A matter of heart, p.41
A Matter of Heart, page 41
But I guess that’s because she isn’t. Not that anyone’s asked me my name, but I wouldn’t tell them Chloe. Apart from my shields, which I’ve attempted to make as permanent as possible, and the stack of additional alternate fake IDs and paperwork I concocted when I was in Nebraska days before, I do no Magic.
I’m a nobody.
A non-Magical now.
Just another nameless girl who could be anyone anywhere.
In New Mexico, I get my eyes checked at a Wal-Mart. I tell the person that I’ve always wanted blue eyes, because I’m going to move to Hollywood and be an actress. I lie and say that I’ve heard that blondes with blue eyes tend to get more acting roles than those with green eyes. The guy thinks I’m a freak, but I’m given a year’s worth of blue contacts, no prescription.
I hit North Dakota for two days and then bounce down to Idaho. I skip California entirely.
I spend three days in Canada. Vancouver is brilliant and beautiful but too close to California. So I keep moving north. Keep moving towards those Northern Lights that I used to daydream about for years.
I ping around various cities in Alaska for a few days until I find myself in Anchorage. It’s a big city, the biggest in Alaska, but it still has this small town feel to it. The nearest portal is in Juneau, and that’s five-hundred-some miles to the southeast, which feels like a safe enough distance.
I should keep moving. Maybe back into Canada, someplace like Saskatchewan, but I’m tired. So very, very tired.
I no longer let myself think about the people I’ve left behind. No names, no faces, no memories. It’s so hard to do, but I manage to numb my mind from these things. I tell myself I have no other choice in the matter. My goal is simple: to ensure others’ happiness, I must be gone.
I spend my first night in Anchorage in a motel and then find on the next day a small bed and breakfast sort of place that houses locals. I’m given a room that doesn’t even have its own bathroom—I have to share with my neighbor. It’s okay, though. I do not deserve to indulge myself more than that.
I spend the third day buying myself a wardrobe. I’ve picked up a few pieces over my travels, but not much. Everything I get is cheap and comfortable. I do not go for cute; I’m all about practicality. I don’t want to stand out.
I get myself a hotplate and a few non-perishable groceries. I pick up a tiny fridge that can hold a quart of milk and not much else. And then I buy a newspaper and begin looking for a job, because my stolen funds will start to dwindle sooner or later.
I don’t find many prospects. I have very little skills or experience to lend myself to most jobs. In fact, I’ve never worked anywhere other than my mother’s nursery, and I was never paid for that. College in Annar was a joke. Being a Creator is not something I can put on a resume.
But I have to do something, because I feel like I’m disintegrating. The pain is so excruciating at times that all I want to do is fall into that black abyss. I have, actually. Sometimes at night I let myself slide into oblivion, but then, inevitably, I wake up and remember why I need to move on.
“Our pancakes are the best,” the waitress coos at me. She’s short and bubbly, all curly brown hair and matching eyes, twin dimples on her cheeks.
I can’t deal with those dimples. I force myself to stare at her eyes rather than her cheeks.
“I love pancakes,” I say, handing over my menu. My eyes track down to her nametag: Hi! I’m Ginny!
She’s definitely an exclamation point kind of girl.
“I’ve never seen you around before.” Pink gum snaps between her teeth. “Visiting Alaska?”
I glance around the diner I’m in—the extremely kitschy and aptly named Moose on the Loose is moderately busy for being a twenty-table sort of joint. Best of all, it’s within a few bus stops of my new home. “Actually, I just moved here.” I finger my water glass; it’s already got condensation around the sides, so I’m able to wet my fingers.
She frowns. It seems unnatural for her mouth. “To Anchorage?”
I want to laugh, but I can’t. I don’t know if I can actually ever laugh again. “Why not Anchorage?”
“Most of us,” she says, leaning in and whispering loudly but conspiratorially, “are trying to get the hell out of here.”
I look out the window next to me, at the pristine view beyond. “It’s gorgeous.”
She surprises me by sliding into the booth across from me. “Where are you from?”
I figure it can’t hurt to tell her the truth. “California.”
“Like, from Hollywood?”
I snort at the stereotype. To be fair, I’d expected a bear on every corner of Anchorage’s streets, and I’m sad to say, it’s pretty much like every other big city I’ve been to, save one.
Which shall remain nameless.
And not thought of.
Now I lie. “Yup. Los Angeles.” I’ve read up on the area, so if someone asks me, I’ll know some facts. Besides, I’m blonde and blue-eyed now. A stereotypical Southern California girl.
“Do you know any movie stars?”
Oh, lord. “Nope. Sorry.”
She leans back, tapping her pen against the table. “Hey—are you looking for a job?” I start slightly, and she adds, “Well, I figure, you’re new, right? The Moose is looking for a new waitress. If you’ve already got a job, that’s cool, but I thought I’d throw it out there. Besides, you work here, and you get all the free pancakes you want.”
I’ve been looking for a job for a week now to no avail. Can I really be so lucky? “Seriously?”
“Yeah! You seem like a cool chick who’d fit in well here.”
I don’t give her an opportunity to think otherwise. “I’ll take it.”
The perk of working at a small diner is there’s no orientation and training comes on the job. My first shift is during a Wednesday night. Ginny assures me it’ll be slow, so I’ll have plenty of time to familiarize myself with the joint.
I’m introduced to the other waitress on duty, who’s on a split shift. Ginny and I will close the joint, along with the cook and the dishwasher-slash-owner. The other waitress, named Frieda, looks like a cross between a vampire and her namesake. She’s super pale, with dark hair and eyes. But she seems friendly enough and smells like gardenias, so I figure she can’t be all bad.
The dishwasher/owner ambles out as Frieda grills me on the basics. He’s tall and extremely muscular, with short dark hair and a closely cropped beard. He tells me his name is Paul, and when we shake hands and he welcomes me, I get a feeling that Paul is a really, really good guy. I have nothing to base it on other than his warm, callused hands, but it’s a solid feeling.
“She met Will yet?” Paul asks in a deep, gravelly voice.
“Nope,” Frieda says. She fiddles with the twenty or so plastic bracelets lining her wrist. “Is Will even in the kitchen right now?”
Ginny cranes her neck around to peer into the window separating the kitchen from the diner. “I don’t think he is.” She gives Paul a meaningful look. “Did his phone ring?”
Paul laughs, all rumbly and friendly. “Come to think of it, yeah.”
“You’ll like Will.” Ginny’s bouncing up and down slightly, like her shoes have springs in them.
“Everyone likes Will,” Frieda adds.
“You like Will because he’s hot,” Ginny accuses.
Frieda shrugs. “I’m shallow.”
Silly girls. They have no clue that, hot or not, I will never, ever be interested in any of the guys they ever try to throw in my way.
“Don’t listen to these two.” Paul leans back against the counter and crosses his arms.
“What are we saying that isn’t true?” Frieda asks, picking polish off of her nails. Tiny blood red flakes fall onto a napkin nearby. A memory of someone else’s red nail polish being chipped off tugs at me, but I shut that down quick. “Ginny said Will’s hot. I admitted to being shallow. So far, there’s nothing to disagree with.”
“Paul and Frieda used to date,” Ginny tells me. “But now they’re more like friends with benefits.”
I’m sort of taken aback by how easily they’re revealing things to me. They better not expect the same behavior in return. But this hope is challenged when Paul says, “Ginny says you’re from California?”
Did he not read my application? Before I can answer, Ginny exclaims, “Can you believe she moved here? From Hollywood to Anchorage?”
Okay, she’s sweet but ditzy.
“Are you in trouble with the law?” Frieda asks, regarding like I’m a crazy person on the lam. If only she knew the half of it.
“Who’s from Hollywood?” comes another deep voice from nearby. But this voice isn’t gravelly like Paul’s. It’s rich and honeyed with a thick Scottish accent.
“The new girl.” Frieda hooks a thumb at me. The polish is badly mangled now, with only a few slivers of red remaining.
I turn around and come face to face with possibly one of the most attractive men I have ever seen. He’s very tall and well built, with sandy blonde hair that falls into his dark, dark chocolate eyes.
Ginny scoots in between me and Mr. MacHotness. “This is Will.”
She and Frieda weren’t whistling Dixie. I give the guy what I hope is a smile that says I’m glad to meet him but if he comes too close, I’ll cut his knees off.
“She heard you were hot,” Paul offers.
Will ignores him and tells me his name, like Ginny hasn’t spoken at all. His hand, when offered, is even warmer than Paul’s. I stare down at our hands together as he squeezes mine gently. “And you are?” he asks, forcing my eyes back up to his face.
As hot as he is, and as alluring as his accent is, I feel nothing when we touch except skin on skin. No attraction whatsoever. I’m relieved. “Zoe White.”
“Well, Zoe,” he says, gifting me with a devastatingly gorgeous yet crooked smile. “It’s awfully nice to meet you.”
Frieda leans her hip against the counter. “It’s okay if you ask him to recite the alphabet. Or read the telephone book. We’ve all done it before.” She leers. “Or wear a kilt. The traditional way.”
“Frieda!” Ginny hisses.
Will laughs, unbothered. All of this camaraderie makes me grossly uncomfortable, like I’m an even worse person for actually daring to be around happy people. I’m miserable. I deserve to be miserable.
I move away to clean the counter for the third time in twenty minutes. Will watches me with those dark eyes of his. “D’ya have a bit of a cleaning fetish?”
My cheeks burn. Does he think I’m a freak? I slam the spray bottle down on the counter. “No. It’s just . . .”
He waits patiently, like he has nothing else to do. Which, I guess he doesn’t, what with all the customers already served and happily eating their food. And the girls and Paul are at the other end of the counter, laughing over some video of cats on Ginny’s phone.
“Cleaning is . . .” Therapeutic, I’ve learned. “A good habit.”
He holds up a finger and orates, “Cleaning is next to godliness.”
Another moment I kind of wish I could laugh. I think my lips twitch slightly, because his own ease into that delightful, crooked smile that could charm the panties off the Queen of England.
My stomach contracts. Black spots dance before my eyes.
I turn away from Will. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about me. I pick up the spray bottle and thoroughly scrub down every last table in the diner.
Late that night, as I ride the bus back to my boarding room, I spy a yellow-green streak ripple in the sky. My heart sputters. It’s the first feeling other than misery I’ve felt in weeks. I press my face and palms against the dirty glass and stare up, but the lights are gone.
No matter. I have all the time in the worlds to finally see those Northern Lights, just like I’ve always imagined. Nothing but time and a lonely stretch of life ahead of me.
Switching editors in the middle of a series is a terrifying experience, but luckily it morphed into an amazing one, too. Natasha Tomic, I am so glad to have your honest input and guidance as my editor. It’s a relief to know my books and characters are in firm yet loving hands. I adore you. So do my characters.
Tracy Cooper and Andrea Johnston, my go-to CP gals for brutally honest opinions, I offer my gratitude and love. Thank you for always being there to read scenes when I need immediate feedback or answering the question, “Is this scene hot enough?” repeatedly. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys. Megan O’Connell, your feedback and comments (and support) have been invaluable. Thank you so much for agreeing to beta read for me. AMOH wouldn’t be the same without your guidance. Lori Lamb, thank you for taking time out of your busy life to beta read for an old friend. You really ought to looking into being a copyeditor—you totally rock at it!
Carly Stevens, once again, you designed a cover I totally dig. That hand drawn type? To die for. Seriously. You are ridiculously talented (and have great taste in music). I look forward to seeing what we can cook up for the rest of the series!
Kelly Simmon of Inkslinger PR, your belief in me and my writing means the world to me. Thank you for being the best publicist out there.
There are so many book bloggers who have taken me and my books under their wings and shown me so much support and love that I can’t help but feel blessed. You know who you guys are. I wish I could give you all gourmet cupcakes. Since I can’t, I offer you my gratitude and love. There are a few folks I’d like to offer up additional thanks to, who’ve made this journey extra special for me: Ana from The Book Hookup, Heather from Once Upon a Twilight, Cristina from Cristina’s Book Reviews, Meg from The Book Asylum, and Natasha from Natasha is a Book Junkie, you guys continuously bring tears to my eyes with your generous support of my work. Know you are greatly appreciated.
To my three boys, thank you for continuing to share your mama with her computer and her stories. To my parents and my family, thank you for your continuing belief in me as a writer. To my husband, your support in helping my dreams of being an author come true mean more to me than I think you’ll ever know. I love you all so much.
Finally, to my readers, I offer you the biggest THANK YOU of all. Knowing that there are people out there reading these stories, falling in love with the characters—it humbles me. Thanks for going on this journey with me!
Heather Lyons has always had a thing for words–She's been writing stories since she was a kid. In addition to writing, she's also been an archaeologist and a teacher. Heather is a rabid music fan, as evidenced by her (mostly) music-centric blog, and she's married to an even larger music snob. They're happily raising three kids who are mini music fiends who love to read and be read to.
Other Titles by Heather Lyons:
A Matter of Fate (Book 1)
For more information about Heather Lyons and her books, visit:
Website
Goodreads
Blog
Heather Lyons, A Matter of Heart
