Life Plus One

by Rachel Robinson

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Table of Contents

  Life Plus One

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Spin the Bottle

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Save the Only Dance

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Virginity Clause

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Fate Ballet

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  International Bestselling Author, Rachel Robinson

  Copyright © 2017 Rachel Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Allison Martin at MakeReady Designs

  Cover Image by Perrywinkle Photography

  Edited by Emily A. Lawrence at Lawrence Editing

  Proofreading by J. Wells

  Formatted by C.P. Smith

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  For those who persevere regardless of circumstance.

  Never give up.

  Prologue

  Harper

  She floats down the aisle. It would be a cruel stereotype if I said she looked like an angel, but she does. In every sense of the word. The ivory empire waist gown hugs every curve just so. Her smile is all white teeth and exhilarating excitement. Mostly, above everything else, you can see happiness and love washing every tiny molecule that forms her as a human being. She is radiant. It’s her wedding day, so the breathtaking glow makes every bit of sense even if I don’t like it.

  It takes a full five seconds for me to swallow the lump down my throat before I let my gaze find what it so desperately seeks. I’m convinced that best friends have another sense. A weird electric connection that brings you to each other regardless of the gravitational pull. I meet his eyes, and he senses my small movement from the other side of the aisle—the pastor stands in between us. He’s the groom, and while I would have had no qualms about standing on that side, next to him, when she asked me to be her maid of honor, I had to say yes.

  So, here I stand, wearing a rose-colored midi length dress that’s actually cute, carrying a swath of flowers, watching Ben, my best friend since age three, marry her. He smiles at me and I see everything behind it. I know him like the back of my hand, like a conjoined twin, like the only man I’ve ever loved. I force a small smile, a show of confidence, and thank God she arrives at the altar to block his view because it’s in that second my eyes glass over. Ben’s smile wasn’t the same as hers. No, it conveyed an entirely different story. One that only I’ll be able to tell. I fix the train on her dress and she turns her mega-watt happiness on me in a bubbly, “Thank you, Harper.”

  I nod and smile and embrace the razor blade pain slicing through my chest as I accept her bouquet.

  I take my place behind the bride and inhale a deep breath. I can live with the agony. Him baring witness to it is a complication neither of us needs. Tilting my head down, I pretend to be grossly interested in the florist’s work as the pastor begins the ceremony. It’s small and intimate, which I’m thankful for. I don’t dare look at my parents, or his, for fear of losing my mind completely. The spiral on this particular blush rose is perfect. I trace it with my eyes to distract myself from the ugly truth.

  I should be in that dress, oozing love and affection, attached to Ben forever. Our timing has always been off and our near hits equal our near misses. The score was tied, ready to be broken. It needed to be settled. Then she got pregnant. I chance a glance up and find Ben gazing at her stomach. She was able to hide it easily as she’s tall and glamourous and no one is looking at her stomach when her face looks like that, anyways. She worried about it for no good reason, now that I think about it.

  I can’t even be upset with her. She’s that nice, and as much as I hate to admit it, they’re good together. The night before she broke the baby news, Ben and myself were at a bowling alley, drinking cheap beer and throwing gutter balls during Glo-Light hour. He told me he loved me.

  We’ve told each other those three little words a million times over. Maybe even a billion. That’s what happens when you have a person in your life for so long. But that cheap bowling alley I love you was different. It was the first forever one. The kind you say when you know you want to take someone and keep a piece of them forever.

  Ben looks away from his bride and meets my eyes. It’s a brief, time-freezing movement, I’m sure no one else noticed, but in that still frame, I saw and understood all he meant to convey.

  The pastor pronounces them husband and wife and I let my eyes flutter closed as Ben leans over to seal their marriage with a kiss. In that look, Ben told me he’s sorry, that he wished it were me, that everything will be okay, and that he loves me—the forever kind. My stomach knots as a sheen of sweat breaks out across my forehead.

  That’s the thing with love. Life doesn’t care what you love. It takes it away anyway.

  A tear slips down my cheek and lands right on that perfect rose. I see a flash of a past that held promise of a future. Bubble gum. A cloud. A promise. A kiss. A pact.

  I’ll forever hold my peace, but that doesn’t mean my heart didn’t ice over when he said I do.

  Chapter One

  Harper

  The past

  We receive our acceptance letters on the same day. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, we make a ceremony of opening the envelopes together. Benny’s eyes are focused like lasers on the seemingly harmless paper object in between his fingers. I toss mine in the air and catch it by a corner. I repeat the trick a few times, watching the stamp in the corner as I go.

  “One…two…three,” Benny says, glancing up to find my gaze. We never thought to consider one of us wouldn’t get in. There was never any question, really. We’re those types of people. We go together. We conquer Harvard like freaking elitist bastards and then move on to world domination. Plus, both of our envelopes are fat.

  “Go!” I shout, as I carefully slide my forefinger under the side of the flap and tear across. Benny does the same, pushing his glasses up his nose using one finger. Our parents, all four of them, are seated on the long sectional couch, breathing hea
vy, eyes wide in anticipation. I think it’s just for show. They know there’s no question as well. We’re not secretly driven. Everyone and everything that surrounds us knows it as a fact.

  When Benny and I were eight we performed a knock-down-drag-out-awesome-play of The Lion King. I was Simba and he was Zazu because he had a better pretend accent. Our parents sipped the iced tea we made and clapped along the entire time. I made the costumes and Benny wrote our lines. It was a team effort. All of our lives it’s been a team effort.

  “I got in!” Benny yells, holding the thick piece of paper up in the air.

  I can’t help it. I can’t. I stop unfolding my letter and watch him bask in this moment. His smile is wide and his face is at the pinnacle of happiness.

  “Open it, Harpee. Read yours!” he says when he sees my pause. Our parents are congratulating him, my father shaking his hand and both mothers crying like the sappy people they are. They became best friends by proxy of Benny’s and my friendship. We always understood they would have become best friends without us. They are so alike it’s scary.

  I follow Benny’s order, smiling when my eyes find the part that says, Congratulations! Standing, I meet my parents’ gaze and as levelly as I can manage I say, “Your daughter is going to be a Harvardian.”

  The room breaks out into a roar. Someone knocks over a drink. My father picks me up and spins me around like I’m five instead of eighteen. Whoops of gleeful cheers bounce off the walls and laughter steals any foul thoughts from the atmosphere.

  “Dad, you realize this means I’ll be in debt until I’m thirty. Even with my scholarships. You shouldn’t be so happy,” I deadpan. My stomach is bubbling with joy and satisfaction, with validation. All those years of never fitting in and working hard has finally paid off. If I can downplay the emotions coiling in my system, I won’t embarrass myself. I’m not a person who shows my true feelings. Even the good ones.

  “Oh, hush your mouth, Harper, we’re so proud of you, honey,” Mom says. She looks at Benny. “We’re so proud of both of you. You’re going to do great things.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us already.” Tears well in the corner of her eyes and it’s time to close my own eyes. Mother tears are dangerous and contagious.

  My father releases me, takes the letter from my hands to see it for himself, and my mom absorbs me into her arms. “I love you, Harper Jean.”

  I respond to her sentiment, but Benny catches my eye.

  He’s hugging his mother, but peeking at me over her shoulder. I stick my tongue out at him, and he crosses his eyes. His glasses slide down his nose. I peel up my top lip to expose my front teeth. He mimics my gesture except he flares his nostrils, too. “Harvard,” I mouth, when our dumb face match has ended.

  His mom releases him the same time my mom lets me out of her proud clutches.

  “Tequila!” Benny’s dad roars, and we both shake our heads. Our parents are celebrating our accomplishment. It makes little sense to me. The four of them find their way to the bar area, a place we frequent when they aren’t home, and Benny and I are left vibrating with excitement.

  “Harpee, this is the best thing ever,” he says.

  Sliding his hands in his pockets, he starts bobbing up and down. I notice the muscles in his arms bunch at the movement. Girls look at him more than they ever did before. It made me jealous for a spell because I didn’t understand why boys weren’t noticing me. I’m not flat-chested anymore and I let my practical haircut grow longer. My aunt showed me how to wear tasteful makeup. Benny laughed off my concerns and said it was probably because I had a boy for a best friend. He said it was like a dog peeing on a hydrant. The territory is marked. I argued that dogs pee on the hydrant over and over trying to cover up the other dogs’ scents and accused him of comparing me to a hydrant. He said he was the dog in the analogy so I shouldn’t get my girly emotions in a twist. I agreed with him.

  I put my hands on his shoulders. He’s bigger now—taller and broader than he used to be. “Benny,” I say, biting my lip. “This is going to be the greatest adventure of our lives!”

  He picks me up under my arms and spins me around, the smile on his face comforting and familiar. He sets me back down and we do a stupid dance all the kids at school are doing. Our parents are lost in their drinks, watching us over the rims of their glasses as we act like geeky, Harvard-bound fools.

  “I think this calls for the understated elegance of song,” Benny says, taking my hands in his. They’re warm, and for a second I get lost in his touch. It happens more and more and I’m not sure what it means. He denies any sort of realization of things changing between us, so I try not to bring it up.

  I cross my arms, and he crosses his and grabs mine. At the same time, we suck in a huge giant breath. “Harbenny, Harbenny, getcha, bitchen some, we rule the world, who is number one?” We raise and lower our hands in our secret song handshake as the words spill from our lips. We repeat it one more time, louder this time, and at the end we’re laughing so hard we fall back against the couch, one of his hands still lying atop mine.

  “Life is finally starting,” he whispers so no one else hears. The happiness in this moment is fleeting, because it reminds me of how shitty of a time we’ve had up until this point. The bullying and the not so veiled insults slung our way mean very little in the big scheme of things. We were lucky enough to realize that from a young age. We clung tight to each other and the promise of more. The promise of this feeling, in this moment, right here. It was all worth it.

  I don’t say anything in reply because he already knows my sentiments reflect his. I squeeze his hand instead, comfortable merely breathing together with thoughts of a thrilling future.

  Smirking, I turn to look at him. “We’re going to rule the world, Benny. Just you wait and see.”

  Benny wrinkles his nose. “I smell popcorn,” he remarks. I point a finger at our parents as they shovel popcorn in their mouths alternately between their adult beverages. They look at us every so often. “What are they going to do when we leave them to their own devices?”

  “Finally live?” I offer, shrugging my shoulders.

  They’ve been great parents. All four of them. When the neighbors in our middle-class neighborhood were busy having scandalous affairs, they pretended nothing nefarious ever happened. They sheltered us. They understood that as long as Benny and I had each other somehow we’d be okay. When I got my period for the first time, Benny’s mom sent him to have a sleepover at my house. It might seem weird to most people, but I was relieved. It saved me from having to discuss these things with my mom, and by that time he was eager to glean knowledge about the opposite sex even if it meant hearing about blood that comes out of the vagina like the great flood.

  We don’t censor our friendship or build barriers where the typical boy and girl friendships would have them. He tells me with little heartache when he splooges all over his bedsheets, and when Jenny Megley wears a short skirt to school, he bombards me with the gory details. In turn, he drives me to the makeup store and tells me what lipstick compliments my complexion.

  “They’re gonna be drunk in thirty minutes. What do you want to do tonight to celebrate?”

  Drumming my fingers on the leather next to me, I contemplate the various ways in which we could mark this momentous occasion. “We could drive down to the water tower and throw rocks? Get slurpees and Ho-Ho bars and binge until we feel sick and throw up from such great heights?”

  “You’re such a geek.”

  I fix him with a glare fitting an idiot. “You asked. What do you suggest we do?”

  He’s teasing because my response was dripping in sarcasm. It’s a defense mechanism that rises even when there’s no threat. It’s what happens after being the ugly duckling most of my life.

  “You could paint my toenails,” I say, grabbing his knee.

  “We aren’t eight anymore. I can think of one thing we both need to do before we go to college.” Benny smirks and slides his glasses up h
is nose again. Sighing, I tell him he needs to go get them tightened before he makes me crazy. He snarls in response.

  “Basketball!” he proclaims loudly.

  Our parents watch us as we head out through the garage door. Benny swipes the orange ball from the floor and I follow him onto the driveway.

  “Now that we’re out of earshot,” he says, trailing off.

  “Oh, God, Benny, what now? I don’t want to hear about Jenny Megley’s pubic hair again!” I steal the ball out of his hand and start dribbling. “You saw it once when the skank didn’t wear panties. Surely you don’t still think about it?”

  It’s a shame he was so puny most of his life, because Benny is phenomenal at basketball. His physical confidence kept him from trying out for the high school team. I couldn’t push him even though I knew he’d make it because I wouldn’t play a sport either. Those kind of people scare me.

  Benny laughs. He’s tall and confident now. Or at least that’s how I see him. “Virginity clause, Harpee,” he says, his voice deadly serious, but his mouth smirking.

  When I stop, shocked, my jaw open, he steals the ball and nets a three-pointer. Swallowing, I try to right my attitude and veer into a conversation I knew was coming.

  “You’re serious?” I cross one foot over the other, as if to subconsciously guard the V he’s talking about.

  He dribbles the ball around me in a circle, his dirty, white Converse sneakers making me dizzy. “You weren’t serious when we made a blood pact at age thirteen? We made a promise.”

  My stomach falls to my feet.

  Leaning over, I make an attempt to snatch the ball from him and miss. “I didn’t think about it after that, honestly.” Lie. I was just hoping he wouldn’t bring it up, because God knows I wouldn’t. “I signed it so you wouldn’t feel badly about Sophia turning you down.”

  Benny spins on me. “You’re telling me you’d rather go to Harvard a virgin than have coitus with me?” He waves his arm from the top of his head down, like he’s presenting a showcase prize in the Price is Right.