Sweethearts, p.1
Sweethearts, page 1
SWEETHEARTS
ELLE MITCHELL
Also by Elle Mitchell
Janes (Standalone Series)
sweethearts (Janes adjacent)
Our Tragedy
Am I Olive?
Another Elizabeth
Standalone Novels
American Are You Scared Yet
I Never Stopped
The Miniature Project Collections
We Used to Be Different
Shorter Fiction
Fleshy’s
The Christmas Villa
SWEETHEARTS
by
Elle Mitchell
SWEETHEARTS
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Mitchell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Little Key Press.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or events is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.
First Edition
Edited by Tessa Garrett
Cover by Elle Mitchell
Photo found on Unsplash by Sam Beasley
Cover and heading font: Naomi's Hand by Naomi
Conversation hearts by MyCustomCandy
CONTENTS
Also by Elle Mitchell
sweethearts
November 17, 2017
Ada
November 18, 2017
Ada
Sam
November 19, 2017
Sam
Ada
November 27, 1988
Hailey
November 20, 2017
Ada
Sam
Ada
November 21, 2017
Ada
Sam
Luke
Ada
April 3, 1988
Luke
November 22, 2017
Sam
Ada
Sam
Ada
November 26, 1988
Wendy Bailey
November 23, 2017
Ada
Sam
Ada
Sam
November 24, 2017
Ada
Sam
Ada
Sam
June 2, 1985
Sam
Hailey
November 25, 2017
Ada
Luke
Ada
Sam
Ada
November 25, 1988
Luke
November 26, 2017
Ada
Sam
Ada
Luke
November 20, 1988
Sam
November 27, 2017
Ada
Luke
Sam
Ada
Luke
Sam
Ada
A Note & Acknowledgments
About the Author
Our Tragedy Sample
Week One
Sunday
Kore
Clarence
Want the rest?
About the Author
sweethearts
For Mom and our many hours of road-tripping,
plotting and listening to Purple Rain.
NOVEMBER 17, 2017
ADA
6:00 p.m.
From the day I discovered Laura Hurst’s body in Lynn Pond, I have been hiding. When my mother opened the door to her fifteen minutes of fame at the sake of my mental health, I hid my truths and regurgitated coached words. I told the rotund male ‘journalists’ I hadn’t planned on being brave. They took notes and nodded, sinking into the flat cushions of our stained couch as if they were over for tea, not an interview. One woman, using me as her way into the industry, got tears of exhaustion along with my story. The stench of her sweat and desperation lingered long after she had gone.
I spent hours on the rose-patterned stool in front of my vanity staring into its mirror, practicing the perfect ‘thank you for coming, but I’m sad you had to be here’ mouth curvature. My older brother, Peter, would sneak in often to judge me. You try to be perfect. The memory of his frown still stings.
Now I’m caught between emotional and hollow. Part of me wants to blame it on Laura. Another part thinks it is the woman who left violet lipstick on Derek’s pillowcase’s fault. Most of me knows I would have ended up this way no matter what. But the result is the same: Peter rarely calls anymore, and Mom and I haven’t spoken since my inevitable divorce four years ago. At least that may be for the best; nothing has been the same between us since the reporters and television stations stopped calling.
My left lash line throbs, as it does whenever cameras and lies come to mind. I grab the tweezers from my top drawer and turn towards the small oval mirror on my wall. I yank out the eyelash I’m sure is causing the most pain. Another swipe of eyeliner hides the sparse patch I’ve created because, of course, it’s next to the two I pulled out this morning, and my naturally wide eyes make its absence more noticeable.
I straighten my dress and fluff my already frizzing iron-created curls then head into the café. Three eager women and two antsy men await me at the high-top tables. One woman, wearing a short skirt and a low-cut shirt, flirts with a man in a tailored suit. Given her interpretation of the typical interview business casual, she must have banked on me being male. The other hopefuls sit spread out, clutching purses, briefcases, and resumes. Only one person holds a coffee; steam fogs her glasses as she takes small, cautious sips. I imagine I’ll pick her, as she has chosen to sample what we sell.
“Kelly Jellens?” I call after reading the cursive letters on her plain white cup and matching it to the interviewees.
I glance at my watch—the same watch I purchase time and time again after I wear it thin. The leather band is as simple as its light pink face; it tells me the time, which is currently 6:03 p.m., and nothing else. I’m exhausted, though I have only been at work for an hour. And I’ve spent most of that time pretending to be busy so no one will bother me.
Rachael, my therapist of seven years, has insisted that I revisit the spot on the anniversary of the day I started hiding. And after five years of comments, pokes, prods, and monologues about how I will feel better afterwards, I admitted she was right. I have been listless with the weight of that knowledge for over a month. I have to go back to Silynn. Mental growth aside, I can’t leave my business during a holiday week without a little extra help.
The scrape of chair legs brings my attention back to the short-ish brunette. She stands and half raises her arm. “That’s me.”
I take in her outfit: black and candy apple red striped dress, black flats with tights, and a long, thin gold necklace. Simple yet professional. I approve.
“Come on back,” I say.
I open my office door wide to look inviting. I’d spent a whole fifteen minutes tidying up. Like me, it has secrets. Behind the photo of me and my best friend laughing is the deed to my ex-husband’s new home. I stole it when I went to congratulate him on moving. I am not usually so petty, and I’ve only stolen three things in my life. But it wasn’t my fault. He kept it where I had kept ours: inside the fourth hollow book on the third shelf from the bottom in the bookcase in the master bedroom. Rachael said it wasn’t the healthiest thing I’d ever done.
Two joints and three hundred dollar bills are stashed inside the porcelain unicorn coin bank sitting on the edge of my desk. A longtime friend, Kirsten, bought it for me because of an inside joke I couldn’t remember. When she gave it to me and started giggling, I mimicked her so she wouldn’t know. That’s the moment caught in my laughing picture—I am proud of how realistic my smile looks. If you shake the unicorn, you’ll hear the tink of the money clip.
My desk hides darkness. I leave it unlocked as a sign of good faith to my employees; Larry seems to appreciate the ability to snag a new manila folder without having to ask. But taped underneath the bottom right drawer lives a single blade. I haven’t needed it in almost two decades. Should that time ever come again, though, I would hate to resort to scissors; I’m not sure if my tetanus shot is up to date.
More secrets hide in and around my workspace: a small flask; newspaper clippings about the youngest versions of myself with scratched out eyes; my mother’s favorite knickknack—she had blamed a neighbor boy for its disappearance; and a jelly bracelet that reminds me of simpler times.
Kelly’s sensible shoes make little sound as she steps past me into my office. I appreciate the quiet nature of her entrance. Darling plastic, bright red glasses frame her round face and, being a shade off, clash with her dress. She smiles and waits for me to say something. As I’m about to introduce myself, a wave of memory slaps me. I am struck speechless. She smells like Lucky Charms. Who smells like cereal?
I want to tell her to sit or ask her to tell me about herself. I’m too caught up in the sickly sweet chalk my tongue is recalling.
After twenty-nine years, I still don’t know why my curiosity took over that day. The shadow under the ice could have been anything—a rabbit, a tree branch—yet I couldn’t run to it fast enough. I pull my sleeves over my scarred palms as I shiver.
“Ma’am? Are you alright?”
I can only imagine what I look like: frizzy hair, wrinkled dress, pale face haunted by a frozen dead girl. “So sorry! I’m not feeling too well. I’m probably just dehydrated; it’s been a busy day,” I lie.
Kelly holds a finger up and rushes out of the room. Before I can sit in my plush, ergonomic office chair, she is back with a cup of cool water. Her face reads, ‘I hope you feel better,’ and also, ‘Give me a job, because I’m helpful.’
“Tell me about yourself,” I say. Can she hear my heartbeat? My ribcage expands with each beat.
“Of course! I’m Kelly—of course.” She chuckles awkwardly. Nope, the loud thudding is contained. “I’m a Junior at IU. I’m studying Business and Economics. I have very little work experience, if I’m being honest. I worked with my dad when I was a kid; he owns a hardware store in Little Rock. I like to call it a job, but really, I just rang things up here and there. In high school, I worked in a local ice cream parlor slinging cones and ice cream sodas. Since I moved here, I’ve just been in school. My goal was to power through Freshman and Sophomore year, which I did. Then I’d take more time with Junior and Senior year, which I’m doing. I guess you could say I’m driven,” she says, getting more animated. “To be blunt, I was hoping this could turn into an internship. I’d love to follow you around when you got back. I’d do the grunt work too, of course. But it would be amazing to come out of college with a solid internship, a resume and—with any luck—a recommendation.”
I nod, respecting a ramble that ends with an actual point. “Let’s talk hours. I need someone from—” My eyes flick to my watch again. “5-10 p.m. this Tuesday through Saturday. If that works out, you can shadow me when I get back. I can even give you a fancy internship title. As for the recommendation, let’s wait and see.”
“That all sounds great to me—fits pretty perfectly with my schedule! I’ll only have to leave a study group thirty minutes early. Would the hours be the same when you come back?” Her smile is infectious. I imagine she gets most of what she wants in life when she flashes it, despite two crooked lower teeth and an overbite.
“They would.” She nods, and I say, “Kelly, you’re hired. Welcome to the Cuppa family!” I pause for only a moment before I call Larry—a manager and close friend of five years.
White tufts of hair appear before he does. “What’s up?”
The scent of roasted vanilla beans fills my office.
“This young woman will be your helper while I’m gone. Consider her your assistant. When I come back, she’ll shadow us for an internship. Also, could you send the other applicants home? Be diplomatic about it, please.”
He nods, but the twinkle in his eyes worries me. “Can you make espresso?” Larry asks Kelly as he leans against the doorframe.
“I had a French press a few years ago before my roommate used it while he was drunk.” Her face scrunches. “So, no.”
“I’ll teach you. Learn quick.” Ignoring her outfit, he asks, “Can you start now? I could use a hand closing up tonight.” He walks out, apron strings trail behind him. He is wearing his favorite faded gray shirt. It has a hole by his belly button from an unfortunate lighter accident, which no one but Derek and I know about.
Kelly glances at Larry, then at me. Her voice is nervous and sweet when she asks, “Am I getting paid?”
As she is already standing, I make a snap decision my wallet may be displeased with later. “$12 an hour this week. $10 as an intern. And if you want to become a full employee after, and we have the hours, you’ll go to $15.”
“Amazing.” Damn. She had not been expecting so much money for an internship, probably. Kelly gives me a quick hug and says, “I can start now.” She leaves and jogs to the left, back towards the café.
Rachael will be so proud of me. I am all squared away to face my hometown, my demons, my mother, and Lynn Pond.
NOVEMBER 18, 2017
ADA
2:35 p.m.
Lanky monsters threaten me. Their clawed branches reach from within the woods. Light splinters through the darkness they create.
It’s as if only yesterday I was nine and my mother was driving me to the airport I just came from. I locked my eyes on a dark splotch on the famous green carpet—now an offensive blue that reminds me of multiplex theaters—as she told me how much I would love my uncle and aunt. Peter would join us in the summer, she assured me.
Flickering sun rays make my temples throb and tear away the thoughts of Peter’s absence—my mother’s absence—from my childhood. I still feel small, as if I never turned ten. Only now, I can drive and play at adulthood.
The winding road becomes a snake, and I ride its back up and around another chunk of mountain. When the rain comes, I’m in a jungle; I am a wild child at one with nature. Fried nerves smooth to a gentle buzz as the Hemlocks thin, and the sun streaks from the sky as if God herself is playing music just for me. Farmland stretches in front of me as far as my eye can see. The ground is dead.
In Silynn, winter begins no later than October 30th. If ice—but more likely snow—didn’t crystallize on the dewy morning grass by November 5th, panic would abound. “The end of the world is nigh,” the front page of Silynn Times would proclaim.
I will be in town this evening, so I’m likely to see snow. More importantly, I will be in town on November 25th, the anniversary of the day Laura Hurst became a part of me. Rachael swears being there on that day is an integral part of my healing.
I stare blankly at my ringless fingers. I will not focus on the lake—confusingly named Lynn Pond. It can be all-consuming. A raw, angry spot on my bikini line and the two gaping holes in my lash line flare hot. Great. I unzip my jeans and reach for the second pair of tweezers I keep in my purse—one hair, maybe two.
As if a faerie waved her wand, the road, the trees, the sky itself is blanketed in white. I slow my speed to 25 mph to match the truck in front of me, and the hair follicle pain subsides. Yellow signs crop up all around, each cautioning me of another horror. I create a game to distract myself. With each new one, I create alternative meanings: “Indiana Jones Trap Ahead”, “Slip ’N Slide Roads”, “Suitable For Drifting”, “Sneaky Deer”. My younger self would be pleased—despite not knowing what drifting is.
The beat-up pickup’s blinker turns on, and I imagine the loud ticking sound it makes. My uncle had one, and I loved to yank on the lever to hear its satisfying reply. Finally, the truck turns down an invisible path and leaves me alone an icy, open road.
There are tire tracks embedded in the ice; I try to stay in them. Every time I nudge the wheel too far, the rental hybrid swerves. As I rarely drive, taking advantage of car share services, taxis, and public transits, I don’t have to deal with this often.
