All of You © 2018 by Lindsay Detwiler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. All of You is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing. www.hottreepublishing.com Editing: Hot Tree Editing Cover Designer: Claire Smith ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-31-5
CHAPTER THREE SAMPLE
Chapter Three Marley I take the long way home, stopping underneath my favorite oak to scrawl some more ideas in my journal, the slightly damp grass not bothering me enough to make me get up once I’ve sat down. I sit for a long time, the sun slowly fading into the horizon as I lean my head back on the familiar trunk. Scratching down words and phrases from the day, I try to make some sense of them. I jot down Alex’s name in my journal like some sad sixth grader writing her crush’s name on her folder in gel pen. I draw question marks around his name and find myself smiling. Alex. The doctor who saved my life, although that sounds a bit melodramatic, even for an aspiring poet. But he did. He saved me. Not just from the waters of the river, either. He saved me from my gloom and doom, from the pit of despair I was wallowing in last night on the bridge. My eyes dance over the purple wildflower growing near the tree, my favorite. Now, I’m showing him around our quiet town. What does this mean? Could this be the change I’ve been waiting for?
Not that I haven’t dated. There were quite a few flings in my late teens, perhaps my wily heart thinking love was what I was searching for. But looking back, love didn’t describe the lascivious looks and the wham-bam nights of passion. It was something more carnal, but not eternal. Love wasn’t what I’d felt, and I don’t know if love is even what I need now. Love, lust, or maybe just a friendly town tour, I do know one thing. That man’s hands are firm and strong, just the way I like them. His muscles aren’t bad either. Most of all, he’s got the kind of eyes I could stare into for days. Not just a nice color, either. No, he’s got eyes that seem to bare his soul, that seem to say he’s got depth and heart and character. I barely know him, in truth. Still, he doesn’t quite seem like the kind of guy I would fall for. He’s very different from my motorcycle-mayhem badass boyfriend at nineteen. He’s nothing like my first love, Noah, who ended up on the run for arson. He doesn’t seem like any of them at all. Alex doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy to live life on the edge or to indulge in the free-roaming kind of life. He’s rigid and stoic. He’s straitlaced and serious. He’s everything I’d never imagine my heart fluttering for. But it did. From the moment he pulled me out of the river and turned all doctor-like on me, I was entranced. Not that it means anything, I remind myself. He’s just new here. Pretty sure a bridge-sitting, lace-up boots kind of girl like me isn’t quite what he’s looking for. I’m more of a Wednesday Adams person, while he seems to be more like
a Ward Cleaver. A very sexy, tempting Ward Cleaver, at that. Not that I’m judging. Okay, I’m judging Why are you overanalyzing this? I ask myself, gently bumping the back of my head against the tree trunk. It’s not like this is going anywhere. The guy drew the short straw in residency placements, and he’ll be out of here in a few years—if he doesn’t die of boredom in this sleepy town before then. Don’t get me wrong. Rosewood isn’t a horrible place. It’s just the kind of place where a new supermarket is front page news and a dead rosebush in Mrs. Fillibell’s garden is morning gossip. I’m sure even an organized, color-inside-the-lines kind of guy like Alex will feel this place falls a little short on the excitement meter. Glancing down at my journal, I shake off all thoughts of Alex. This isn’t a big deal. I’m just overly interested because it’s a fresh face in a town where I know everyone too well, and I’ve gone through the decent and not-sodecent stock of guys. I’m apparently craving change in any form. I put pen to paper after flipping the page, determined to leave the Alex and the question marks behind. I start scribbling down words, looking up at the sky now and then to clear my head, to urge the words to flow.
Mostly, though, I sit and stare, doodling random squiggles in the margins of the lined paper and thinking about today, last night, and my entire life. What am I doing? It’s a question I’ve asked so many times but never seem to answer. What am I doing with my life? What am I doing here in Rosewood? There used to be a time when, despite everything, I thought I could find happiness. I would look at pictures of Paris and Belize and Shanghai and light up at the thought of traveling there, of seeing, of living. I used to sit in my room, drowning out Mom’s midnight rants with travel videos on YouTube, making a list of all the places I would go. I had no idea what I wanted to do or how I would get to all the places on my list—but that wasn’t the point. The point was I knew even at fifteen there was so much more out there, so much to see and live. I wanted to do it all. I thought maybe by some miracle things would change, and that I’d get my chance. Even then, I think a part of me knew the lure of the dream was that it wouldn’t happen. I’d be lucky to see the next county, let alone another country. My grades were abysmal, we didn’t have any money, and even if those things weren’t true, I didn’t think I could do it. I couldn’t leave her, no matter what. And even then, I knew she’d never change. She couldn’t. She’s all I have, all I have left besides Joe and Margaret, of course, who pushed me to do better, to think ahead, and to dream. I just never told them the real reason I wouldn’t
leave for college, even when they kindly offered to loan me the money I needed. I didn’t tell them it wasn’t financial or even about not wanting to go. It was guilt. I look down, realizing I’ve drawn a whole lot of black squares. Like so many other things, this poem hasn’t gone anywhere. I didn’t pay much attention in school, but I paid enough attention to know they never covered how you go about dealing with it when you wake up at twenty-one and realize you’re stuck in a life you didn’t dream of. They didn’t teach us how to deal with the guilt of wanting to get out of this place and seize life, but not wanting to leave your family behind. Maybe it’s Alex. Maybe it’s the bridge. Maybe it’s my sort of near-death. Regardless, it’s like my mind won’t stop wrapping itself around the fear that I’m living all wrong, and life is just slipping through my fingers just like it did for Dad. “Stop it, Marley,” I tell myself, and then glance around to make sure no one is near. The town’s already whispering about my potential suicide attempt. I don’t need them hearing me talk to myself, or they’ll lock me up for sure. I know life could always be worse. I have a lot to be thankful for. I have a job I don’t hate, even if it isn’t exactly what I had in mind. I have amazing neighbors, the Conlans, who’ve been like grandparents to me since I was little. I have a quiet neighborhood, food on the table most days, and clothes on my back.
Life’s about perspective, and I’ve tried to choose to see it with rosy glasses, even when it doesn’t feel like I should. Still, there’s something tough about feeling like there’s no choice, no way out, no decisions. I feel trapped on a merrygo-round I didn’t buy a ticket for but can’t get off. Standing from the ground, wiping the clumps of wet grass from my ass before readjusting my trustworthy hat, I close my journal and traipse home, to the only life I’ve known and probably ever will.
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