CHAPTER ONE, CLARA
“Right there. Yes. That’s the spot. Shit, that’s good.”
There’s not much I wouldn’t do for a hot and steamy, full-bodied—
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
—perfection from the first swallow—
“Oh my heavens, do that thing again with your tongue.”
—cup of chai.
Unfortunately, it’s not a chai kind of day. The kind of day where I stay home cocooned in a soft blanket with no immediate responsibilities or anxieties. I vaguely remember days like those.
“Keep going. That’s—yes, don’t stop.”
But that was before I developed a conscience. The ultimate buzzkill.
“Babe, I need more.”
And a spine. It would have been nice if I’d stayed flexible.
“Stretch me.”
Kept blowing whichever way the wind blew. Which was usually to Paris, Monaco, sometimes Malta on a whim. God, I miss Malta.
Instead, I’m working forty hours a week between my two jobs—serving at The Duck’s Roost and tutoring on campus. And balancing a full-time school load.
Not that I’m complaining.
I’m not. Promise. I like my little life.
I built this little life.
Myself.
No narcissistic man with a love so conditional it always came with strings attached gave anything to me or dictated any bit of this life for me.
“I need you.”
Except, now I barely have time to savor whatever brew I decide is befitting of my scheduled-to-the-minute day, and sometimes I wish I had that extra minute to slow down and savor a second.
Sighing, I browse through my stash of caffeinated packets from the local British Goods store.
Over the past three years of being parentless, I’ve cut back on non-essential items and tightened my budget, but I haven’t been able to curb my tea addiction. For me, luxurious tea isn’t a want, it’s a need. It sets the mood for the entire day.
Is it healthy to put so much pressure on such a minor decision?
Probably not.
But I can’t afford a therapist to tell me otherwise.
Bang, bang, bang. “Yes, rougher.”
If I had a therapist, they’d probably say there’s a correlation between my hyper-fixation with finding the perfect tone-setting brew and the constant unknown of living with a chronic illness.
But since I don’t have the money or free time to worry about my mental health, I can shrug off my hyper-fixation as a quirk and deal with all the issues bubbling under the surface later.
Because there’s no time for a healthy nervous system when you’re in a constant state of “just survive somehow.”
Thanks, late-stage capitalism and a less-than-subpar mandatory college healthcare scheme.
“Yes, just like that, you kidnapped me and now I’m your prisoner.”
“What?”
“I said I love that you’re a good listener.”
Wiggling my fingers above my wooden treasure chest, I close my eyes and leave my choice up to chance. Fate can decide what kind of day it’s going to be. See? I can let go.
And everything will be okay.
This won’t be the day that I’m secretly bleeding to death while handing Mrs. Elliot her slice of pecan pie or black out on my walk back home. And it most definitely won’t be the day that I run into him.
“Harder.”
Wes Davis.
Former love-of-my-life.
Coastal Bend and Prairie University’s new star quarterback because I seriously wracked up the negative karma points in my past life.
Current source of is-that-him jump scares.
Ever since the school held a press conference announcing that the Texas Hill Country Golden Boy with an arm to match had entered the transfer portal and chosen to take his talents to my college—not that he knows it’s my college—I’ve tiptoed around town and campus, careful to avoid any potential run-ins.
We’re two weeks into the semester and I’ve succeeded so far, but I imagine it’s only a matter of time before his new teammates invite him to the diner where I work, or I venture into the buildings near the student athlete gym for tutoring and run into him.
“Yes, good. You’re a pirate and I’m your hostage.”
“Oh. Uhm. Arr. You like it when I touch your booty?”
“Never mind. Just treat me like I’m your football, baby.”
With a pinch of my forefinger and thumb, I pluck a foil packet out of its compartment and peek.
A pink Valentine’s Day sachet of black tea with hints of chocolate and rose hangs suspended in the air.
A small laugh bubbles out of me. My very vocal and sexually comfortable roommate, Lulu, just bought me this, called it mani-tea-festing while pointing to the script in bold on the front of the box stating Love is best served like tea, hot and steamy.
After four years of my love life being a barren wasteland, the message sounded more alluring than the flavor profile, if that’s even possible.
“Hand necklace. Please, give me a hand necklace.”
Shrugging, I rip open the foil, take out the white string, and put it in one of the three Mart-ees mugs I’d set out the previous night.
The mug collection is an ode to my housemates’ and my unhealthy obsession with a fudge-producing gas station marmot with the cleanest bathrooms in the state—dare I say nation.
“Tighter. Tighter. Choke me.”
In our long dark hallway, the bedroom door to the right of the one filled with Lulu’s questionable cries of passion, creaks open, and slow steps patter along our ill-swept wooden floors, begging to be refinished in our rented bungalow.
“Is it just me, or is her dark romance binge bleeding into her real life a little too much?” Brendan, my third roommate, asks through a yawn, entering the kitchen.
His long flannel dad robe billows with each shuffling step.
He rubs his round, thin, gold-framed glasses on his grey t-shirt before pushing them up the slope of his nose.
“Sounds like she’s more than okay, but if a large, tattooed man with a nondescript scar and a hardened exterior comes out of her room, we should probably plan an intervention,” I say, handing him a mug so he can pour himself some coffee.
He’ll drink it black—like always. Predictable, dependable.
That’s Brendan. The one part of my old life that decided I was worth keeping penniless.
The one constant I’ve had since I was born—my neighbor to the left, even in this house.
“At least she had the decency to come home, so we weren’t up all night worried she somehow ‘manifested’ a kidnapping for herself,” he grumbles.
Last week, he walked in on Lu in the middle of a summoning circle, and asked what the hell she was doing with black roses, enough candles to burn the house down, and a bowl of spaghetti.
Apparently, she was manifesting a kidnapping and carbo-loading before a sand volleyball tournament, because “priorities.”
“I’m serious. Cut the air off.”
Priorities are subjective.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Just do it.”
“I’m pretty sure I know, given the context, but I’m hoping I’m wrong. What’s a hand necklace?” Brendan asks, scrubbing a hand down his face with a groan.
“Why do you always have to ask me!” I shriek. At this point, I might as well be just as green as Brendan, seeing as I only ever slept with Wes, and I’ve never slept with anyone since.
“Because you owe me for moving me in here with her. My mind was fine just not knowing these were things, Clara.”
Last year, we moved into this off-campus bungalow Lulu’s parents own.
They own the diner I work at too and think I’m a good influence on their daughter.
Lulu’s not typically the type of personality I vibe with, but we’re soul-bonded chronically ill girlies, so we have that going for us.
Brendan and Lulu, though, clash terribly; she’s a free-spirited adventurer, while he’s an uptight academic homebody.
To be honest, I’m amazed they haven’t murdered each other yet.
“It’s uhm—” I bite my lip trying not to laugh at the way his cheeks blush just from asking the question.
“So, when two people love each other very much…” I start, just like I have every explanation with my very sheltered pre-med friend.
It’s funny how someone can know so much about the body in one way and so little about it in another.
“Sometimes, one of them will ask for their airwaves to be cut off.”
A wrinkle forms between his two eyebrows as he considers this. “But then they can’t breathe.”
“Correct.”
“Why would she ask for that?”
I shrug, winding the string of my tea bag around my finger. “I’ve been told it heightens certain sensations, but I wouldn’t know personally.”
The electric kettle I thrifted, and that will probably burn the house down someday if Lu’s summoning circles don’t first, beeps.
“You like that? Yeah? Hell, baby, you’re so wet for me.”
Brendan rolls his eyes—a clear sign he’s annoyed by Lu’s wake-up routine—then takes a long sip of his dark, bitter coffee. “I’m going into the living room and putting on headphones.” He moves toward the front room, exiting our enclosed galley kitchen. “What the fuck?”
“What?” Rising on my toes, I peek over Brendan’s shoulder, now halted in the doorway.
I let out a gasp at the sight that greets me as tea sloshes out of my hand and burns my skin. An imposing man lies on our worn-out green couch, his face pressed into my favorite spot. A mess of shoulder length dark chestnut hair flies in all directions.
“Was that there when you came in last night?” Brendan asks in a hushed whisper.
“What? The body?” I whisper back.
“No, the coffee table. Yes, the body.”
“I don’t think so. But I mean, I guess it could have been? Maybe?”
“Why aren’t you sure? There’s an enormous man on our couch. I feel like he’d be hard to miss.”
“I came into the house and went straight to bed. Call me thoughtless, but I didn’t check the couch to see if a large shadowy person might be slowly suffocating themselves there.”
“So, you think he’s probably dead too?” Brendan asks.
“Maybe? If he is, you can vouch for me, right? I was working at the diner all night, and then I came home and went straight to bed.” My gaze stays transfixed on the corded, muscular arm dangling off the couch. It twitches ever so slightly, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.