Prologue
Remy - Six Years Ago
Iheard a speech at a wedding once that said love is fair and just and kind. I don’t believe it's fair. Or just.Orkind.
Maybe that makes me a cynic. Or anti-romantic. Or pessimistic. But I don’t consider myself any of those things. If asked, I’d say I’m a dreamer, living in fantasies of what-ifs and somedays. A relentlessly hopeful fool who’s been brutally force-fed a dose of reality.
To me, love is a snowball rolling down a mountain toward a sleepy, unsuspecting town. It starts out small: a shy smile, a nervous glance at the empty seat in class and a softly rasped, “Sup.” It’s a gradual build from almost undetectable in the subtle flick of grey eyes and bumped elbows to witty quips and secret smiles. It gains density on walks home from school, sharing music and inside jokes. Its momentum becomes unstoppable when gazes linger and wander. When the air is so thick in your shared space that it’s impossible to breathe. When hugs last longer and longer.
Bracing for impact.
Because the snowball is on the fast track with no signs of stopping. It swallows everything in its path, no longer cruising— it’s out of control.
Destructive.
Dangerous.
It barrels for the doomed town.
And decimates it.
My knees are jello. They want to give out but I can’t move, not even to collapse into the rubble of what could have been. Cicadas scream in the darkness, harmonizing with the emergency sirens wailing in my brain.No, no, no. This can’t be real. This isn't happening.
Shock— that’s what this is.
I’m frozen to the core despite the smothering humidity of a post-storm Florida night. My fingers are numb with how hard I’m fisting the crumbled letter.
Love is a natural disaster, leaving irreparable damage in its wake.
I’m just another casualty.
Guess I’m a cynic after all.
Part One
1
Remy
Present
“Remember when you shaved your head sophomore year?”
Of course, I remember.Feels like velvet. His voice haunts me at the most inopportune times. I smother the Ghost of Ex's Past whispering sweet nothings in my ear and scowl at my best friend.
“No?” Andrea asks, "Should I find some pictures to remind you?”
Red-painted nails rake through my light brown waves in the same way she pets my cat. I can’t stand people touching my hair and she knows it. She flashes a rueful smirk, skimming her talons to my cheek and stabbing the spot where my dimple typically pops out.
“Cut the shit,” I grumble.
It only widens her devious grin. She snickers, digging the point deeper into my cheek; at this rate, I’m surprised she hasn’t broken skin.
“Where’smyRemy? I miss him. He smiled more than this stranger in a Remy suit.”
I roll my eyes. Classic Andrea behavior: poke me both physically and metaphorically to get a reaction. Not that I blame her. I’ve been staring vacantly at the floor while nursing a Solo cup of flat soda and gin. I don’t evenlikegin— it tastes like an air freshener and burns like gasoline. But it was the first bottle I grabbed and I wasn’t in the mood to venture through the madness for something better. Around us, the party is winding up to be a blowout, but my ass stays glued to the navy blue, beat-to-shit couch as far from the idiots doing bar mat shots as possible.
I sigh, “Any particular reason you’re talking about me in third person?”
