What does it take to rise from life’s depths, swim against the current, and breathe?
Weighted down by the loss of her parents, Blythe McGuire struggles to keep her head above water as she trudges through her last year at Matthews College. Then a chance meeting sends Blythe crashing into something she doesn’t expect—an undeniable attraction to a dark-haired senior named Chris Shepherd, whose past may be even more complicated than her own. As their relationship deepens, Chris pulls Blythe out of the stupor she’s been in since the night a fire took half her family. She begins to heal, and even, haltingly, to love this guy who helps her find new paths to pleasure and self-discovery. But as Blythe moves into calmer waters, she realizes Chris is the one still strangled by his family’s traumatic history. As dark currents threaten to pull him under, Blythe may be the only person who can keep him from drowning.
*This book is intended for mature audiences due to strong language and sexual content.
Note: due to mature content recommended for Ages 17+
Official Book Trailer
http://youtu.be/HJAqIbBMGxA
Jessica's Left Drowning Playlist
CHAPTER ONE
Baseline
I catch my foot on the first step outside of my dorm and fall unceremoniously
onto the concrete. I stay where I am for a moment, thinking that the set of
keys digging into my hand should probably hurt more. Not to mention my knees,
since they just endured a direct blow. “Awesome,” I mumble as I push to a wobbly
stand and careen toward the door. I giggle slightly while struggling to fit the
key into the lock. The good news here is that if I banged the shit out of
myself like I think I just did, I might just feel something tomorrow. It has to be better than feeling nothing,
right? How’s that for a goddamn silver lining? I brace myself against the giant door,
steadying myself. Wait, what’s less than silver? Iron? Zinc? Could there be a
zinc lining?
It takes a few failed attempts at working the lock for me to realize that the
key to the house I grew up in near Boston will not, understandably, unlock a
dorm in Wisconsin. I finally shove the proper key in the hole and turn the
lock. “I’ve opened the door!” I whisper triumphantly to no one. The thick metal
door is unbearably heavy and resists opening fully, so I slam my shoulder hard
against the door frame as I try to slither through the narrow opening. Yet another victory! I think hazily. The hangover I’m sure to
have tomorrow, plus the injuries from smashing into objects, is definitely
going to hurt. So continues my endless search for physical feeling, sensation.
Anything. Still, even in my decidedly inebriated state, I know that the bruises
from a drunken night can hardly be equated with any sort of positive emotional
step forward. At least it will be something, though. Something other than
numbness. It will be a distraction, and distractions are always welcome.
The stairwell is flooded with hideous fluorescent light. It’s empty, although
at this time of night, I realize one of my drunken peers might stagger past me
with a one-night stand in tow at any minute. I really don’t understand how
people ever get laid on campus. Anyone who looks even vaguely attractive in a
normal setting becomes drastically less appealing on the way back to a dorm
room. Beer goggles are no match for atrocious lighting. I lean against the wall
on the second-story landing and yank my phone from my pocket. My reflection in
the small black screen confirms my suspicion. My already messy curls have
popped out of my ponytail so there’s a frizzy halo around my head, and even on
my dark phone I can see the puffiness under my eyes. I look bananas.
“I look bananas!” I holler, noting the echo of my slurred words. Maybe I always
look like this? Not that I care. I don’t spend a lot of time in front of the
mirror or concerning myself with my appearance in any way, really. I look
however I look, and that is that. In the scheme of things, it just doesn’t
matter. And no one is paying attention. However, I do indeed look bananas.
When I get to my room, I practically fall through the unlocked door. Luckily, I
don’t have a roommate who might complain about my noisy entrance. She moved out
a few days before—presumably to go live with someone less catatonic—so the
double is now all mine. I don’t blame the poor girl. If you’re going to be
trapped on a relatively small campus outside of Madison, Wisconsin, it’s best
to surround yourself with cheerful people.
I walk through the dark room, stub my toe on what I’m pretty sure is an
anthropology textbook, and collapse onto the futon. Oh, the irony of my having
replaced the dorm-provided single bed with a full-size futon. Anyone seeing it
might imagine I was the type to bring home boys.
But I am a failure in that area. Add it to the fucking list, I tell myself. I’ve lost track of the guys on campus that I’ve
drunkenly led on and then pushed away before anything could happen. The thought
of anyone else’s hands on my body makes me want to retch. This is not normal; I
understand that. Which is why I always have that moment when I’m drunk and the
idea of fun, no-strings sex seems like a bright idea. For God’s sake, if I
could ever go through with it, I’d be in good company. Plenty of other
twenty-one-year-olds were making walks of shame home in the wee hours of the
morning. I’ve heard those supposedly shameful nights retold with plenty of
laughs and sordid details.
I can lure a guy in when I want to. Alcohol gives me that. And boys respond,
although I have no idea why. It’s natural to want to connect with other people,
I guess. Except I don’t want to. Not really. Which must be why I don’t have any
real friends. But I drink and play the role, holding out hope that
self-fulfilling prophecies exist, and that I might make a connection and feel
whole again if I pretend long enough. The act is fun for me initially, yet it
leaves me even worse off by the end of the night, when reality hits and my
intolerable loneliness engulfs me.
I know it’s
not especially smart to lead guys on and then bolt the minute they try to touch
me. But I have my strategies. I often mumble something about being a virgin, a
revelation that effectively puts a damper on most guys’ interest. Discovering
this did sort of amuse me. I’d have thought guys would like the idea of being a
girl’s first. No pressure to perform acrobatic-style maneuvers and whatnot
since I wouldn’t know any better. But it seems that the generally smart, decent
guys at this small liberal college in the middle of Wisconsin’s snow tundra
don’t want the responsibility of deflowering a drunken coed. Go figure. Either
way, I make sure nothing physical ever happens, despite my fervent desire to
find an escape, however temporary. God knows it wouldn’t be fun for me anyway,
considering I have the arousal level of a rock.
So I add frigid to the list. To that stupid mental
inventory I try so hard not to keep. An increasingly large list of all of my
flaws. My inadequacies. My failures.
There has to be a list of my successes, too, doesn’t there? Or at least my. . .
adequacies? I try to focus. All the fucking liquor makes it hard, but I try.
This is important.
I’m a not-terrible student.
I shower regularly.
I know a lot about tides.
I will eat nearly anything, except for
raisins.
Christ. I refocus. I may be drunk, but I can do better.
I have mastered the art of
melancholy.
I have my doubts about whether this can even vaguely be considered a “success.”
I think again, determined to find something I’ve done that is worth
recognition.
I lived.
The laugh that escapes my lips is awful. The bitter sound echoes throughout my
sparse room. “I’m a regular fucking Harry Potter!” I shriek. “Fuck!”
I sit up and kick off my shoes. My phone is still in my hand, and I look
dizzily at it.
I never give up on my brother. That at least should go on the “success”
list. Without thinking about or planning what to say, I grab my phone and call
him.
“Jesus Christ, Blythe. What do you want?” James grumbles.
“Sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you woke me up. It’s three in the morning.”
“Is it that late? Well, you’re in college, too. Thought you’d just be getting
home.” I wait, but he says nothing. “How’s school? How’s the leg? I bet you’re
getting stronger every day still.”
“School is fine, and knock it off with the leg questions, all right? You bring
it up every time I talk to you. Enough. It’s as good as it’s going to get,
which is shitty. Stop asking.” My brother yawns. “Seriously, just go to bed.”
The clear irritation, the disgust, in his voice sears through me.
“James, please. I’m sorry.” Damn it. I can’t disguise the drunken edge to my
voice. “We never talk. I wanted to hear your voice. See if you’re okay.”
He sighs. “Yes. I’m as fine as I can be. You sound like a disaster, though.”
“Gee, that’s nice.”
“Well, you do.” James pauses. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like this crap. You know
that. Can you just… Can we do this another time?”
“I’m so sorry for everything. I need you to know that. To really know that.
Things can be better for you. I want—”
“Don’t. Not now. Not again. We’re not having this fucking conversation again.”
“Okay.” I stare out the window into the dark. It’s late September in the wee
hours, and I know what is coming. Nothing good. The same as it is every year.
“Sure thing, James.” The ridiculous attempt at conveying a cheerful, nonchalant
tone makes my voice crack. “We’ll talk soon. Take care, James.”
So that went well. Not that I should have expected better.
Inebriated middle-of-the-night calls are sort of destined to fail. I know
because I’ve made them before. What’s tragic is that after each dumb call to my
brother, I resolve that the next one will go more smoothly. What sucks is that
sober calls during the day aren’t any better; they always result in exchanges
that are stilted and uncomfortable.
I sigh heavily, then turn on the flashlight app on my phone. I love that not
only does it make normal white light, but it lets me select whatever damn color
I want. I set the phone down on my bed, and it illuminates part of the room
with haunting blue electronic light.
As I stand and shuffle to the small sink, my body feels drained of all its
alcohol-fueled energy. It takes a few tries, but I eventually shove my long,
messy hair into a knot on the top of my head. A few curls fall from the tie and
hang by my face. I can’t look at myself because I cannot stomach looking at a
girl who has so little hope left, who is inexcusably weak. I am humiliated by
my own inability to do better. I vow to spend at least the next twenty-four
hours booze-free.
The water that comes from the tap is ice cold. Minute after minute goes by as I
collect handfuls of water and toss them over my face. I don’t stop until there
are no more hot tears to wash away.
About the Author:
Jessica is the author of LEFT DROWNING, the New York Times bestselling FLAT-OUT LOVE (and the companion piece FLAT-OUT MATT), and RELATIVELY FAMOUS. She lives in New Hampshire where she spends an obscene amount time thinking about rocker boys and their guitars, complex caffeinated beverages, and tropical vacations. On the rare occasions that she is able to focus on other things, she writes.
Please visit her at
jessicapark.me and on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/authorjessicapark and Twitter @JessicaPark24
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