A Season for Hope (Sarra Cannon) (3 page)

I move in front of the mirror and hold the dress up against my body. I adore this dress, but of all moments for it to arrive, now is just about the worst possible one.

My mother yelled at me when she found out how much I’d spent on it. I had to put it on layaway, making payments once a month to slowly pay it off, but at the time, I was certain it was an investment in my future.

The perfect dress for the perfect night.

I can’t bear to look at it anymore.

I slip it back inside the bag and zip it up, then push it to the back of my closet. The dress has already been altered specifically for me, so they won’t take it back now. I’d rather just hide it away where I won’t have to look at it and think about what might have been.

Chapter Four

I go into the bathroom to wash my face and as I remove the bandage, I gasp at the swollen purple cut underneath. I look hideous.

My face crumples in tears and I let them flow. I wrinkle my forehead and the cut stings as it stretches and breaks open. A few drops of warm, sticky blood trickle down the line of my eyebrow. I grab some tissues and press them against the wound, my chest hitching with each sob.

My life is a complete mess. I sink down to the floor. I don’t want to live like this anymore.

The door to my bathroom opens and Monica steps inside. When I look up, her face falls and she comes to sit beside me on the cold tile floor.

“What in the world happened?” she asks. She puts a hand on my leg and studies my eye. “I was about to come in here and bitch you out for sneaking in without saying hi, but now I’m going to yell at you for not telling me you were hurt. What did you do?”

I shrug and sniff, pulling the bloody tissues back. “I ran into a door,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” I say with a laugh that comes out more like a half-sob. “I was trying to take the shortcut through the science building and ran right into a door as this guy was pushing it open.”

“That asshole,” she says. “Did you punch him in the nuts?”

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t his fault. I was the one running.”

“I can’t believe you went to work like this. What if you have a concussion or something?”

“I don’t have a concussion,” I say. “The guy who hit me was a med student. He made sure I was okay.”

Monica sits back against her heels. “Oh really?”

I roll my eyes and toss the tissue toward the trashcan. I miss and have to scoot forward to pick it up again.

“Was he cute?” she asks.

I wipe my face off and stand up, avoiding her eyes. “I guess,” I say, not wanting to admit to her that I thought he was gorgeous. I’m too busy being sad and pathetic to let one ounce of possible happiness in the door.

She stands up and peers over my shoulder, studying my face in the mirror. “It doesn’t look so bad,” she says, but she’s grimacing as she says it.

“Liar.”

She turns around and leans against the edge of the cabinet. “Is that all that’s wrong?” she asks. “You were crying pretty hard.”

I close my eyes, so incredibly tired of crying all the time. I barely even recognize myself anymore. I’ve become one of those pathetic women who cry at the drop of a hat and never get over the one that got away. If I’m destined to be sad and lonely for the rest of my life, I’d rather the rest of my life only last about five more minutes.

“I saw him,” I say.

“Preston?”

I nod. “I don’t think he saw me, thank God,” I say. “Especially after seeing how bad this cut looks.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Monica says, rubbing my arm. “Even with the cut.”

I try to smile, but can’t really manage it. “He was talking to some girl,” I say. “I didn’t recognize her, but there was something in his expression that really got to me. He was into her. I could tell.”

Monica sighs.

“I mean, I guess I knew it was bound to happen eventually,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting him to stay single forever. But still. It sucks so hard.” And here come the waterworks again. Anger rushes through me along with fresh tears. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

“Fuck that,” Monica says. She grabs my shoulders and turns my body toward her. “Bailey, listen to me. That’s bullshit and you know it. I don’t ever want to hear something like that come out of your mouth again.”

I swallow, my eyes wide. There’s real anger in her voice.

“Come on,” she says. She stomps out of the bathroom and I follow her toward my closet. “We’re going out.”

I groan. “Mon, I really don’t want to go out tonight,” I say. The thought of having to act happy in a crowd of people makes me feel sick to my stomach. “Hello? Concussion?”

“You said you don’t have a concussion,” she says. She goes through my closet one hanger at a time, evaluating each piece in an instant and moving it to the side with determined fury.

“Well, I still don’t feel that great. I have a pounding headache.”

“Go into the kitchen and grab some aspirin or something. Drink some water,” she says. “We’re going out and you’re going to have fun. I refuse to let you give up on life because of a man.”

I don’t go into the kitchen. Instead, I collapse onto my bed and crawl under my blanket. “I’d rather stay here.”

“And do what? Lay in bed crying and feeling sorry for yourself? What exactly is that going to accomplish other than making you feel worse?” she says. She puts a hand on her hip. “You’re in a danger-zone here, Bailey. If you don’t at least try to snap out of this depression and sadness, it’s going to swallow you whole. Preston Wright is not the only man alive. He’s not even the best man alive. You have to find a way to start seeing past him to all the other possibilities for your future.”

I pull the blanket over my head.

“Throw yourself into your paintings,” she says, her voice getting louder. “Create something new for yourself. Go out. Make new friends and get rid of those stuck-up richies who haven’t called you in weeks. Sleep with six different guys in a week if that’s what it takes. I don’t care. Anything but laying in this bed all day letting the depression steal your soul.”

I curl into a tight ball, terrified of what she’s saying, but knowing she’s right.

“I’m begging you,” she says after a few moments of silence, her voice softening as she sits at the edge of the bed. “Just come out with me tonight. If you’re having the worst time of your life, we can come home. But I need you to at least try. The deeper you let this pull you down, the harder it’s going to be to ever recover. Trust me, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

Slowly, I sit up and let the blanket fall away from my face. She’s talking about her mother now. Her parents divorced when Monica was young and her dad took off to god-knows-where, leaving her mom to raise three kids by herself. Only, her mother never really got over her broken heart. She suffered from depression most of her life and finally succumbed to it, taking her own life just five years ago when Monica was in high school.

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to me why Monica was so determined to help me get over this. Why she was pushing me so hard. But now I get it.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own sorrow, I couldn’t see how this was affecting her.

“Okay,” I say, placing my hand on hers. “But promise we can at least go someplace dark where no one will notice I look like I was in a violent fight with a badger.”

Monica laughs and throws her arms around me. “Thank you,” she says.

I stand up and go to my closet.

“What color looks good with a black eye?”

Chapter Five

After a quick dinner and a couple of starter drinks back at the apartment, Monica and I start walking toward the boardwalk. Our apartment is only a few blocks away from the busy strip of shops, restaurants and bars along the beach. It’s the perfect location and after turning twenty-one earlier this year, we both had big plans for spending most of our weekends down at the bars, taking in the ocean views while sipping on cocktails.

Sadly, it’s mostly been Monica walking down here with some of our other friends.

“It’s about time you came down here with me,” she says.

“Of course, I have to choose the coldest damn night of the year to walk to the beach.” I shiver and pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I left my gloves back at the apartment, and my hands are freezing. “Do you think anyone will even be out? They’re saying there’s actually a chance of snow this weekend.”

“Snow in Georgia? At the beach?” She laughs. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

I shrug and look up at the night sky. The clouds are low and look white from the lights of the boardwalk shining up toward them.

“Besides,” she says. “It’s the last weekend before finals and people will be leaving to go home soon for the holidays. Everyone will be out.”

My stomach tightens as I think about Preston and the blond mystery chick. What are the odds I might run into him tonight?

I swallow down the worry and press on, determined to prove to Monica that I’m at least making an effort.

As we walk, I concentrate on the pretty decorations. Wreaths, silver bells, red ribbons. It’s beautiful out here.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, but I’ve barely even noticed it this year.

My mother always says that Christmas is a season for hope. As Monica and I walk toward the nightclub near the pier, I send a prayer up toward the stars that hope will somehow find its way back to me.

Chapter Six

“Another,” Monica says, motioning to the bartender.

He nods and pours two more shots.

I breathe in deep and grab the glass off the counter. I lift it high, turning toward her on my bar-stool. “Here’s to moving forward.”

“Damn straight,” she says. She clinks her glass against mine and we both throw them back.

The Jager is both sweet and bitter as it hits my tongue. The licorice flavor puckers the sides of my mouth, and I swallow it down fast. My throat burns for an instant and then my belly warms.

My head spins with a feeling of sweet surrender. God, I haven’t felt like this is weeks. Maybe months. It’s like the second I decided to have a good time, something inside me switched on. I feel dangerous, like I’m capable of anything tonight.

Like I’m capable of being anyone.

Right now, I’m tired of being Bailey. I’m so incredibly tired of being the one constantly doubting where I’m heading or how anyone feels about me. I’m done with it always feeling like I’m not good enough. All of that pain is too damn heavy. I can’t carry it anymore or I’m going to fall so far down inside myself that I’ll never come up again.

Monica slams her empty glass down on the counter and grabs my hand. “Let’s dance.”

I hook my feet around the bottom of the bar-stool and try to pull away. Okay, so maybe I don’t feel as free as I thought.

“Uh-huh. No freaking way,” I say.

I look toward the dance floor. It’s a mass of sweaty bodies grinding together in the pulsing lights. Mostly couples. I don’t need that kind of pressure right now.

“You said you were up for anything tonight,” she reminds me. “Stop being so scared to be happy, dammit.”

I pout. “I’m here, right? Isn’t that a start?”

“It’s not enough,” she says. “Come on.”

She offers her hand to me again and I stare down at it, my heart racing. I don’t know why it’s so scary for me. It’s been so long since I was in a place like this without Preston to hold onto.

I’m so used to sitting alone on nights he didn’t want to go out. I centered my entire life around Preston Wright, and I don’t know how to live it without him.

I look into Monica’s eyes and I can see she’s almost reached her limit with me.

She’s fed up, and I get it. I do.

A nervous ball of energy forms under my ribs. My heart beats against my chest. I bite the inside of my lip. Why is this so hard? Wasn’t I just thinking I felt fearless? How can I go back to being scared a heartbeat later? It’s almost as if there are two versions of myself fighting inside of me. One is scared and clings to the past. The other is desperate to change and find happiness.

I swallow, then take her hand.

She screams and throws her free hand over her head. “Yes! Let’s do this,” she shouts.

I laugh and slip off the stool. We weave our way through the crowd of dancers, the music thumping hard and the lights swirling in my vision.

We stop somewhere in the middle of all these people. At first, I’m hesitant. Awkward. I move my body to the music, but I’m composed and completely out of my element. I look around at the faces of the people surrounding me. I recognize some of them from classes. A few of them were friends of mine in high school. I wait for them to notice me, half expecting some of them to look at me with that same pity I’ve been seeing from everyone for weeks.

I’m just the poor dumped ex-girlfriend of the hottest, richest guy in town. I’m no one without him.

But no one looks. No one even notices me.

Monica is easy and free on the dance floor. I watch her, wanting to be more like her. She’s not tied down by anything. She’s just free to be herself and she’s never really cared what anyone thinks of her.