1
ELLE
Fury Hill,New Hampshire, is a dead town.
Even if it wanted to come to life, I suspect resuscitation would be difficult given the only two places open past ten on the weekend are Lethe’s, a little brick bar the local college kids frequent, and a tiny gas station off the highway that smells like old doughnuts and wet floors.
Or maybe I’m just bitter. Coming from a massive city like LA to some Podunk with a gloomy film clinging to the air will do that to a person.
I scan the plethora of trinkets and travel-size items available to purchase at the convenience store attached to the gas station. The one thing I stopped in to find, though, is the only thing they seem to be out of.
There’s ChapStick in every color and flavor, wet wipes, solar-powered dash decorations that fidget while you drive. They even have a variety of birth control products—from condoms to sponges and spermicides, if you’ve got a late-night, last-minute need, the Fury Hill Stop N Go has you covered.
Which makes sense, I guess, considering the biggest draw to the townisAvernia College, and statistically speaking, one inevery four college students gets an STI. Options for prevention are smart.
But there are no lighters.
Not the cheap BICs you can grab in a five-pack. Not the kitchen ones with the handles. Not even a Zippo or box of matches.
Sighing, I lean forward and press my forehead into the top shelf.
This is so pathetic.
Ten months ago, I was waking up at my beachfront apartment with a heart full of dreams.
Nine months ago, someone went out of their way to crush them.
It’s a strange feeling, watching everything you’ve ever wanted go up in flames before you’ve even managed to grab on to it. Grieving something that didn’t really belong to you is both pointless and unending.
What’s worse, I wonder—the actual end of your life or a metaphorical death you relive every time you open your eyes?
I wouldn’t be in Fury Hill at all if my parents hadn’t expressed grave concern over my mental state when I moved back in with them. They had relatives over daily, subtly checking my wrists and keeping me from the internet as if I was one sleazy tabloid article away from ending it all myself.
As if I’d let a man have that satisfaction.
A throat clears beside me, and I jump. My jacket sleeve gets caught on the shelf corner, and it pulls away from the stand it’s attached to, sending the contraception flying.
I let out a squeal, grabbing for the metal at the same time a large, veiny hand appears, catching it before it can collapse. Warmth seeps into my side as a second hand joins, fitting the hooks back into place with a satisfyingclick.
Breathing hard, I glance at the stranger, my chest constricting as I scan his profile: a smooth, chiseled jaw that could easily be on display in some art museum right now, medium brown hair that’s tousled from the wind, or maybe his fingers, and soft lips with the slightest bow in the center that I could fit the tip of my pinkie in.
He turns to me, and my breathing stalls entirely as I meet his eyes. Soft and guarded, the color of raw jade, they rove over my face as if inspecting me for injury.
I want to cut myself on any of the sharp angles of his face, but it’s the eyes I can’t look away from.
The man clears his throat again. I blink, waiting for one of us to speak, though my tongue won’t unstick from the roof of my mouth to do so.
This is what movie stars wish they looked like. Adonis in a modern body. A man the ancient Greeks would write epic poems about. Michelangelo would have killed to immortalize such perfection in stone.
Silently, he offers me a black box. I swivel my gaze down, taking in the dark red sweater he has on, the umber chinos, pausing to admire the hands again as my stomach cramps.
Whether it’s from the visceral attraction I’m feeling or PMS, I can’t be sure. Not that I’m paying much attention to my body other than the heat radiating through me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, averting his eyes. “Here’s your…”
Pink stains his lightly tanned features as he trails off, flushing his entire face.
Finally, I look down at the box he’s attempting to offer.
