PROLOGUE
CECELIA
“Do you ever wish you could just un-meet someone?” – Me, wishful thinking
* * *
Have you ever had a story to tell… but just couldn’t figure out a good way to start it? That seems to be my life these days: a veritable daily struggle-fest (as my little sister Veronica would say). Absolutely nothing has gone right for me today.
Nothing.
Allow me to tell you about the craptastic morning I first met Matthew Wakefield.
First, I didn’t just climb out of bed with grace. No. I stumbled. Of course, I still had my eye mask on (that’s right haters, I wear an eye mask; it’s not a crime, so get over it). Instead of peeling it off like a normal person, I blindly reached for the table next to my bed so I could balance myself before standing up - and missed by a mile. Smashed into that, managed to knock over the lamp on my desk (the light bulb shattered; thanks for caring) which, incidentally, is halfway across the room.
And really quickly, can I note that at no point during all this loud crashing and banging around did anyone come to check on me (thanks Mom and Dad).
So yeah.
After that little induction to my morning, let’s fast forward a bit; backed my car into my parents recycling bins, had no change for a toll at the state line of Wisconsin and Illinois, and to top it all off – didn’t pass a single McDonald’s.
So it shouldn’t surprise me that:
I am a hot mess. Hair falling out of my top knot, mascara smudges under both my eyes. Bonus! Plus, I just caught a faint whiff of myself, and all I have to say is… Growdy. Mostly sweaty and gross from lugging my damn bags. It really would be tougher to get any grosser than this – unless you count the fact it’s almost a 100% certainty my underwear are on inside out. #ratchet
I hash tagged myself. Deal with it.
I. Am. Starving - and my stomach will not let me forget it. All knotted up and growling, my legs have also decided to start shaking from my plummeting blood sugar level. Wonderful. I’m pretty darn sure if you saw me on the street you’d think I was on crack.
My mom has been text bombing me since I left. Either she thinks I’ve been murdered, or she must have found the lamp… Oops. And the smashed light bulb. Oh well. The lamp was ugly anyway.
Lugging my tote down the long corridor in my apartment building, I fumble for the keys I’ve foolishly placed in my back pocket, and in the process drop my phone, sunglasses, purse and several books I’d been holding on to by a thread.
Great.
Peachy.
Awesome.
The bag slung over my shoulder is so heavy it’s weighing me down, thus creating no real way to bend down and pick up all my crap without also dropping the bag – or at least injuring myself in the process.
This bag is that heavy.
It is actually dragging down the neckline of my plain white tee shirt, which I’m sure looks just fabulous.
Cripes, why had I packed so much for the long weekend? It looks like I’ve packed enough to move back home, when really it’s just a few pair of shoes. Some jeans. Shirts. Underwear. A few bras. More books. Makeup. Curling iron. Um… blow-dryer. Robe? A few DVD’s… Oh. And a water bottle. Workout clothes. I think I tossed my laptop in there. Er, hairspray. Brush, comb (but those hardly take up any space).
Extra tote. Slippers.
Eye mask...
Alright, alright! You get the picture.
I try digging in my back pocket again and wonder what possessed me to wear such tight pants this morning (oh that’s right… they look awesome on me) and end up palming the small wad of twenty dollar bills my mom surreptitiously stuffed into my pocket when I left this morning. Originally, she tried to get my dad to give me the extra cash, but as usual, he had only pulled out one ten dollar bill.
“Roger, that’s not even enough for some snacks at a gas station!” my mom had shouted at my dad from across the driveway.