Always isnt forever, p.1
Always Isn't Forever, page 1
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Razorbill,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2023
Copyright © 2023 by J.C. Cervantes
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library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Cervantes, Jennifer, author.
Title: Always isn’t forever / J.C. Cervantes.
Other titles: Always is not forever
Description: New York : Razorbill, 2023. | Audience: Ages 12 years and up.
Summary: Reeling from the death of her best friend and soulmate, Hart, Ruby struggles to move on until she meets Jameson, who unbeknownst to her is actually Hart’s soul in the body of the local bad boy.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022051254 (print) | LCCN 2022051255 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593404485 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593404492 (epub)
Subjects: CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Soul—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.C3198 Al 2023 (print) |
LCC PZ7.C3198 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022051254
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022051255
ISBN 9780593404485 (hardcover)
ISBN 9780593619575 (international edition)
ISBN 9780593404492 (ebook)
Cover art © 2023 by Karmen Loh
Cover design by Kristie Radwilowicz
Design by Rebecca Aidlin, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
pid_prh_6.0_143736954_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
One: Hart
Two: Ruby
Three: Hart
Four: Ruby
Five: Hart
Part Two
Six: Ruby
Seven: Hart
Eight: Ruby
Nine: Hart/Jameson
Ten: Hart/Jameson
Eleven: Hart/Jameson
Twelve: Ruby
Thirteen: Hart/Jameson
Fourteen: Hart/Jameson
Fifteen: Ruby
Sixteen: Hart/Jameson
Seventeen: Ruby
Eighteen: Lourdes
Nineteen: Hart/Jameson
Twenty: Ruby
Twenty-One: Hart/Jameson
Twenty-Two: Ruby
Twenty-Three: Hart/Jameson
Twenty-Four: Hart/Jameson
Twenty-Five: Ruby
Twenty-Six: Hart/Jameson
Twenty-Seven: Ruby
Twenty-Eight: Hart/Jameson
Twenty-Nine: Ruby
Thirty: Lourdes
Thirty-One: Hart/Jameson
Thirty-Two: Ruby
Thirty-Three: Hart/Jameson
Thirty-Four: Ruby
Thirty-Five: Hart/Jameson
Thirty-Six: Ruby
Thirty-Seven: Hart/Jameson
Thirty-Eight: Ruby
Thirty-Nine: Hart/Jameson
Part Three
Forty: Ruby
Forty-One: Hart/Jameson
Forty-Two: Ruby
Forty-Three: Hart/Jameson
Forty-Four: Ruby
Forty-Five: Hart/Jameson
Forty-Six: Ruby
Forty-Seven: Ruby
Forty-Eight: Ruby
Forty-Nine: Hart/Jameson
Fifty: Ruby
Fifty-One: Hart/Jameson
Fifty-Two: Ruby
Fifty-Three: Hart/Jameson
Fifty-Four: Ruby
Fifty-Five: Hart/Jameson
Fifty-Six: Ruby
Fifty-Seven: Lourdes
Fifty-Eight: Hart/Jameson
Fifty-Nine: Ruby
Sixty: Lourdes
Sixty-One: Jameson
Sixty-Two: Ruby
Sixty-Three: Jameson
Sixty-Four: Hart
Sixty-Five: Ruby
Sixty-Six: Lourdes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_143736954_
For the hearts that refuse to live in an “orderly house of reasons and proofs.”
Part One
The Celestial Record of an Angel
I am in the business of the afterlife.
My position dictates that I document all human encounters. I’ve had hundreds of such encounters. And in every single one I have yet to meet a human who does not believe in some iteration of romantic love. It is certainly not my place to disabuse anyone of this notion, but believe me when I say that very few humans possess a love strong enough, pure enough, to carry into their next incarnation.
And let’s be honest, humans too often think they are in love, but thinking has no place in matters of the heart. And the word love? Well, humans fling it around like loose change, but rarely have they tasted its true essence.
Alas, very few souls will ever experience forever love. Personally, I’ve never seen it.
But this account isn’t about me. This account is about Hart and Ruby, it’s about first love and the power of memories, it’s about how deep a heart can break before it shatters. But mostly? This tale is about a life that was taken too soon and the journey that single event set all of us on.
One
Hart
~ Twenty-five hours before the end ~
It’s always been Ruby.
That’s the first line of this “assigned” love letter, and it’s all it takes to get the juices flowing and put me in the zone.
From the first time I saw her eleven years ago at the local garden center, freeing some ladybugs from their netted prison. There she was, six years old, a mere fifteen feet from me, ripping open the small nets.
She had this fierce expression on her face, lips pressed together, dark eyes blazing with determination. And just like that, I was sucked into her orbit. Even at the ripe old age of seven, I knew she was uncommon.
I still remember how my heart lurched, screaming at me to go over and help her, to be her partner in crime: Take a risk! But I’m not built that way, never have been. Risks lead to injury and injury leads to pain and pain leads to misery. See the problem? Besides, I was seven and the thought of landing in Dick’s Garden jail sounded like the worst kind of misery.
So I hung back with my eyes glued to her, like she was some story and I needed to see how it ended.
Some of the ladybugs were smart enough to take flight; others crawled over the netting, and the rest? They landed on Ruby’s arms and hands. She just stood there, smiling, observing them with this kind of awe that I wished everyone in their life could experience even once.
Most people would have fled the scene of the crime, but not Ruby. See, Ruby’s a study in daredevilry. She didn’t care if she got caught. All that mattered to her was setting those damn ladybugs free.
A wedge of sunlight spilled onto Ruby’s golden-brown tangled hair. She looked up. Her eyes met mine. My face burned with the heat of someone doing something wrong. “Are you a good liar?” she asked.
I quickly spun away, knocking a tiny pot of mint off the shelf. I shrugged, feeling lost in my own skin. “Uh, not really.”
She marched over with so much purpose, I thought maybe I should run, but she was already standing right in front of me. The ladybugs still clinging to her.
“Well, you have to be,” she insisted as she picked up the mint pot and put it back in its place. “If anyone asks, I wasn’t here. You don’t know me.”
“But . . . I don’t know you.”
Just then her mom called to her. “I gotta go,” Ruby said with a smile that showed off a missing front tooth. “Don’t forget.” She mimed something with her hands that I took to mean, You never saw me.
And then she was gone. And I was left standing next to some wilting basil, wondering what had just happened. As I walked back to meet my dad near the Mexican palms, I felt a tickle on the back of my hand. I looked down. One of Ruby’s ladybugs skittered across my skin. Bright red with four black dots, its wings opening a
Yeah, so like I said, it’s always been Ruby.
Now I look down at the legal pad on my bed, worried as hell that the words won’t be good enough. There’s tons more slashing I’ve got to do, but at least it’s a start for our time capsule that Ruby insists we make for memory’s sake.
The sound of a car engine and an electrical drill fill the space. Me and my dad live above his auto shop, Jorgé’s. His specialty is the restoration of classic cars. I used to hate it, the noise, the grease, the late nights. But now? I see it as his art form; it’s calming to head down there and watch him work on an old Firebird or Porsche.
I glance at the clock. Shit! We’re supposed to be at Martin’s party in fifteen, and I haven’t changed into my swim trunks or . . .
My bedroom door swings open. It’s Ruby.
Quickly, I shove the essay under a pillow, nearly knocking my guitar off the bed, and decide it’s best to head her off at the pass: “Give me ten and I’ll be ready.”
“You’re going to be late to your own funeral,” Ruby says, still standing in the doorway like she isn’t sure if she’s going to come in. She’s got her dark sun-streaked hair tied back and her Ray-Bans are perched on top of her head, getting stretched out because her head is way big. She’s wearing a pair of jean shorts, and a T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, revealing a red bikini top.
“I was working on the letter for our time capsule thing. I guess I lost track of time.”
“You’re a songwriter. This should be easy for you.” She takes a few steps into my minimalistic room, glancing around like she half hopes to find a discarded sock. What kind of a monster doesn’t use the hamper?
Knowing Ruby, her letter will be five words long. She can’t even write a proper birthday message in a card, so I don’t know why she would torture herself like this. Even if this was her idea.
She falls back onto my bed, simultaneously smacking my chest. Her sunglasses fly off her head and onto the floor.
“Hey, you okay?” I lie on my side, resting on my elbow, looking down at her, wondering how after all this time she has this unraveling effect on me. Whenever she’s this close, I just want to feel her skin against mine, to breathe her in, while I think I’ve gotta be the luckiest guy alive because she chose me.
She hesitates. There’s a long silence and I’m not sure if she’s formulating a joke or a killer comeback. She’s capable of both, but she does neither. “I guess I can’t believe five months is the only thing between us and senior year and everything is happening too fast and . . .”
I wrap her hand in mine. “Hey, I’m the worrier, remember? And you’re totally encroaching on my territory.”
She doesn’t lean into the levity.
“I just feel like . . . I don’t know.” She squeezes my hand, looking out the window to the sunny skies beyond.
Here’s the thing about Ruby: she never worries about anything. Ever. Sneak off campus? Rules are meant to be broken. Leap from a sea cliff? Keep your eyes open. Flat tire on a back road? Let’s get lost in the woods.
“And this is why we are supposed to be making killer memories, like tonight.”
“The party?” she teases, knowing full well I meant the surprise I have for her later that I’ve been planning for months and when she sees it, she’s going to flip.
“Or we could do it another night,” I tease back with a shrug.
“Don’t even think about it.” She gives me a kiss, meant to be a peck, but I’m greedy, and in a nanosecond the kiss is deeper, our bodies pressed so close I think we could melt into this mattress. Sometimes I wish we had never agreed to wait to have sex until college, because right now she’s seriously ruining me.
In an instant she pushes off of me, sucks in a lungful of air like she’s having the exact same thought. Or not. She dives past me, reaches beneath the pillow, and jerks free the essay. Like she knew it was there all along. Am I really that predictable?
I lunge, falling on top of her. She squeals, shoves the paper under her back, and stares up at me defiantly. We’re so close that our foreheads are pressed together. “What happened to being late for the party?” I ask.
She makes a sad pout. She’s perfected the expression over the years, a look I can’t say no to. “Just give me one line,” she says, “kind of like a prompt.”
I laugh. “If I give you one line, will you give me back the paper?”
Her lashes look longer from this close, and the golden specks in her dark eyes look brighter. She blinks, her lashes tickling my cheek. “I promise.”
I pull back, so I can see her face in full view when I say the words. She does a half-hearted drumroll. Voices carry from the shop below. A car engine rumbles.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I say, still smiling.
“It can’t be that good.”
“Oh, it is.”
She rolls her eyes. “Lay it on me.”
I hesitate, let her squirm another second before I say, “It’s always been Ruby.”
Her face shifts from wonder to surprise to frustration in the span of half a second. Then she bunches my T-shirt in her fists and says, “I really hate you, Hart Augusto.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “I really hate you, too, Ruby Armenta.”
“How much?”
“So much. I will hate you for so long; I plan to get sick of you.”
“Deal!” She’s up and hovering over me with a hand on her hip. “So are we going to do this party slash surprise, or what?”
I change super quick, and as we head out, I sling my arm over her shoulder and kiss the side of her head, thinking my first line is perfect.
Yeah.
It’s always been Ruby.
Two
Ruby
~ Twenty-four hours before the end ~
We’re in Hart’s 1982 yellow Mustang, a car his dad gave him last year for his sixteenth birthday when it had no tires and only half an engine. It took six months of work in the shop to get Monster in gear—barely running on four wheels. I tried to help but ended up fumbling with the tools, so Hart put me on DJ duty instead. Monster’s an old stick shift. Third gear locks up a lot, and she doesn’t do hills, can only get up to fifty-seven miles per hour, and has enough scars to say she’s been through some stuff. And her floors are always, and I do mean always, coated with a thin layer of sand that no vacuum can get rid of. Hart’s tried. Believe me.
Monster’s engine churns as we loop down the hillside toward the ocean. We’ve got the windows down (she’s got no A/C), and the warm night air spills into the car.
Pretty soon we’re belting out the words to U2’s “Beautiful Day.” Hart’s an old soul, and his music choices only add to that vibe. My already loose rubber band pops free and my hair whips around my face and all I can think is I hope we never change.
“Hey, let’s skip the party,” I say.
Hart turns down the music. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t want to tell him earlier, but there’s this tension in the center of my solar plexus telling me something is wrong or about to be wrong. It’s a strange feeling, like thorny branches are growing inside of me. Mom says my great-grandmother had that kind of intuition, too—a gift, she called it. I call it a pain in the ass that only serves as a red flag, never giving any details that would actually affect the outcome.
But I refuse to allow this intuition to make me a worrywart. Hart’s already got that covered.
When we were kids, he wouldn’t climb the monkey bars or anything more than four feet off the ground, he started a petition for seat belts on the school bus, and he insisted on helmets whenever we rode bikes.
I tell Hart, “We could go down to the shore and . . .”
He squeezes my hand. “I promised you the party and you promised to let me surprise you. And tonight, we are both keeping those promises.”
Why does he have to be such a stickler for the rules? “Fine,” I say, turning the music back up, but the moment’s passed, and I worry that everything is about to change.
Three
Hart
Incoming!” Martin shouts as he flies through the night air, cherry bombing into the dimly lit pool.
