For Real (Rules of Love, Book One) (27 page)

Chelsea M. Cameron is a YA/NA and Adult New York Times/USA Today Best Selling author from Maine. Lover of things random and ridiculous, Jane Austen/Charlotte and Emily Bronte Fangirl, red velvet cake enthusiast, obsessive tea drinker, vegetarian, former cheerleader and world’s worst video gamer. When not writing, she enjoys watching infomercials, singing in the car and tweeting. She has a degree in journalism from the University of Maine, Orono that she promptly abandoned to write about the people in her own head. More often than not, these people turn out to be just as weird as she is.

Find Chelsea online:

chelseamcameron.com

Twitter:
@chel_c_cam

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Chelsea M. Cameron (Official Author Page)

And now a sneak peak at A Risk Worth Taking by Heather Hildenbrand!

Chapter One

Summer

“What you seek is seeking you.” –Rumi

I looked around my bedroom at the growing pile of cardboard boxes and sighed. There was something seriously depressing about moving home again, regardless of the fact that it’d been voluntary. I picked up a box, calculating open space, and set it down again. My college dorm room had been roughly the same size. How had I accumulated more items than the space allowed between there and home?

My room was exactly as I’d left it almost four years earlier. Right down to the purple-and-charcoal bedspread with curtains to match. Dad hadn’t made a single change while I’d been away. Not in my room, not in the rest of the house, and from what I’d seen, not with his business either. The only change he’d made hadn’t been his choice. She’d made all the changes for him. And she hadn’t looked back.

But that’s why I was here. To pick up the pieces she’d left behind.

The furniture was a dark oak with neutral accents, but instead of making the room feel depressing and drab, the muted colors were soothing, like sitting underneath a giant shade tree. Being in this room had always been the one place in the house I could escape.

Living at Heritage Plantation came with a certain level of chaos. There was always a body in the house, whether family or staff or someone we considered both; the noise and bustle was constant—all part of the territory when you lived under the same roof that you worked. Well, the business end of things was under this roof. The office, now mine, was downstairs off the kitchen, an add-on my dad had given the place when the farm really got rolling several years back. The rest—the hay and cornfields, the greenhouses, the tractors—had their own space. And lots of it. Heritage Plantation was big enough to get lost in and still never leave “home.” I loved that.

Still, when the crowd became too much, my room was my solitude. My peace and quiet. I was hoping for that same feeling now that I’d come back again. But things were so different, I wasn’t sure there was any place that could make me feel that way. Dark thoughts crept in before I could stop them, my eyes pricking with quick tears. I hated that the thought of her, of what she’d done, still shook me like this.

The sound of boots on the stairs startled me out of my thoughts. I pretended to survey the boxes as I blinked away the moisture. A pair of weathered hands appeared, wrapped around a large box. My dad’s narrow-brimmed cowboy hat bobbed up and down behind the cardboard, his face obscured by the load he carried. He grunted as he set the box at my feet—somehow finding space in the middle of the mess—and then straightened. His back popped as he arched it in an exaggerated stretch.

“You okay?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I am now. That was the last one. Finally.”

“Thanks for helping me carry all of it up.”

He snorted. “Next time we’ll get a crane. Whaddya have in these bags? Bricks?”

“Close,” I admitted. “I brought a lot of books home.”

He grunted something unintelligible but didn’t complain further. We both knew what I’d given up in coming home. I’d had plans for a Master’s, a career in the city. The farm had always been my parents’ thing, not mine. He’d tried and tried to talk me into staying, to pursue my dreams. But how could I follow a dream born from a life built on a lie?

“I’ve gotta get back to work. I’ll see you for dinner?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Pop. Thanks,” I told him, planting a kiss on his cheek and following him to the top of the stairs. His boots made a clop-clop sound as he trudged downward. The sound was a familiar one. I’d been listening to it from my bedroom doorway my whole life. It was comforting, steadfast in a way other things weren’t. Not anymore.

For the millionth time since walking in the door, I thought of my mother and a pang shot through my gut. A cross between nausea and heartache. Even after six months to digest it, my mom’s decision to leave, to divorce my father, still seemed surreal—especially now that I was home.

I examined the foyer from my perch at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t so much what was here as what was missing. Little things. Figurines, cross-stitched pictures in frames, coffee table books. The absence of fresh flowers on the side table. And even though it hurt like a fresh cut, I’d said nothing as I’d followed Dad through the house and upstairs. If it was this painful for me, I could only imagine what it did to him every time he walked by.

I yanked on the tie holding my hair back and let it shake free. Thick brown waves with honey highlights spilled over my shoulders. I ran absent fingers through the ends, brushing out the tangles that seemed to form the moment I moved my neck in the mornings. I was forever combing tangles—a trait that had skipped a generation if my mom’s perfectly groomed twists were any indication. Although, I couldn’t complain too much; thanks to her Brazilian heritage, I could eat and eat without gaining an ounce. Something I was grateful for when the other girls at college had been too obsessed with their figure to enjoy a good dinner. Sorry for your luck. This girl was eating her entire cheeseburger. And fries.

My phone beeped inside my pocket. I pulled it out, examined the screen, and bit back a grimace. I’d avoided this long enough. Now, standing in the privacy of my own room, I decided I’d better get it over with.

“Hello?” I said, struggling to keep the resignation out of my tone.

“Summer?” The familiar voice on the other end was a mixture of both worry and relief.

“What is it, Aaron?”

“I’ve been calling you for days.”

“I know. I just—there wasn’t anything left to say.”

He paused. I wasn’t sure if it was because he knew I was right or hadn’t really expected me to answer the phone in the first place. “So nothing has changed then?” he asked quietly. “You still want this … us to be over?”

I knew his words, the very sound of his voice, should tug at me, make me feel something. Aaron and I had been together two years, after all. But I felt nothing. That, in itself, was my biggest clue I’d done the right thing in breaking things off before graduation.

“Nothing’s changed,” I confirmed.

Aaron was silent. I pictured him squeezing his eyes shut, trying to find the right words. But there weren’t any. None that would make me change my mind, anyway. I needed to make him see that without hurting him in the process. Well, more than I already had.

“You and I were good together, Summer,” Aaron said. “We got along, never fought, we had fun. I was happy with you. I thought you were happy with me too.”

“I was … sort of.” How in the world could I explain it to him when I couldn’t fully make sense of it myself? “This thing with my parents has made me think.”

“Think about what?”

I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but it crept in. Just like it did any time I tried explaining to someone exactly what the divorce had done to me. No one ever got it. My friends at school had worn blank looks, my dad didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I’d avoided anyone else who might ask just so I wouldn’t have to face the strange looks when I tried to make them understand. “I don’t want to ‘get along’ or ‘have fun,’ Aaron,” I said. “I want to live. I want to feel it. I want it to matter.”

“I thought I did matter.”

“I …” I’d already said it once and that had been hard enough. Why was he making me say it again? I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, “I just need to go my own way.”

Heavy silence hung on the line.

“If it’s space you want, I’ll give it to you,” he said, his words clipped. “Enjoy the wide open. But Summer?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not your mother.”

“I know that,” I said. Then I hung up.

I took my time unpacking, carefully choosing what to store and what to keep out. Space was limited, but I didn’t mind. I needed the dilemma the shortage of space provided—it distracted me from problems that had no easy answers. Like Aaron. And my mother.

I knew Aaron was working through disbelief and heading for anger. And he had a right. We’d had no real issues, no obstacles that would raise a red flag in the relationship. He was nice. Took me on dinner dates. Remembered birthdays. He laughed at my jokes. Listened—mostly—to my rants about the literary research papers I had to write, and about my professor with a crooked nose and nasally voice that you couldn’t hear unless you sat in the front row. Aaron was patient, always understanding when I couldn’t see him because of a test to study for. He was predictable. Steady. Calm.

I’d actually liked those things about him at one point. Even the predictability. It meant something you could count on. Both were things I wanted in a boyfriend. Both were things I’d seen in my own parents’ relationship. Until I’d come home for winter break and my parents had said they were separating. Not a trial basis, but the first step toward the d-word. Papers were filed. My mother had already moved out. Gotten a little apartment in the city. And from the way my mom had smiled when she’d said it, I knew it was really over. It grated on me—that smile, that happiness.

It made me furious.

If the two people who seemed the most stable in the entire world couldn’t make it last, what chance did I have?

I’d gone back to my last semester of school without an answer. Aaron had complained that I was distant, but when I brushed him off, he let it go. That was his way. And I’d realized it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. A connection so tight the other person couldn’t possibly ignore the other’s hurt. Or distance. Or pulling away. Did that exist? I thought it did, but after seeing my parents split, maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was all a fairy tale.

In my mind, it wasn’t worth finding out. The hurt I saw in my father was all too real.

The day I’d graduated, I broke it off with Aaron and told my dad I was coming home, business degree in tow. I would pick up the slack Mom had left behind, do the books for Heritage Plantation—her job up until six months ago. And maybe figure out what it was I wanted in the process. The big city—the rest of my life—could wait.