Some Sort of Happy (Skylar and Sebastian): A Happy Crazy Love Novel (4 page)

I saw her. Of course I saw her.

I thought she was crying at first, because she was lying on her back, hands over her face. Although I was disappointed not to have the beach to myself, I felt a tug of sympathy and thought about asking if she was OK. But when I got closer and realized it was Skylar Nixon, I hesitated.

Skylar Nixon.

I hadn’t seen her in ten years, but I knew it was her. That hair—so light blonde it was almost silver against the sand. Her fingers covered her eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not a bright or sharp blue, like a gemstone, but sweeter, softer, like faded denim. I didn’t know this because of any extended time spent gazing into them directly, but from staring at her senior yearbook photo every night for a year while feverishly jerking off to the fantasy of her straddling my body in the dark.

But I’d bet every guy in our graduating class had that fantasy. She was just so beautiful.

We didn’t run with the same crowd back then—mostly because she had a crowd and I did not, which was fine with me. In those days, I preferred solitude. I sought it. Much easier to be alone with my anxiety than have to explain it to anyone.

It was still easier.

But I wasn’t that kid anymore, and here was a chance to prove it. Maybe this was serendipity.

I started walking toward her, and suddenly the voice in my head spoke up.
Don’t do it. She’s too lovely, too fragile. You’ll hurt her.

Suddenly the disturbing image of Skylar gasping for air, my hands around her neck, lodged in my brain, along with the question,
What if I choked her?

I stood there, paralyzed, desperately trying to push the thought from my head, and then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to do that. I had to talk back.

Stop it. Those fears aren’t rational. I’ve never choked anyone.

I hadn’t, had I? My mind suddenly went into overdrive, sifting through years of memories, trying to find the one where I must have choked someone. That’s why I was thinking about it now, wasn’t it?

Rational thought tried again.
No! This is fucking ridiculous. You’ve never fucking choked a person!

But already that gut-gripping unease had me reconsidering my intent to speak to her. Even if I’d never choked anyone in the past, I must want to.

The other voice refused to quiet.

You know what will happen if you go over there and speak to her. So maybe you won’t choke her, but you’ll make a mess of things. Go ahead, start a conversation. If you’re lucky, she’ll remember you as the class freak and run off like a scared rabbit. If she likes you, you’re in even bigger trouble, because that’s how it all starts. And it ends with you ruining her life, just like you ruined Diana’s. You’re poison.

By this time, my heart was pounding furiously and my hair stood on end. The voice was right, he was totally right.

Distressed, I moved away from her, being certain to take an even number of steps, and sat down quietly in the sand, waiting for my heart to quiet down.

But it didn’t, because a moment later, she stood up, brushed herself off, and saw me.

Did she recognize me? I hoped not. I knew I looked different than I did back then, but I still didn’t want to take any chances.

Don’t look at her.

I said it eight times in my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her walk toward the steps and then hesitate, like she might say hello. I held my breath. Counted to eight.

Suddenly she turned and went down hard in the sand, letting out a little shriek of surprise. Before I could stop myself, I was on my feet, rushing toward her.

“Are you all right?” I asked, taking her by the elbow to help her up.

“Yes,” she said quickly, her cheeks going adorably scarlet. “Just a little sandy and a lot embarrassed. Thank you.”

Once she was on her feet, I dropped her arm and stepped back as the horrible fear of harming her popped back into my mind and stuck there. She looked up at me curiously, like maybe she was trying to place me. If it was possible, she was even more beautiful than I remembered.

“I’m Skylar.”

“I know who you are.” It came out colder than intended. I hadn’t meant it in a bad way, but I was trying so hard not to think about hurting her that my voice was strained, my tone sullen.
Fuck, I’m an asshole.

She must have taken offense, because her face fell, her complexion darkening further. “Right. Well, OK then.” Without any kind of goodbye, she brushed past me, scooped up a pair of shoes from the sand and stomped back over to the steps. She quickly slipped her feet into her heels and thumped up each stair with angry clacks.

Part of me wished I would have at least told her my name, reminded her that we’d once known each other, but another part just felt relief that she was gone and I hadn’t harmed her. The thought of choking her stubbornly refused to leave my head, and I walked back over to where I’d been sitting and dropped down onto the sand, hating myself.

Fucking hell. I’d made so much progress in the last year, and I’d let the sight of an unrequited ten-year-old crush undo it all. I was a fucking disaster and I always would be. Grabbing the notebook next to me, I hurled it into the water.

Two seconds after I heard the splat, I regretted it. “Fuck!” I jumped to my feet and trudged into the water to get the damn thing, which hadn’t gone very far. The water was frigid but shallow, and I rescued the journal before it was submerged, although I soaked my sneakers and the bottoms of my jeans in the process.

Reaching the sand again, I dropped down and fanned open the dripping notebook, its pages covered in neat, small, identical lettering. In the beginning, the pages all looked the same.

Eight words per line.

Every line.

Ken, my therapist, never actually read my journal, it was just for me, so at first I’d reverted to the old habit, even though the whole point of the journal was to help me stop engaging my compulsive behaviors. But eventually, I’d stopped writing in it that way. I’d stopped doing a lot of things I used to do. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a setback like I’d had today. Then again, it was the first time I’d approached a woman I was attracted to since everything with Diana fell apart. Add to that it was a girl I’d crushed hard on back in high school, and maybe it was no wonder.

Frustrated, I dropped the notebook into the sand. Maybe it was just too soon. Maybe it was just the wrong woman. Or maybe I was just doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. My own misery was enough—why should I make someone else unhappy too?

Ken was always encouraging me to be more social, but I hadn’t come back here to make friends or reconnect with anyone. I’d come here for peace and quiet, to start over, to forget about New York and everything that happened there.

Forget that I’d lost my mind.

Forget that I’d lost my job.

Forget that I’d lost the only woman willing to love me.

No, that was wrong—I hadn’t lost her. I’d driven her away.

I deserved to be alone.

Inside my mom’s car, I pulled the door shut and let my forehead drop onto the steering wheel.

Forget him. He doesn’t matter.

But the way the handsome stranger on the beach had looked at me with such blatant contempt, the scornful way he’d said
I know who you are
, truly bothered me. How long would I have to be ashamed of myself?

Don’t think about that. Think about the plan you have to make things better.
Taking a deep breath, I sat up tall and turned the key in the ignition.

When I got back to the guest house, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured a glass of iced tea. With my sandwich in one hand, I opened up my laptop with the other. I found contact information for pageant marketing director Joan Klein easily enough, and as soon as I finished my lunch, I dialed her number.

She didn’t answer but I left her a message explaining who I was and volunteering my time for the festival and related activities. I told her I was free anytime and eager to get started, and I gave her my cell phone number.

After that, I changed from my work clothes into jeans and a tank and grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from the pantry. I’d give the place a good dusting and scrubbing, and then later I’d invite my mom over for a glass of wine and give her some more decorating ideas.
I’ll show her the Pinterest board I made, run some paint colors by her for the bathrooms, and offer to do the painting myself—if I’m not too busy with my new job.

I smiled as I filled the bucket. Through the open window I could hear an old Hank Williams tune, which meant my father was probably working in the nearby pole barn with his radio on. It lifted my mood further, and I hummed along to
You Win Again
as I dusted, the melody taking me back to grade school summers, when Jilly, Nat, and I would all pile in the front seat of his truck and go for ice cream after dinner, my mother howling from the driveway about seat belts. Those summers always went by so fast—you blinked and it was September again. I’d blinked and a decade had gone by! I couldn’t believe it had been ten years since I’d graduated from high school. Where had they gone? And what about the next ten years…would they fly by just as fast?

For a moment, I tried to imagine myself ten years from now, age thirty-seven. Where was I? What was I doing? Did I have a career of some kind? A husband and family? I had no clue, which was kind of distressing, so I shoved that thought out of my mind and focused on my housework.

About fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rang. I set down my dust rag and looked at the screen.

Yes! It was Joan Klein.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Skylar Nixon?”

“Yes, it is,” I sing-songed.

“Hello, this is Joan Klein from pageant corporate.

“Hel
lo
,” I gushed like she was my long-lost best friend. “How
are
you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m glad you called, Skylar. We’d like to meet with you.”

“Fantastic!” I bounced around a little. “I can meet any time.”

“Could you come down to the office this afternoon?”