Chapter 1
Lucy in the Sky
One Year Later
Maybe I’ll even add pearls for dramatic flair, but I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out with a fork than write another paper.
I’m so sick of anything remotely related to “The Psychological Implications of Criminal Justice in the Media,” I could hurl.
Of course, that would imply I’ve eaten today, and that’s a big hangry nope.
My legs cramp sitting cross-legged on the floor for the second hour. It could be the third. Who knows? I might finish if I could focus on my laptop instead of my problems … or that marbled green guitar pick sticking up out of the rug just beyond my reach.
Ugh. Brain. Please, stop.
The biggest distraction is the gnawing agitation that has taken up residence in the back of my mind, where I spend way too much time wishing the circumstances were different, that he were different, or that I could stop this cycle in my head of trying to make sense of the choices other people make.
It’s like walking around with my sock bunched up and a rock in my shoe.
Nathan has a kid.
Well, it appears he’s going to have a kid.
Due to unforeseen circumstances and a rather unfortunate plot twist, my fiancé will soon have a child. Not mine, obviously.
He’s been agitated lately, but I guess that kind of blast from your recent past is stressful. It’s stressful for me, that’s for sure.
It happened before we met.
It’s not about me.
I can’t judge people for their past.
Once, I went out with a guy who told me, “You can’t expect everyone you meet to be as perfect as you or you’re going to be really disappointed.”
I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment, but I found out that guy was still legally married, so there’s that.
Gah, focus!
I could have written this paper three times for the amount of editing I’ve done. I’m overthinking my words and perspective, going from concise and unapologetic to a more sympathetic and tolerant tone, then back to straightforward again when my thoughts boil up in my gut.
Hunching over my laptop with my elbows on my knees feels good for exactly seventeen minutes before my joints scream at me to hurry up.
But do I move?
No. Because self-inflicted pain is tough love from me to me.
Also, my left butt cheek’s asleep, and I don’t mean tingly and mostly dead. I mean completely dead. I can’t risk standing up now or I’ll lose all the momentum left from this morning’s caffeine.
My head hurts, and I’m whiny, but I’m so close to the finish line I can’t even lean back against the couch. Steno paper is scattered everywhere, so I gather the crumpled pages to be sure I included all my notes in the final draft.
Nathan hasn’t called today. He won’t. I’ve initiated all our communication for weeks. He’s too far in his own head, or maybe his head’s too far up his … something else.
Either way, it’s up to me to call during his break tonight, or we won’t talk at all and things between us will become even more strained. It’s my responsibility to keep us above water since I’m not the one in a crisis.
That’s my role here, right? Check in. Be there for him.
Geez, stop thinking. Finish!
A creak alerts me to the front door, and my tight shoulders begin to relax.
I don’t have to look. I know those footsteps.
I hear the fridge open and close and two pop tops in a row before the couch shifts behind me and a cold Diet Mountain Dew can levitates into the left side of my peripheral vision.
There’s one black leather and one faded pink-and-aqua braided bracelet wrapped around a wrist I’d know anywhere. He’s like a golf caddie—my paper-writing caddie—silently cheering me on, giving me exactly what I need as I lift my hand to take the icy, sweet, caffeinated relief.
Did I mention silent? I’m in the zone. He gets it.
I don’t know if it’s the caffeine that calms me or the clean scent of my favorite neighbor not talking to me while I drink it, but I feel better instantly.
My tension diffuses as I sip my fizzy neon energy chemicals and Daniel Crawford’s familiar gray suede sneakers materialize on the floor to my right and left.
His knees press against my shoulders, and I can already feel my vision become clearer when he reaches for the can and puts a red cherry Twizzler in its place.
Gnawing on it absentmindedly, I read my paper for at least the hundredth time.
DC hears my phone chime and stretches down to retrieve it, so I’m not tempted to look.
The caffeine must’ve brought some clarity, because nothing’s wrong with this paper.
The sources are solid, the grammar is correct, and I refuse to lose sleep over some adjunct professor who probably won’t even read it.
Done. I save the document and click Submit.
“You ready, Punk?” His low melodic tone is sweeter than the nickname suggests. My car has been unpredictable. He replaced the battery a couple of weeks ago when Nathan was out of town, but it’s acting up again, so he said he’d rather drive me than risk it.
We like to sing in the car and talk about music anyway, so neither of us hates the temporary arrangement. I just need one more paycheck to hit my account, then I can use my tips to deal with this problem.
Again.
“Give me thirty seconds please,” I say, closing my eyes and resting my arms on top of his legs. I slump against the couch, holding him still for just a minute longer.
He leans over me, placing his chin on my head, his hands with guitar-calloused fingers cover mine on his knees, and when I open my eyes, I get a close-up of the black inked band around his left forearm and braided friendship bracelets that match mine—the bracelets, not the ink.
His niece, Kamryn, made the three of us matching pink-and-aqua bracelets earlier this summer because “me and you and Uncle DD are best friends.” We totally are.
He wore two thin black leather bracelets alongside Kam’s braid until I stole one. Technically, I found it between the couch cushions when the clasp broke. So, I fixed it and kept it.
He lifts my wrist, twisting the bracelet around, checking the clasp like he always does, but he never takes it back.
There’s a bass clef symbol tattooed on the outside of his right hand below his pinky. I know every vein, scar, and muscle movement from watching him play guitar or bass, and he drives with his left hand draped over the wheel like the human personification of no worries.
Staring at his hands might be weird, but it’s comforting. That’s a fact I should probably keep to myself, but I figure it’s less creepy than staring at his face—which, admittedly, I also do not hate.
I’m only extracting a bit of serotonin. Believe me, he has it to spare. I’m surprised animals don’t follow him around singing “Hakuna Matata,” because Daniel Crawford is the definition of emotional regulation.
I inhale his recently showered scent. It smells like spicy man soap, reassurance, a dash of mischief, and wintergreen Tic Tacs. Always with the Tic Tacs.
He knows what I’m doing, and he doesn’t rush me. Not yet. He meets me where I am without judging how I got here. For the record, procrastination is how I got here. My condensed summer classes are winding down, and this paper’s due by midnight.
I slid into home plate safe with hours to spare, but I’ve got to go to work.
Like, now.
I know how this looks, but it’s not at all romantic. It’s like we’re in a video game and he’s giving me an extra life. Rest assured the moment will pass.
“You really gotta lock that door, Lu,” Daniel mumbles into my hair.
I feel his chin move on top of my head as he speaks, and my mind spaces out wondering if that’s a beard or stubble I feel. I haven’t looked yet, and I haven’t seen him up close today. He gives my left hand a quick squeeze.
“I would, but Annie never has her keyyyy—AAAOOOHHHH, NOOOO!” I screech my disgust as his wet finger enters my right ear. I try to move, but my whole left side’s asleep, and he easily escapes me. Classic bait and switch. I fall for it every time.
I rock forward to my hands and knees, and his evil laugh motivates me to shake off the stiffness and get ready for work.
“What do I always tell you? Trust no one, little girl.” He winks and walks toward the door.
Nope. He hasn’t shaved, and the scruff goes nicely with his long, shaggy, Supernatural Sam Winchester-esque golden brown hair. It’s a hard look to pull off. A guy’s got to have enough texture going on or it can turn into a whole Lord Farquaad-Shrek situation.
The rate at which this guy grows hair is unsettling.
In the span of a few weeks, he can go from fresh-faced skater boy with messy collar-length hair to full-on dirty hippie with a scruffy beard and hair past his shoulders—long enough to braid.
When I finally write my romance novel, Daniel will make the perfect book boyfriend, and I’m shamelessly devoting a whole chapter to his hair.
One thing I can confirm: There is no beard-fishing here. The face under there has a perfect jawline, and that beard isn’t covering anything but a hint of a chin dimple. The one in his right cheek will show if he cheeses hard enough, and no amount of facial hair could ever hide it.
There isn’t a look that doesn’t work for him, and it all works for me.
Not that it matters. It doesn’t. But looking at him is not a hardship.
Good hair aside, I get it. “Lock the door,” he always says. But getting our fridge raided is a bigger threat than stranger danger around our complex. His other favorite reminder is “Trust no one.”
Eh, maybe.
I’m a hyper-independent, emotionally guarded, parentified oldest daughter, unless Daniel Crawford is involved.
Then I’m a helpless little girl. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.
I trusted him before I knew his name. I didn’t have much choice, since he was the only thing between me and the tile floor the day we met, but still.
It’s his own fault. He makes trusting him way too easy.
“Gimme two minutes to change!” I roll my eyes at myself, knowing what’s next.
Without missing a beat, he segues into that old song saying not to change to try to please him as he walks outside. It still makes me laugh, though he sings it every single time I say it.
I must be turning into my mother, because I appreciate Billy Joel more the older I get.
I’m dressed in record time, shuffling out with untied shoes and a ball cap in my hand because I don’t completely trust him not to leave me. Okay, he wouldn’t leave me, but he absolutely would move the car.
It’s time for me to serve the cranky people their fried food, and Daniel will pick Kamryn up from her day camp and take her to his mom’s office. Real estate or something. I think he works there too.
He also plays several instruments, installs doorbells, performs minor car repairs, and harmonizes with me on old songs no one else my age knows. That’s a free service I never knew I needed but have no intention of giving up.
Officially, he’s the facilities manager of our townhouse village. As far as I can tell, that means he’s in charge of maintenance, but I know there’s more to it.
Like maintaining me.
I start to ask him about his other work—something you would think I’d know after a year, but the speakers are blasting my song when I open the car door.
He gets a kick out of playing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” like I really do get my own walk-up song when I’m in his car.
And since my fiancé has enough problems without dealing with mine, I’m in here a lot lately.
He grabs my hand after I click the seat belt, and I fight to pull back knowing he’s going to blow raspberries or lick it or some other gross slobbery thing. Oddly enough, he doesn’t.
“Stop fighting me. I’m trying to sing you my favorite song.” He clutches my hand to his chest for a dramatic performance about a girl with kaleidoscope eyes. I don’t even try to stifle my snort-laugh. The weight of my paper’s deadline has lifted, and the rest of the night should be easy-peasy.
I let the song play for a minute, listening to his easy rasp, then skip to my favorite. This is our thing. We listen to all kinds of music, but we always start here. He likes Lucy, but I love Jude with my whole heart.
Now let’s hope that dose of serotonin lasts me the rest of the night.