The Lifecycle of a Crush
Chapter 1
one
. . .
Spark
Present Day
desiree
Friday, 7:04pm
It’s one of those kinds of downpours that sends the outdoor furniture flying, trees swaying and stretching their limbs to some unseen shelter that doesn’t exist. The kind where you better find yourself a sturdy structure with a solid roof, or risk getting swept away, wondering why the skies decided to unleash on your vulnerable self so abruptly. Is the universe giving you a sign? Wind like that can feel difficult to believe is anything other than some determined power trying to send you a message.
If there’s a message to be heard, though, I’m not paying attention. It’s kind of hard to when you’re not near any qualifying indoor space that could provide quick shelter, and you’re left to power through and brave the rain.
What had started as a light drizzle earlier today at the start of our beachside music festival has now turned into a full-fledged monsoon. The wind had shifted, we should have known the weather report had underestimated something. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Lake Erie look so enraged.
I shiver under my poncho, the plastic clinging to my face in a sticky mess as stings of whipped-up beach sand pepper my cheeks. I let my eyes linger on the crowd, laughing at the sight of rowdy concert fanatics courageously raising their arms in welcoming madness, unfazed by the sudden storm. The show must go on, I suppose. Mother Nature joins as lightning dances through the dark clouds just overhead, almost in time with the music. Our revered rock stars remain firmly on stage, lapping up the drama of this pop-up deluge that only adds to the energetic atmosphere.
I scan the crowd in search of Melissa, my best friend and also the current one up for her turn to procure our next round of drinks. She’s nowhere in sight, from what I can tell through the blur of rain. A twinge of guilt hits me as I realize I sent her on this errand at exactly the wrong time. Cell service out here is currently mercurial, and besides, the bands are carrying on through the storm, so hearing a damn thing on your ringing phone is unlikely. The only things filling my own ears at this point are the rain managing to seep in sideways past the hood of my cheap poncho, and the thump of bass accompanied by the crash of waves. I consider if I should stay put or try and find some semblance of a roof. Looking around, it seems the other concert-goers are of two camps—either singing along in wild screams of tipsy delight, or scurrying away like a swarm of insects heading for the nearest shadows.
I spin around the memory of Melissa’s words in my head, the sales pitch she had given me just three days before. “Come to the festival with me, it’ll be fun,” she had sung in that adorable yet aggressive way of hers.
Famous last words.
I had tried to fight her on it. I wasn’t really in the mood for concert shenanigans. “I’m trying to save money,” I had said from my spot on the bathroom floor of my condo.
Melissa wasn’t hearing it. “Chris bailed, the ticket is free. And I’m not going alone, so really, if you don’t come, you’ll actually be wasting money.”
“But it’s your money,” I groaned.
“And you wouldn’t do that to me,” she insisted. “You’re going. It’ll cure your broken heart.”
I should tell you she was holding my hair back at that moment, I’m sure you can figure out why.
I had moaned into the toilet and flushed down the last of my rum and bile. “My heart isn’t broken. I didn’t even like him that much.”
Melissa gave me two quick slaps to the back. “Oh, I know, sweetie. I’m not talking about Jose, though he sure was easy on the eyes.”
I had popped up my body and leaned back on my heels, gratefully taking the tissue she handed me to wipe my mouth. I rose up and rinsed with mouthwash, the tingle of mint doing an excellent job of further filling me with spikes of discomfort. “Don’t say his name,” I grumbled after spitting out the neon blue liquid. I wiped my mouth and repeated my plead in a whisper. “Don’t say his name.”
Taven Carlisle.
I couldn’t bear to hear Melissa speak it, the name of my childhood crush that my eternally wounded heart was still clinging to hope for. If she said his name, I might be sick all over again.
Because of course Melissa knew that Jose—the guy that just ghosted me after a mere two weeks of dating—of course she knew he wasn’t the source of my broken heart. Or the reason for too many rum drinks.
No, Jose wasn’t to blame for dropping me. I had become a basic corpse within the short span of our time dating, if you could even call it that. Had I been in his shoes, I might have done the same thing. It’s not his fault that I recently found out that the real love of my life was engaged, and apparently had been for some time. Not only was I late to learn that Taven Carlisle was betrothed, but it was who he was engaged to that really got me—the beautiful redhead, a woman who had been in our lives since we were all kids. Childhood sweethearts, the happy couple could call themselves. It was hard to breathe when I realized who his fiancée was, thought about the love story they’d tell. Taven was supposed to be my childhood sweetheart, not hers. I tortured myself with looping thoughts of their beautiful little passionate tale, sucking the wind right out of my lungs.
Poor Jose never had a chance.
Jose was more of a rebound guy, only this was the kind of rebound that wasn’t really a rebound at all, given that the relationship I was attempting to distract from had barely even existed in the first place. Taven and I had always been complicated like that. And the fabric of our relationship had become threadbare by the time I was twenty-five. I’m thirty now, it’s time to move on, right? Surely that relationship should be banished to fading memories.
“Fine,” I had obliged to my friend as unwelcome thoughts of Taven consumed my head, yet again. “I’ll go to the festival with you.” I glanced in the mirror back to Melissa and her fiery green eyes, dancing in victory.
“Great. And you’re letting me dress you. I’ll make you look hot.”
Melissa did succeed in that mission, I have to admit. Too bad my red crochet top and high-waisted jean shorts are now hidden under the hideous lime green plastic poncho, and my most obvious accessory is a flurry of goosebumps as the rain and wind are wreaking havoc upon our lakeside beach. I look around the mayhem and blink my eyes to clear away the rain. Still no sign of Melissa. About twenty yards ahead I see something else I’m looking for, though—an unoccupied canvas tent. Perfect.
The logo of some beer company displays prominently on the peaked roof of the tent, barely legible in slinking waves as the wind hits in violent bursts. With my feet fighting against the sand, flips flops filling with a sludge mix, I summon some quad strength and fight my way over to the makeshift shelter, thankful that Melissa had chosen a five-dollar hot pink poncho for herself. At least I’ll easily spot her when she returns—no doubt with drinks in hand; she’s determined like that. Would she be mad I abandoned our coveted spot so close to the stage? Briefly, perhaps, but she’d get over it. I knew better than to expect her to leave—the show must go on!—and I’m banking on this rain dwindling down the crowds so our stage view won’t be at risk.
Under the shelter of the tent I peer over to the drinks stand, my eye catching the quickest blur of fuchsia. I laugh in relief, unsurprised that Melissa remained in line, powering through out there with the other die-hard music fans, all drowning and hell-bent on securing their next rounds. At least when she’s done, we’ll have some space here in my little tent, all to ourselves.
But my time alone in said shelter is short lived.
It’s his voice that I hear first, deep and familiar and dream-like, because clearly I’m delusional. He’s saying my name, I hear it before I even register the company of anyone else. It’s been five years since I last heard that easy drawl that zapped my insides in the best kind of way.
God, I always loved his voice. Can remember it morphing from schoolboy alto to almost-man tenor, then eventually the deeper tone that I’m hearing now. Deep, yet mixed with something else, something smooth like icing on a cake or maybe even the velvety slips of red wine, not that Taven Carlisle ever drank wine unless absolutely necessary. Stronger was always his poison. But there it is, his voice alright. I wonder if maybe I hit my head, because surely I’m hallucinating.
It’s funny that I should run into Taven again all these years later at a music festival. Too coincidental, really, given the venue of our first meeting, seventeen years ago. That particular evening, the night my adolescent self met Taven Carlisle for the very first time, my nerves had been all tangled up, my palms in a permanent state of wet. Not far off from how I’m feeling now at the sound of his voice, calling my name.
He repeats himself as I brave turning to meet the presence I’m now registering just a foot beside me. My heart thumps at how handsome he still is. Dark hair, longer than I ever remember it being, but those same dark and tortured eyes. He has a little more scruff on the jaw than when I last saw him. A short beard, I’d call it. I wonder what else about him has changed. I wonder if he ever thinks about me.
He steps closer, looking like he’s unsure if he should hug me or shake my hand or what. I understand the feeling.
I raise my hand in a small wave. “Taven Carlisle.”
He grins. “Holy fucking shit.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Dazzle—” he says, his old nickname for me, dropping from his lips with something akin to reverence. “It really is you, isn’t it?”
As I open my mouth to answer, lightning finds its target in the metal tent pole above us. The last thing I remember is Taven reaching out to me.
Then darkness.