by Dylan Heart
Summertime Sadness
Dylan Heart
Copyright © 2018 by Dylan Heart
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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Written by Dylan Heart
Edited by Rogena Mitchell-Jones, and Carol Davis.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Newsletter
FlashForward
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
White Lies Preview
White Lies, Prologue
White Lies, Chapter One
White Lies, Chapter Two
Also by Dylan Heart
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“You never know when something is going to happen to change your life. You would expect it to arrive with fanfare, like a wedding or a birth, but instead it comes in the most ordinary of circumstances.”
—Carole Radziwell, What Remains
FlashForward
I rush into the bathroom and climb over the stained tub. The small window, big enough for me but probably not for Blue, takes force to push open. I pop my head out the window. The ground’s not that far down. But for me, someone who is terrified of heights, not that far is far enough. I don’t fancy the idea of jumping. Especially head first.
I turn and stand on my hands, pushing my legs backward through the window. I slowly lower myself against the rough exterior, until all that’s left inside the room are my head and my arms glued tightly to the window sill. One more look down and I gauge it’s about an eight-foot drop. There’s no rational reason this should scare me as much as it does.
I hear the door break open, and Blue screams, “Put your gun down!”
I try to pull myself back into the window. God knows why. It’s not like I could actually do anything to help Blue. Then there’s gunfire and my vision goes black. I lose my grip and drop to the ground, landing squarely on my feet.
“Blue!” My feet pound against the grass as I circle the back of the motel, racing toward the front. My bare feet press against the cool grating of the metal steps. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I trace my palm against the railing as I carefully pace toward our motel room. I’m half terrified that I’ll find Blue dead, equally scared that Rake will be lying on the floor. The two scenarios mean two different things, but both mean that Blue’s life has come to an end—either figuratively or literally.
I pass room 24. With every foot closer to our room, the worry in my gut escalates. I’m sure everyone in this motel, out here in the middle of nowhere, heard the gunshot. The police will be here whenever they can manage. My guess is that the nearest police station is at least twenty minutes away. I’m worried about what they’ll find almost more than what I will.
Room 23. If there’s an argument, a fight, or fists being thrown, I think I’d be able to hear it. But all I hear is silence. It’s time to start thinking about best-case scenarios. Otherwise, I might just fold over the railing and puke.
Room 22. The only thing I hear is the buzzing white noise of a tenant tuned into a porn station with a bad signal. That’s what you get when you don’t pay extra for cable, though I’m pretty sure that’s not an advertised amenity.
The edge of room 21. I hesitate, my feet pushed tight against the floor. I search for the deepest of breaths from the furthest reaches of my lungs. My head begins to spin as I lurch forward to the opening of the door.
“Blue!” He’s lying face down on the floor with his arms sprawled out above his head. I shift to run toward him, but a rough hand wraps around my mouth.
Chapter One
TWO MONTHS AGO
I’m half-tempted to set fire to the local news station. Why might I risk spending the rest of my life in prison for arson, you might ask? Because Jimmy Clay is a fucking liar.
I’ve stayed inside the past few days and neded to get out of the house. My mother’s still reeling from her recent divorce from my father, so I’ve spent the entire summer after graduation by her side, helping her cope. At first, we just stayed at home and drank a lot, which wasn’t too bad, until that one night when I awoke on the couch to her sobbing her eyes out, wondering why all men couldn’t be like Ryan Gosling. I set fire to The Notebook the following night.
Ohio State University is calling my name, but it’s a calling that’s going to be left unanswered. My mom and dad don’t know that, of course. They still believe they’ll be waving to me as I drive off into the sunset in less than two weeks. Telling them the truth isn’t a conversation I look forward to having.
The blazing hot sun beats against me like I’ve just walked into a cage match I didn’t sign up for, causing a damp layer of sweat to swell against my hairline. Yesterday was supposed to be the last day of the heat wave from hell. It’s going to be a cool night tonight, the weatherman Jimmy Clay said.
Believing him was my first mistake. The most important lesson I’ve learned since birth is to never trust the weatherman, especially Meteorologist Jimmy Clay. I would have stayed home if I’d had the foresight to know that Mr. Clay was a lying piece of shit, but alas, my senses aren’t so keen.
I slam the car door shut and take a longing glance at the county fair in front of me. It’s in full swing but at the same time, running on empty. It seems that the majority of inhabitants in this small town were smart enough to avoid the heat. I take one last glance at my car, a two-year-old Civic that my dad handed me right before he dropped the divorce papers on the kitchen table. Talk about spilled Cheerios.
It’s about six o’clock as I approach the gates. Most of my friends have already left for college. A few are still packing and the ones who aren’t leaving are probably too drunk to tag along. If someone had told me a year ago I would be attending the county fair alone, I would have told them they were full of shit. Who knew that growing up really would suck.
I take my place in line, stuck between a rock and an overweight man who hasn’t showered in a week. By the way, the rock is a pair of screaming children. Apparently, for them and their mother, the line isn’t moving fast enough. Poor woman. I could plop my ass down on the cracked asphalt right along with them with no shame. It’s nowhere near what any intelligent person would refer to as cool. It’s at least ninety degrees. Toss in the hair-destroying humidity of Ohio and you have a clambake of hillbillies and hicks which isn’t a derogatory statement at all. I’m proud of my small town roots.
Forced to remain optimistic, I hand over my nine dollars to the aging man with the reel of tear-away blue tickets. An accomplished businessman, I’m sure. As I stroll past him, I catch h
im biting into his lip, ogling my ass. He’s a creep, and I instantly regret giving him a playful shake.
The scent of deep-fried obesity and tilt-a-whirl-induced vomit permeates through the air. I wish I could bottle up the wind and turn it into a perfume for that distant day when I finally leave this town behind. It would be the perfect reminder of home, or I could make a lot of cash on the side selling sniffs of it to people who wouldn’t believe it exists. I once went to the State fair up in Columbus, and I have to be honest when I say it fails to hold a neon-colored candle to the experience of a small town carnival.
Ahead of me, I hear the midway call my name. The midway and I have a special relationship. In the past, it has been abusive. When my ever-growing belly and the buffet of unhealthy food choices began to fight, I was a diplomat in those wars. I’m not sure my stomach ever won a single battle. So this time, I’ve narrowed my food choices down to deep-fried veggies or a blueberry-topped funnel cake. That’s a difficult decision..
Not.
I toss my half-eaten funnel cake into the trash as I head toward the ticket booth. That’s right, this girl is riding solo. Call it juvenile or sad. Call it whatever you want. I love cheap thrills and nothing beats being thrown around in a rusted cage. There’s nothing quite like the explosion of nerves that echo in your gut when it feels as if a shifty carnival ride is about to collapse.
The line for the ticket booth is nonexistent, probably because it’s hotter than the asshole of Satan out.
“One ride stamp,” I say to the woman behind the yellow caged booth. She’s missing her two front teeth, and I can’t help but take an extended glance. Their dental insurance must be as nonexistent as their lines.
“Just one?” she has the nerve to ask me, but then again I’ve been staring at the gap in her mouth so I can’t quite complain.
“Just one.” I force a smile as I place my hand into the lion’s den.
“We’ve got a solo rider tonight,” says a voice from behind me.
I pull my newly stamped hand out from the booth and turn around prepared to attack with a sharp tongue. Instead, I just grin from ear to ear, looking like an idiot I’m sure. He’s gorgeous, like a teenage Brad Pitt—tall, lean and muscular, wearing worn jeans and a white t-shirt that clings to the sweat on his sculpted chest. I stare into his eyes and I’m not going to lie, I can feel the sting of Cupid’s arrow in my ass. Those beautiful blue eyes...
“...are beautiful,” I slip, the words meant for only myself to hear have somehow made their way out into the universe.
Awkward.
He chuckles as he rubs the back of his head, his t-shirt sliding up the bulge of his biceps. “Yeah?”
“No,” I sips. “I mean yeah. I was just daydreaming.”
Oh, my God, stop it!
“I’m just going to shut up now,” I continue sheepishly.
“You don’t need to do that.” He extends his hand. “I’m gonna introduce myself.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who introduced that they were going to introduce themselves before.”
“I’m Blue.”
“I’m Pink.” I laugh as I reach out to shake his hand.
“What are the chances?”
Oh, he’s serious. “I thought you were joking.”
“Most people do. They’re just a little more tactful about it,” he says with a wink. “So, Pink–”
“Charlie,” I interrupt him. “It’s actually Charlie.”
“So we both have boy names.” His turn to joke, I guess.
I’m not sure why I can’t drag my feet to walk away. My only hypothesis? Those fucking eyes. Anyways, as I pull my hand away from his, I take notice finally how rough his hands are. They’re strong and calloused, a working man I’d presume.
“Who are you here with?”
“I’m actually here alone,” he says, which is exactly what I want to hear despite my reservations. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Sure. What’s the worst that could happen?” I can’t believe I just said that. Talk about stiff dialogue.
“Want to start with the tea cups?”
“I think you should start at the ticket booth.” I point to the stamp on my hand and then step out of the way so that he can take his place in the non-existent line.
“I don’t need a stamp. I know everybody here.” He flashes a wide grin, a peculiar dimple cutting across his cheek. “I’m kind of a big deal around here, a celebrity if you will.”
Whatever. If they don’t let him on the ride, I’ll just have to leave his ass behind. I came here alone and I’ll ride alone if push comes to shove.
My new acquaintance and I make our way to the tea cups: a ride that so many times as a child had thrilled me, shook me, and at times, sent me into embarrassing fits of vomiting. I lost my first boyfriend to that damn ride. We were both seven and on the fast track to marriage. It was a love so strong that only regurgitated pizza could break it.
We take our place in line behind two gossip queens I recognize, but can’t place the names to the faces. They’re sophomores, I know that much, and they have about thirty-six months before they discover they’ll never amount to anything. Harsh, I know, but I’ve been on the long tail of a dream that ends abruptly. This place is a damn trap. They should add a new slogan to the welcome sign; Welcome to Lakeside; You’ll Never Leave
“What are your plans for the rest of the evening?” I question him, watching kids scramble through the exit on the opposite side of the ride.
“I’m staying here.”
“All night?”
“All week.”
“You must really love the fair.”
“Like it’s my job.”
I can’t help but think that’s some sort of foreshadowing, but I laugh anyway. “Are you a carnie?”
There’s a short pause before he replies assuredly, “No.”
The short line begins moving, and we make our way to the entrance, our feet padding along the metal floor. I’ve always been fond of the pink cups, but Blue has another color in mind as he leads me to the blue one. He climbs into the cup as I take a parting glance at the empty pink one behind me. Combustible laughter and excitement from teens and young children fill the air around us. They cackle and cheer. They argue over who’s going to spin the wheel. The gossip queens are too busy grimacing to enjoy the magical ecstasy around them. They’re the perfect reminder to use condoms until you’re thirty and then to tie your tubes when you turn thirty-one.
Face to face, I sit across from Blue. Those damn oceanic eyes pierce my soul. The slight slant of his jawline cuts off boundaries before they even begin. Razor-edged brown hair hangs just above his eyes.
He grabs the wheel with rugged hands as the hydraulics pump and swoosh. The metal platform beneath us begins to move at a glacial pace, and I don’t know what I’m more excited about—the ride or him.
Probably him.
He has a certain glow, bright enough to take you out of this world. He’s got the face of a boy and the body of a man. And yes, eyes deep enough to swim in.
Definitely him.
His hands handle the wheel with force as he stretches his arm across it, spinning it to the right then repeating. His forearms tighten with every movement. He lets out the cutest little grunt as he meets resistance, but at least we’re beginning to spin.
“Need some help there?” I question with a curious smile thats meant to taunt him.
“It’s tight,” he says with his eyes focused intently on the wheel.
“Should have picked the pink one,” I mumble under my breath and flick my eyes at him.
We begin to spin faster and the world around us begins to blur. The force of the wheel is no match for his strength, after all. Everything escapes focus, except him. Both of us move at the same speed in the same direction. It’s as if we’re the only two people in the world. I want to say something, but I’m afraid how distorted my mouth will look against the wind. I’ll just wait.
Blu
e lets go of the wheel and gravity pushes him firm against his seat. He stretches his arms out over the tip of the cup and relaxes. His shirt wrinkles in the wind—the hem rising over his bare stomach revealing a has-to-be-airbrushed set of abs.
I catch him staring at me. “You just gonna sit there and let us slow down?” he questions.
Challenge accepted.
Gravity fights me as I hunch forward. I reach my arm around the wheel, grabbing it with my sweaty palms. I pull as hard as I can, but can barely turn it. Blue bites into his lip, amused, before reaching forward and grabbing the wheel again.
“I told you it was tight,” he says, his beautiful but slightly uneven teeth beaming through a grin.
Our arms cross and brush against each other. It’s sensationally soft, even as we’re both pulled tight fighting against the wheel. The pumping hydraulics scream as we spin in increasingly rapid circles. I thought I was the queen of the cups, but I’ve never gone in circles this fast.
The random people on the ground and in neighboring cups are nothing but flashes of blurred colors, all bleeding into each other. Even Blue begins to fade away until the ride comes to an abrupt end. The wheel locks up and the cup jerks. Both our arms are gripped to the top of our seats as we slow down and come back to reality. In the distance, everything becomes clear again—people, rides, and wide-striped circus tents.
