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You are not a drop in the ocean;
you are the entire ocean in a drop.
~ Rumi
PROLOGUE
Numbness beatsthe pain I endured, but I realize the next stage is death.
I close my eyes, too tired to hold them open any longer.So tired . . .I just need to rest to save my energy. My breath stalls in my throat as darkness takes hold. Despite what you hear, there is no light to guide your soul.
There’s music.
My breath returns as a melody calls me back. I open my eyes to a cloud-laden sky and trees that bend to the will of the stronger winds. Roots creep over the edge of the cliff above me while a bird sings from a low-hanging branch.
Broken, I lie there, captivated by the brown-feathered bird and its yellow mask keeping me company. I grin, but the pain that has returned is too much to maintain, so I listen for hours, waiting for my date with destiny.
An ambulance shows up instead.
1
Harbor Westcott
Room 156.
Row 14.
Seat 20.
I recognize her the second I see the back of her head.I should.I’ve stared at it enough to memorize every subtle strand of brown and golden blond that weaves through it, even when it’s pulled and twisted on top of her head like it is now.
She’s a nice reprieve from the memories that haunt me, like sunshine shining through a crack in the blinds and the first warm spring day after a long, dreary winter.
As I walk toward her, this is the first time I’ve been this close. She’s five-three, maybe five-four on a good day, though I would have guessed a little shorter, sizing her up in the auditorium.
Usually, I see her dressed in a pair of faded exercise pants with a baggy T-shirt hanging over her waist. Today, she’s looking damn good in the denim cutoffs hanging on the swell of her hips, and the shortened shirt doesn’t dare brush against the top of the shorts, leaving the slope of her waist exposed.
Though, I’d always wondered what color her eyes were, I’m now given the privilege as she looks up as if caught in a thought. Green and bright despite the shadows of her dark lashes under the fluorescent lights of the convenience store. Her sneakers have hit the pavement a few times, judging by the scuffs and black asphalt staining the bottoms that leave the slightest of prints on the white linoleum.
I’ve always thought she might be a runner by how toned her legs are and her chosen wardrobe in the past. I like that they’re not sticks and hold strength in muscle.
It's not that I’mnota tits man, but I do love a great ass.Hers has been noted.
I move down the aisle from her, eyeing the groceries lining the shelves. There’s nothing I need here, but her sweet scent and my deep-seated hunger to be near her draws me closer.
What am I doing?
Why am I acting like a fucking idiot?
I see her in class all the time, at least on the days I go. But I’ve never craved her company, not like I do now. Sure, she caught my eye. Lots of chicks do. She’s different though . . . seemingly oblivious to my existence inside—and apparently, outside—the classroom, judging by her lack of awareness of my presence.
My ego isn’t fragile.
I like a challenge, but Ilovethe taste of victory.
My life’s been boring walking a straight line for too long. This woman is just the detour I’m looking for.At least for a night or two.
I imagine she has a boyfriend, probably some schmuck back home, wherever she calls home, who’s waiting for her to return after graduation. I’d bet a day’s work that doting middle-class parents who saved every penny to send their only daughter to an East Coast university are a part of her story, along with a hand-me-down Subaru with another good fifty-thousand miles before the odometer rolls over for the third time.
