project that professor offered you. When I finish up my honors in nine months, you can pick the next place. We can go anywhere. Do anything.”

  Too much information, my brain slows. I can only process bits and pieces. “You flew,” I murmur, trying to find my bearings. Only one point remains on my internal compass and it’s Bran’s hesitant smile.

  “I white-knuckled it through wicked turbulence near Hawaii, but I made it.”

  “You conquered a dragon for me.”

  “Hardly. But I didn’t want you to never know that I…I love you, Talia.”

  My heart thunders in my chest. “But…but…you said you didn’t believe in—”

  “That was me being a coward and an ass. This is real, Talia. This right here. Since you stopped for me on the sidewalk, I knew.”

  “Say it again.”

  He drops his bag and reaches for me. “I love you.” A tear drops to my cheek and he kisses it away. “I love you and you don’t have to say anything, but I…I really think you are in love with me too.” His declaration is defiant, like he expects me to argue.

  “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

  An expression like he’s half strangling and half about to strangle me cr
osses his features.

  I brace his face between my hands. “I’ve been falling for you ever since you followed me out of the pub that first night. You see me, Bran, and you didn’t run—you came closer.”

  “So you’ll give us a second chance?”

  I can’t move, paralyzed by the flood of raw emotion. “Nope.”

  He slumps against the handrail. Deep bruises half ring his beautiful but bloodshot eyes. He looks exhausted, spent. Terrible, actually.

  He’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Screw second chances, Bran. I am going to mess up way more than twice. Before we take this any further, you need to be crystal-clear about that fact. I might have three separate catastrophes before breakfast.”

  “I want it all. The catastrophes. The mornings. Every day with you.” His hands migrate to my hips and the force of his embrace lifts me off my feet.

  “We fit.” I kiss his scruffy cheek. “You’re my perfectly imperfect key.”

  “You’re the key to everything.” He looks directly at me and lets me in, and I see all his fear, and love, and know what this admission costs him.

  “I’ll move to Australia,” I say softly, and he shivers against me. “To finish school and find out if we can live together without going berserk.”

  “You mean it? Despite the fact that I’m a fucking idiot, you’ll really come back?”

  “Yes. See, I kinda, sorta love you too.”

  He dips me and his mouth is a whole lot of hot, like he’s branding himself to my lips.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! More pyrotechnics shoot from the beach. Fireworks detonate overhead.

  I wrap my arms around Bran’s neck and return his kiss with everything I’ve got. Maybe I’m turned upside down, but at last I’ve landed right side up.

  About the Author

  Lia Riley writes New Adult romance. After studying at the University of Montana–Missoula, she scoured the world armed only with a backpack, overconfidence, and a terrible sense of direction. She counts shooting vodka with a Ukranian mechanic in Antarctica, sipping yerba maté with gauchos in Chile, and swilling Fourex with station hands in outback Australia among her accomplishments.

  A British literature fanatic at heart, Lia considers Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester her fictional boyfriends. Her very patient husband doesn’t mind. Much. When not torturing heroes (because, c’mon, who doesn’t love a good tortured hero?), Lia herds unruly chickens, camps, beachcombs, daydreams about as-yet-unwritten books, wades through a mile-high TBR pile, and schemes yet another trip. She and her family live mostly in Northern California.

  LOVE IS UNCHARTED TERRITORY

  See the next page for a preview of the second book in the OFF THE MAP trilogy

  SIDESWIPED

  Chapter One

  Talia

  September

  Our California bungalow sits empty, a headstone for a ghost family. The rooms are tomb quiet, devoid of any comforting, familiar clutter. All the stuff, tangible proof the Stolfi family once existed, rots in a long-term storage unit. When the movers hauled off the last cardboard boxes, they took more than precious memories. They snatched my breadcrumb trail. The last stupid, irrational hope that Mom, Dad, and I could somehow find a way back together.

  These bare walls reflect the stark truth. We’re over. My family’s done. A cashed-up Silicon Valley couple craving a beach town escape will snap up the house by the weekend.

  I pause near the front window and chew the inside of my cheek. Dad’s Realtor drives a FOR SALE sign into the front yard. The invisible dumbbell lodged in my sternum increases in weight with every hammer strike. Seriously? Do I need to witness this final nail in the coffin?

  If fate exists, she’s one evil bitch.

  I turn and trace my finger over the hip-high door leading to the under-the-stairs closet. Inside is the crawl space where my older sister, Pippa, and I once played castle. Now I’m the only one left, a princess with a broken crown, my home a shattered kingdom.

  Pippa is gone. The result of a stupid, preventable car accident followed by a grueling year where she lay suspended in a vegetative half-life while Dad, Mom, and I clung to a single, destructive lie: She will get better.

  I learned my lesson. Things don’t always work out for the best. False hope destroys quicker than despair.

  Mom checked out, filed for divorce, and hides in her parents’ Hawaiian compound where she dabbles in New Age quackery while nursing a discreet alcohol addiction. Dad recently crawled from the rubble, brushed clear the cobwebs, and returned to the business of life. He quit his cushy job with the U.S. Geological Survey and hit the road on his own midlife escapade, giving expedition cruise ship lectures.

  The day we turned off Pippa’s life support, our family died with her.

  Breathe.

  Terrible things happen if I allow myself to key up.

  Come on—in and out. Good girl.

  Better to say that Mom, Dad, and I stumbled to the other side, battered like characters at the end of a cheesy post-apocalyptic flick. I wouldn’t go so far as to say life is easy, but there’s less falling shrapnel. These days, when I brave a glance to the horizon—I could be kidding myself—or maybe the coast is actually clear.

  I check my watch, still no sign of Sunny or Beth. I love my girls, hard. They rallied, stepped up, and closed ranks when I crawled home from Australia in June, heartsick and dazed from the fallout with one Brandon Lockhart. Even after Bran flew in unannounced to commence the world’s most epic grovel, they remain suspicious.

  Bran.

  My heart kicks into fifth gear, like it always does, responding to the mere thought of his name. Tingles zing through my spine as I cover my mouth to hide my secret smile. Tonight, at 31,000 feet, I’ll cross the International Date Line. Bran waits for me in Tomorrowland. Here’s my golden opportunity to rebuild a life nearly torn from the hinges by stupid fucking obsessive-compulsive disorder.

  I’m getting better and I’ll only grow stronger. The next few months are organized around two major goals: (1) Give Bran every ounce of my giddy, dizzy love, and (2) finish my senior thesis and graduate. My UCSC advisor approved my oral history project and a professor at the University of Tasmania agreed to supervise. Once that baby’s done and dusted, our future waits, ready to shine.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Pippa, as if she’s listening.

  Either way, the words taste sweet.

  “Knock, knock. Hey, who’s the creeper out front?” Sunny breezes into the hollow void, once upon a time a disorderly foyer brimming with Dad’s surfboards. She stops short and stares. “Holy demolition, Batman.”

  “Your house!” Beth enters half a step behind and slides up her Ray-Bans. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” My throat squeezes, making the next words difficult. “Looks pretty crazy, though, right?” Change, even for the best reasons, is still effing scary. I’m a California girl, born and raised in Santa Cruz, except for last year’s roller-coaster study abroad. When I cruise around town, people here know my name.

  And all the hoary, gory details of my family’s slow disintegration.

  In Australia, any personal details I share will be of my choosing. There’s a certain freedom in anonymity. How many people are given a blank canvas, the chance to paint a whole new life alongside the guy who rocks their world?

  “Earth to Talia.” Sunny waves an ink-stained hand in front of my face. “Want your good-bye gift?”

  Beth rolls her eyes. “You’re not really giving that to her, are you?”

  “Shut your face.” Sunny thrusts me a small wrapped package. “It’s hilarious. Talia will appreciate it. She has a sense of humor.”

  “Careful,” Beth stage whispers, nudging my hip. “Someone’s a little edgy this morning. Last night, Jeremy tried to define their relationship.”

  “Ruh-roh. Not the DTR!” I rip the present’s paper along the seam. Jeremy, Sunny’s current booty call, works as a diver on an abalone farm
north of town. “Isn’t that a strictly friends with benefits arrangement?”

  “Not even.” Sunny readjusts her infinity scarf, brows knit in annoyance. “Friendship implies the capacity for rudimentary conversation. Jeremy sports lickable biceps—no doubt—but that boy’s one fry short of a Happy Meal. He’s hump-buddy material, pure and simple.”

  “Was he crushed?”

  “Like a grape. He cried into his can of Natty Ice.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Poor guy, don’t mock him.” Beth is a whopping whole year older and seems to find life purpose in playing the mature, responsible role. Pippa used to be the exact same way.

  When our trio was a foursome.

  “He made me hitch home at three a.m. I swear, I’m off guys, for reals, yo.” Sunny opens her baby blues extra wide as if to prove she really means this oft-repeated phrase.

  “Yeah, right, until when? Next Tuesday?” Beth fires back.

  These two bicker worse than an old married couple. But Beth has a point. Sunny breaks hearts up and down the coast. You could almost call it a hobby.

  I crumple the wrapping paper into my fist. “Seriously?” Sunny’s gift swings between my two fingers—a chef’s apron with BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT embroidered across the front. “Um, thanks?”

  She giggles wickedly. “That’s my prediction for you. By Christmas. Spring at the latest. Except you better add getting married into the equation. I don’t want my pseudo-niece or nephew born into sin.”