Maladaptive, p.1
Maladaptive, page 1
Zinnia Sherwood
Maladaptive
A novel
First published by Spirality Publishing 2026
Copyright © 2026 by Zinnia Sherwood
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.
Zinnia Sherwood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-0-9940407-3-2
Prologue
When I think back on everything that happened, the memory I come back to the most is this one, even though technically it isn’t a memory, it’s just how I imagine it must have gone.
* * *
The little house was still. Its vibrant walls and boldly patterned furnishings remained, looking impersonal as ever despite their attention-seeking appearance. The silence gave everything a strange, stage-set feeling, like the actors had left mid-scene. The only remaining sign of the house’s previous inhabitants was a single object on the fireplace mantle. A small, deliberately placed snow globe.
Styles Chilton peered through the window and squinted as he narrowed his focus through the kitchen to the living room at the back of the house in the distance. He leaned his face close to the glass, but his baseball hat brim hit the windowpane, prompting him to remove it before leaning in again and cupping his hands on either side of his head to shield his view from the sun’s bright glare.
He had already tried the door at the front of the house, looking up and down the quiet street beforehand to make sure there was no one around. The kitchen window wouldn’t budge. Because breaking into houses that aren’t yours is generally perceived as uncool, especially when you’re internet famous, he was trying to avoid calling attention to himself, hence the ball cap, sunglasses, and his intrepid demeanor as he skulked around the house. Deciding the coast was clear, he climbed up the wooden fence gate at the back of the house and hopped over it, gaining access to the backyard.
He stood in the yard for a moment and looked around wistfully. The sound of a neighbor’s barking dog startled him, and nudged him to make one final attempt to get into the house. He tugged on the sliding patio door, and to his surprise, it moved. Pushing it as quietly as he could, as if to not disturb any ghosts, he slipped through the door into the living room and went to the fireplace. He looked at himself in the mirror above it. He looked older, smaller, disheveled, not at all like how he saw himself through the lens of his perceived persona. ‘What am I doing here?’ he thought.
A feeling had brought him back to this house in search of an intangible “something” that might give him the answer he was seeking. He took the snow globe from its place on the mantle. His initial surprise at finding it still there was quickly overtaken by a contemplative loneliness and the realization that he probably shouldn’t have been surprised at all. He tipped it gently and watched the snow fall over the little world inside, safely contained in its protective dome. Then he shook the snow globe again, this time with more force. “Look what I just did,” he mused. “I made it blizzard in Los Angeles.”
Then Styles slipped back out of the house as carefully as he went in, with the snow globe in his jacket pocket.
* * *
Or maybe the landlord gave him the key. That’s also plausible.
Chapter 1
When the flight attendant handed me the champagne flute filled with pale yellow deliciousness, I did my best to maintain my composure to avoid flailing in a way that would lead to smashing it into tiny shards. Which, knowing me, was entirely possible.
Graceful is not a word many would use to describe me. My mother used to say she should have sent me to charm school, but I always insisted that my clumsiness was part of my charm. The bruises on my elbows and knees can tell that story better than I can. But on that day, they were covered by jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt, to insulate me from the plane’s air circulation system.
I also tend to overthink things, like, a lot, and in that moment I was overthinking the hell out of everything from the tiny champagne bubbles tickling my nose to the fact that the flight attendant had just called me “ma’am” with what sounded like actual respect.
“Can you believe this?” my husband Griffin whispered, luxuriating in the seat beside me with a grin that made his whole adorable, freckled face crinkle up. He held up his own champagne flute like he was toasting the universe. “First class, Cara. We finally made it.”
I clinked my glass against his, careful not to use too much force. “To being contest winners.”
“To you, who said entering was a waste of time.”
“To you, for knowing when to not listen to me.”
Griffin chuckled with that easy laugh that made me fall in love with him a bajillion years ago. “That’s why we work so well.”
A gorgeous flight attendant appeared at my side. “Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Becker?”
Mrs. Becker. Not “Oh, you again,” in the slightly annoyed tone I usually got when asking for extra pretzels on economy flights. This was a whole different world.
“I’m good, thank you.” I managed to keep my voice steady, trying to sound like I believed I had every right to be in first class. Inside I was doing that thing where my brain starts cataloging everything for later analysis. The way the flight attendant smiled. The fact that she remembered my name. The shocking reality that Griffin and I were sitting in seats we would never splash out on ourselves.
“Mr. Becker?”
“I’ll take another one of these,” Griffin said, waggling his empty champagne flute. “You know, when in Rome and all that.”
She whisked away his glass. I watched her go, then turned my attention back to Griffin, who was fiddling with all the buttons on his seat like a kid with a new toy.
“Griff,” I said, relaxing into the spacious airplane seat, “remember that time we flew first class to LA to go see country superstar River Deane?”
Griffin’s face lit up and he chuckled. “Remember that time… as in what’s happening right now?”
“What was the contest again?”
“River Deane’s thirtieth anniversary tour contest. Essay question: ‘What does River Deane’s music mean to you?’ Five hundred words or less.” He pulled out his phone and started scrolling. “I wrote about how I had him in my MySpace Top 8 back when that meant something. Remember how interactive he was with fans on there? And we had those conversations about whether pineapple belongs on pizza?”
“Oh God, not the pizza conversations.”
“He’s team pineapple! We bonded over that. And he asked what I do for a living, and when I told him I’m a massage therapist, he asked me what to do about his guitar shoulder.”
“I love that you gave River Deane shoulder pain advice through MySpace messages.”
“Hey, I know we weren’t exactly friends,” he explained, punctuating the operative word with quotation marks, “but it did seem like he enjoyed those conversations as much as I did. At least, he didn’t seem to mind.”
“I’m honestly surprised that’s what won the contest.”
“Well, I did also mention how Whispered by the Wind was playing when I first kissed you and became our wedding song.”
I nearly groaned out loud. “You wrote about our first kiss?”
“It worked, didn’t it? All-expenses-paid trip to LA, first-class plane tickets, orchestra seats to the concert, and…” He paused dramatically. “A meet-and-greet backstage.”
My stomach fluttered with the butterflies of near-overwhelm. But it was Griffin who was really reeling. “I still can’t believe he’s going to be an actual person we talk to. Like, in person.”
“Oh, come on, Griff. He’s just a guy who makes music.”
“He’s not just a guy. He’s River Deane. Don’t forget you had that poster of him shirtless in your dorm room when we first met.”
“That poster was very tasteful.”
“Debatable, but it was what made me come in and say hi to you.”
There really is something special about champagne at thirty thousand feet in the air, it turns out. This wasn’t my first time drinking actual good champagne, but it was my first time drinking the good stuff at this altitude, and that only increased the buzz.
“You know what’s funny?” I said, watching the bubbles rise in my glass. “Yesterday I was writing instructions for a G-spot vibrator.”
Griffin looked at me with peak curiosity and a tiny hint of annoyance.
“You tested it without me?”
“It was disappointing.”
“That’s because I wasn’t involved.”
“I’ll remember that the next time the manufacturer insists I have to write a disclaimer to tactfully explain that if the device doesn’t produce the desired result, it’s not the device’s fault.”
Griffin laughed into his fresh glass of champagne. I took another sip and let the bubbles go to my head. “Do you ever think about what your life would look like if you weren’t you? Like, if you were someone who belonged in first class?”
Griffin turned to look at me, the pupils of his eyes expanding to take in every detail he already knew about me. “Car, we do belong here. I worked hard to win that contest.”
“We won because you have a non-sexual man-crush on a guy who peaked in the late 90s.”
“That’s not fair, his latest album is brilliant.”
“No shade, but it sounds like every other country album that came out in the last decade.”
“You’re just jealous because he’s prettier than you.”
I gasped in mock offense. “I take back my non-sexual comment. And he’s prettier than both of us.”
“True. I stand corrected,” Griffin conceded.
The flight attendant returned with a small plate of impressive looking snacks instead of the peanuts or pretzels I was used to. “Complimentary appetizers,” she said, setting the plate down. “We have smoked salmon canapés, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and artisanal crackers with brie.”
I stared at the plate. “This is free?”
“Of course,” she said, pleasantly, but the look in her eyes said “Nothing is free. Someone paid for this, just not you.” She was on to me. Probably because I asked if it was free.
After she left, I picked up one of the canapés and examined it like the morsel of edible art that it was. I ate the canapé in one bite and closed my eyes to savor the moment. First class wasn’t just about gourmet food, bigger seats or free champagne. It was about being treated like you mattered.
“You know what this reminds me of?” I said, reaching for another canapé.
“What?”
“Those episodes of The Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous my mom used to watch. What was that catchphrase that the host used to say?”
“Please tell me you’re not about to start talking in that accent.”
“I wasn’t, but now that you mention it…” I cleared my throat and attempted my best Robin Leach impression. “‘Tonight, we take you inside the luxurious world of…’”
“Oh my God, stop.”
“‘…where the champagne flows like water and the canapés are topped with edible gold!’”
Griffin snort-laughed, which made me cackle, which made the posh lady sitting in the adjacent seat look over at us with a furrowed expression which clearly telegraphed that she was wondering how we’d snuck past security.
“We’re those people,” I whispered to Griffin. “The ones who get too excited about free food.”
“Good. I like being those people.”
The captain’s voice came over the intercom, all smooth and confident, informing us of some potential turbulence. I gripped Griffin’s hand. He loved being up in the air, but I’ve always been a nervous flyer. Now that familiar anxiety bubbled back up despite the champagne’s best efforts to keep me chillaxed.
“Hey,” Griffin said, squeezing my fingers. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just… you know. Flying.” Griffin put his champagne down and took my hand in his, massaging it with the exact amount of pressure needed to relax me. That thing where he would pull on my fingers gently but firmly… that’ll do it. Being married to a registered massage therapist definitely had its perks.
“Want me to distract you?” he asked.
“How?”
“Tell me about the vibrator.”
I laughed a little too loud. “People can hear us.”
“If it keeps you from thinking about crashing in a fiery ball of death, I’ll allow it.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” I wasn’t ashamed of my job, but I already felt like I had been visibly and audibly too much for everyone else on the plane. I kept my voice low. “So, it’s called the Arousal Arc 7X G-Spot Stimulator. It’s Bluetooth enabled, so you can connect it to music streaming apps and the vibration patterns will sync to the rhythm of your playlist.”
“And how did that go?”
“Let’s just say I wrote a step about choosing your playlist before you insert the device.”
“But then where’s the thrill of the surprise?”
“Hey, I’m a technical writer, not a romance novelist.”
* * *
For the record, I could totally be a romance novelist and I’ve no aversion to pornography. An unintended side-effect of my job writing user manuals for personal pleasure devices is that I’m basically a product tester.
Companies send me the products and give me a basic explanation of how they are supposed to work. But sometimes what they give me makes no sense, or is just wrong, or they don’t give me anything at all. And then I need to figure out all the ins and outs of how the damn thing works.
As you can imagine, I have amassed an extensive collection of sex toys from my various work projects. Speaking of one’s vocation benefiting their spouse, I’m pretty sure Griffin would say that he loved my job. Especially that time I had to write instructions for the Prostate Pulse Pro 3000.
* * *
How to Use the Prostate Pulse Pro 3000
Get horny. This part is essential. No one’s getting anywhere with a tepid level of curiosity. You need to achieve at least a Level 1 arousal to begin.
Choose your position. You may need to try all the positions until you find one that provides comfortable access to your butthole. Consider these options: A) Lay face down and spread your butt cheeks. B) Lay on your back and bring your knees up, no spreading required. C) Lay on your side and spread ’em. D) Get on all fours, you dog.
Apply a generous amount of lube to the Pulse Pro 3000. You can’t use too much.
Not that much, that’s too much.
After the Pulse Pro 3000 slips out of your hands, flies across the room, rolls across the carpet and gets covered in cat hair, wash it off with soapy water and start over from Step 1.
Gently insert the Pulse Pro 3000 into the anus, about 3-4 inches deep, and tilt it toward the bellybutton.
Gradually increase the vibrations and experiment with different vibration patterns.
Moan and writhe with the combined pleasure of anal and prostate stimulation.
Try not to fart.
Fart.
Run after the Pulse Pro 3000 and wash it off again.
Try it out on your partner, even if she’s a lady.
Repeat Steps 1-12. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.
* * *
The plane bounced over the air bumps. You know that feeling of being in a rapidly dropping elevator? Not my favorite sensation while suspended in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground. I started having visions of plummeting to Earth while the oxygen masks dangled uselessly above my head, and then took a deep breath.
“Can I tell you something?” I said, looking through the window at the clouds below. Griffin responded with a sleepy grunt, and I glanced over to find him with his eyes closed, resting peacefully, completely unfazed by the turbulence.
Instead of rousing him for another round of “What’s Cara catastrophizing about now?” I decided to let him have his nap, which gave me the opportunity to lull myself into the soothing mental void where a multi-layered, interconnected, constantly evolving world that only I knew about existed. My daydream world.
In this episode, I tried to anticipate what we were in for over the next few days.
* * *
The LA sunlight made everything look like a music video and even made the haze look kind of romantic. There was something about the light that just hit me different than it did back home in Niagara Falls. My skin looked smoother, like the city had a soft-focus filter built into the atmosphere. I looked… glowy. My body was leaner, longer and more lithe, like somehow every time I caught a glimpse of myself passing a window, my reflection showed the version of me from the good mirror at home.
Griffin and I spent the day wandering around in a loose, unstructured way, like you do when you feel like you belong somewhere. He was his relaxed, funny self, touching my back the way he does when he’s slightly turned on.
We were walking through a neighborhood full of fancy boutiques and overpriced juice stands when a woman stopped us. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a hat that suggested she might be famous, or at least trying to be.
“I’m sorry,” she said, studying me, “but are you someone?”
That caught me off guard. Griffin smirked beside me while I recovered my composure.
“Not yet,” I said, and to my eternal credit, I said it with just enough humility and belief to make it work.
