When I Think of You (When I Dream of You Series Book 2)

  When I Think

  of You

  By Rosa Sophia

  When I Think of You

  Copyright © 2014 by Rosa Sophia. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1507533406

  ISBN-10: 1507533403

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Jordan, for always being there.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 1

  Present day, Florida

  I know it isn’t over the moment I smell the salty air, breathe in the silence of Juno Beach at two in the morning. And like that night so many months ago, the stars are clearer than anything I’ve ever seen before.

  I walk the road that runs along the beach, then stand for a moment and close my eyes, trying to spot the differences between here and the place I’d come from only hours before. They are innumerable, but noticeable only to someone who is paying very close attention to the way the waves hit the sand, the way the lone car slides slowly past, headlights piercing the darkness. Juno is unique, like nowhere else; there is something different about the sensations that fill me as I stand there.

  The drive from the Outer Banks of North Carolina was a long one, but it was liberating. I once believed I would never return to the place of my birth, but the universe had other plans. I cannot help but think there’s a reason I’m supposed to be here.

  Stepping past the sea grapes and down onto the sand, I pull off my sneakers as I recall my favorite difference between here and there—the texture of the sand. Here, it’s so much softer, and I know without having to see it that it is a tan color. The sand in the Outer Banks is often much coarser, and when the tide comes in, it washes up all the tiniest rocks and shells, becoming almost orange.

  To my left, Juno Pier sits steadfast and still, a hulking giant in the night reaching out over the ocean.

  If I hadn’t flipped on the small pocket flashlight I carry with me, I would have stepped on the man-o-war jellyfish on the sand, spread out like an amoeba, its bright tentacles reaching for the ocean it might never return to.

  It is trapped, like I’d been for so long.

  I recoil, horrified, not wanting to get stung.

  I don’t know what that kind of pain is like. Backing up, I jog toward the road again, keeping the little beam of light on the path before me. Once back on the sidewalk, I tug my socks and shoes back on and stretch my arms toward the sky, feeling the soft, hot breeze against my exposed flesh. In my running shorts and tank top, I can’t resist; with the rushing of the ocean to my right, I begin to run.

  I run, and run, and run along the sidewalk.

  There is nothing like running; the simple action of moving swiftly through the heavy air has saved my life many times over.

  How often I ran from emotion, from turmoil that plagued me every day.

  I ran, ran, ran—but I never escaped.

  Now I’m running on the pavement, breathing in and out with such ease it amazes me.

  I raise my arms to shield my eyes from the blinding headlights, squinting until stars pop in my vision. I expect the car to keep going and disappear in the distance, but instead it slows and creeps nearer.

  For a brief moment, I am perplexed as I hear the car door open and shut.

  Then—

  “Nina?”

  Blinking, I lower my arm, my chest still heaving with breath, sweat coating my skin. At first, all I see is a silhouette, but the voice is so familiar. I cannot deny the lump forming in my throat, the way my heart leaps and heat rushes to the pit of my stomach.

  Only one person can make my body thrum with this perpetual desire, an ache just as heavy as the summer heat around me.

  At one time I was sure I would never see him again, especially since it seemed so certain we couldn’t make it work between us.

  I step into the light, I see his face, the corners of his lips twitching upward in recognition.

  “Wes?”

  Chapter 2

  Eleven years ago

  I cannot let him touch me.

  This sweet boy I met in my English class, who intrigues me in part because he wears all black, he’s taller than the rest of us, and he sleeps in the back of the room while Ms. Kravets talks about Shakespeare.

  I am afraid to let him touch me, even though we started dating a few weeks ago. I flinch when he runs his hand along my arm and looks down at me, his hazel eyes searching mine for some explanation of my anxiousness.

  Jenny sidles up to me in the hallway by the lockers, whispering, “Is it true? Are you dating Brett Havern?”

  “Yes.” I sense the heat reddening my cheeks as I shut my locker, shifting my books from one arm to the other.

  “Has he kissed you yet?” Jenny’s eyes glimmer with excitement.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” She loops her arm around mine as we stroll to our next class.

  “I just…I can’t.”

  “But I heard you went out on a date the other night.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Jenny frowns, biting her lip. “Mallory Patchett said so.”

  “That bitch,” I grumble. “She probably saw us at the ice cream place.”

  “She thinks it’s weird you’re dating an older guy, but all the other girls want to know why he was held back a grade.”

  I shrug. “You saw him. He just doesn’t care. He sleeps during class.”

  “True. But how come you didn’t kiss him?” she asks, her girlish glee leading her back to her original question.

  “Because I can’t.”

  All I can think about is him, the rapist. The way he laughed at me. The way he used me.

  How can I let someone touch me after that?

  ***

  We’ve only been dating for a few weeks, but I think I’m falling for Brett. We see each other almost every day after school. Instead of going to the library every afternoon, and staying there as long as I can to avoid Mom, I go over to Brett’s and we watch TV.

  Brett makes me instant macaroni and cheese, sometimes a burger. I giggle at his ineptitude in the kitchen, but I’ve never been able to do much better. Mom doesn’t cook very often; she’s usually too far gone by the time I get home from school. I make my own dinner, and it’s not very different from Brett’s attempts.

  Pasta. Burgers. Salad. Simple stuff.

  Brett glares at me wh
en I poke fun at his skills in the kitchen, and I can’t get enough of that look on his face. The way his soft, shaggy brown hair slips over his forehead, touching the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. His deep brown eyes scrutinizing me, his full lips quirking upward despite his attempt to appear stern.

  “Stop making fun of me, or you don’t get any dinner,” he warns, but I know he’s only joking.

  After dinner, we sit in the den and talk.

  He hasn’t touched me yet.

  He knows about the rapist. The monster touched other girls, too, lured them and did what he pleased. Brett doesn’t like the monster, he despises what he’s done to me—how he’s hurt me.

  Tonight, things are different. He puts his arm around me, tugs me close, and even though my heart pounds in my ears until all I can hear is my own blood in my veins, I let myself lean against Brett. Slowly relaxing on the couch.

  We’re quiet for a long time. Then he touches my chin, tilting my face up to his. He presses his lips against mine, and his mouth is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Our kiss becomes passionate as he caresses me, running his hands along my body.

  All of a sudden I want him. And then I don’t.

  When he touches my breast, I flinch and startle, gasping.

  My heart pounds in my throat, I breathe in deep, my eyes watering. It’s as if I can’t breathe, my hand pressed against my chest.

  He realizes what he’s done. The terror tears through me and all I can think about is the monster on top of me, using me until there’s nothing left.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice draws me back to the present and I look into his eyes, seeing his gentleness, knowing he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.

  “It’s okay.” I’m lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  Chapter 3

  Two weeks ago…

  Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina

  I am furious for the first time in a long time, and I am happy about it.

  But the happiness is squashed by anger, which rises to the forefront of everything and makes my skin crawl. I want to run, or scream, or both, but I’m cemented in place in this goddamn thrift store with a torn shirt in my hand after demanding a refund.

  “Hmm,” the woman says, holding the shirt up while avoiding my stare, “our cashiers wouldn’t have missed this.”

  “Look, I was here the other day,” I retort between gritted teeth, “and I bought this shirt, took it home, put it on, and saw this giant hole in the armpit. It was there when I bought it. Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I am not calling you a liar, ma’am, I’m saying our cashiers wouldn’t have missed this.” She hands the shirt back to me.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I throw the shirt on the counter, turning on my heel. “I’m never coming back to this shitty store.”

  I storm toward the front exit, hearing her call out, “Have a nice day.”

  I’m disgusted with myself, but at the same time a sensation of weightlessness overtakes me, and when I arrive back at my car in the parking lot, I feel strangely elated.

  I’d been in her position before. In altercations with customers at the bookstore, I always felt somewhat superior when I was able to get in the last word and say, “Have a nice day!” even as the customer cursed at me and slammed the door.

  I wonder if she will go home today and pick through every moment, thinking of what she could’ve done better, beating herself up until she feels raw from the abuse. It’s not that I want her to hate herself, but I know if I were in her shoes I would despise myself. I always find some reason to place the blame on my own shoulders.

  Every day, I find a way to blame myself for something.

  I call my mother as I drive toward my apartment.

  The phone rings a few times before she picks up.

  “Nina, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Hi, Mom. You’ll never guess what just happened.” I tell her about the woman at the thrift store, the way she implied I was a liar. “And then I walked out.”

  “Wow. You really said that?”

  “Yeah.” I think about the words I’d used, and I know I could’ve been less coarse, more civilized. “I never blew up like that before,” I muse.

  “Well, it sounds like you were right. And I’m proud of you. You always let people walk all over you, Nina. I’ve often wished you would be more firm and stand up for yourself.”

  A flicker crosses my mind: I stood up to you.

  As I slow down at a traffic light, I lean back in my seat. “When I was a kid…I was so angry. I screamed, threw tantrums.” But I still took care of you. “I was horrible.” But I looked after you, Mom. “And one day I just decided I didn’t want to put you through that anymore. I decided I wouldn’t get angry ever again.”

  Mom is quiet for a second. Then she says, “Well. I’m glad you’re angry now.”

  ***

  I dig my toes into the sand and mumble, “Why’s it look so different?”

  “What’s that?” Jenny steps up beside me, tugging her ear buds out of her ears and switching off the music on her iPod.

  “The sand. Ever notice how it looks so different from Florida sand?”

  “Yeah. I did notice that. Didn’t really think about it until now, though.”

  Jenny always leads when we run, and I watch her black ponytail bounce against the middle of her back, in between the straps of her tank top.

  I am grateful she came to visit me. Jenny’s rich, so it’s no big deal for her to take off, go anywhere she pleases. I always treasure my morning run. With Jenny, these are moments so unlike those we spent together in high school, when her father was the mayor of North Palm Beach.

  “When do you work today?” she asks.

  We both plop down on the sand and I lean back, enjoying the soft breeze on my skin. “Not until this evening. I’m helping Tara close up the store.”

  “Heard from Lynn lately?” Jenny lies back, not seeming to care she’s getting sand in her hair.

  “Yeah. She called last week. I guess things are going well at the bookstore.” Lynn was my boss in Florida, and I couldn’t help but miss my job. But I had to get away. I had to.

  “She beg you to come back?” Jenny snorts.

  “Yeah, a few times. She fired that chick who took my place, the one who kept putting James Patterson in the non-fiction section and changing all the end-caps while Lynn was on lunch break.” I snicker, rolling back in the sand. Just then, I notice a thread has loosened in my tank top, and the hem at the bottom is coming apart. “Damn, I need new running shirts.”

  Jenny turns and looks at me. “Wanna go shopping? I know you love the thrift store.”

  I glare at her, then realize I haven’t told her what happened during my last visit. “No can do, my friend. I’d be shot on sight.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  I tell her the whole tale, and we lie there for a while longer, laughing about how ridiculous it was that the woman at the store thought I was a liar.

  I don’t lie.

  Not to anybody.

  For the briefest of seconds, I flash back to my last moments with Wes, when I told him it wouldn’t work—that I didn’t really want to be with him. That we shouldn’t see each other anymore, and we’d never see each other again. I was moving out of state, what was the point?

  Nah, I never lie. Except to myself.

  A familiar ache rises in my chest, and I push it away as I drag myself to my feet.

  “Come on, Jenny. I need to run.”

  Chapter 4

  This room provides escape. I stare at the sign on the wall until my eyes hurt and I’m forced to blink. It displays the serenity prayer we use in ACA—Adult Children of Alcoholics.

  Our voices melt together as we recite it in unison.

  I listen to a few others in the room sharing their lives. One man talks about an eating disorder he’s been struggling with. Then a girl who isn’t much older than twenty introduces herself as Roberta, hunching her small frame over as she
relates her father’s alcoholism, and how he tried to kill himself.

  “I…I walked in and he was hanging there, just…hanging there.” She knits her hands together and stares down at them, her eyes welling with tears. “Somehow, he…well, he must not have done it right. They saved him.”

  She stops talking, and there’s a lull in which I listen closely to the clock ticking. The traffic on the main road. A horn honking. I want to step across the room and wrap my arms around her, tell her everything will be okay. But that might not be true, it might be a lie.

  No one touches her. It’s part of ACA rules; we share our stories, as well as our experiences, strength, and hope. But we don’t touch. We don’t step into someone’s personal bubble, we just let them be.

  “Uh…I’d like to share.” An older gentleman with a white handlebar mustache raises his hand, a tentative expression on his weathered face. His eyes droop downward, his countenance seems painted with a perpetual frown. When the leader of the group nods, he continues, “I’m Len.”

  “Hi, Len,” everyone says, voices comingling, edged with a mixture of welcoming kindness and brash uncertainty.

  “I, uh…I know what it’s like to…to see a loved one almost commit suicide.” He leans back, smoothing his white t-shirt over his large gut. “My ex-wife almost died ten years ago. She was an adult child of an alcoholic, like me, and our relationship was a mess because of it. We both had problems, but neither of us knew at that time what they stemmed from. Mari, she…she tried to end her life with pills, but—” He nods in the direction of the young lady who had spoken as she blows her nose and dries her eyes on tissues. “Mari got close, but she didn’t succeed. They pumped her stomach, and she lived. For a while there, I looked out for her constantly…I couldn’t take care of myself, only her. She consumed my life.” He looks pointedly at the young woman. “Just keep coming back. That’s all you can do.”