C H A P T E R 2

Three-year-olds did a lot of bizarre stuff.

Jonah and I weren’t any different. We met back in the preschool years, fighting over the same, half broken black crayon. It had been his, but because it was his, I wanted it as mine.

While all the other kids painted their cat’s rainbow colors, I wanted mine black, neat, and colored between the lines. And it just so happened that Jonah was the only one with a black crayon.

I asked him nicely a handful of times, hoping he would be nice. But Jonah was a boy and as a boy, he was being a stupid jerk, bent on believing that by sharing his crayon—he would get cooties.

He didn’t give it up until I sat on him. Even then he had longer arms than I did, so I did the only thing my three-year-old mind thought to do: I ate Jonah Everett’s crayon right out of his tiny, pudgy fingers.

Our friendship blossomed from there. Our elementary years were spent playing cops and robbers, spending every afternoon in my tree house to do homework, and playing many reckless games of hide and go seek. Those were the best of times.

I got a taste of his inner bitterness when we were twelve. Up until that point, Jonah had been an only child. That landmark year was the same year that permanently marked his parents irreconcilable differences. Divorce.

And if divorce hadn’t been the icing on the cake, it was his mother’s one-night-stand with his father’s best friend. Shortly after, she realized she was pregnant for the second time. And the worst thing was: she wasn’t phased in the slightest, not one bit.

It was that one event that started the timer on Jonah’s ticking clock.

- - -

“How can they be out of curly fries?” I squeaked, blinking back tears. “Curly fries are the staple of Arby’s, Jonah. Arby’s isn’t Arby’s without them,” I whined childishly.

He stared at the talking intercom, his eyebrows knitted tightly together; he ran a hand down his face as he sighed so loudly and so dramatically that I almost giggled.

“Is there any possibility you can get curly fries?” I could tell he was embarrassed, by the way his cheeks flushed. “My friend loses all functions without them.”

“I’m sorry,” the monotone voice repeated through the crackling speakers. “This has never happened before, but we really ran out of curly fries,” she concluded, her voice laced with annoyance. “For this inconvenience, anything on the menu is free of charge.”

Jonah tightened his hands against the steering wheel. “No thanks,” he spat, his tone angry and cold. “We’re taking out business elsewhere.” Jonah put the car in drive and squealed out of the parking lot, burning rubber on what was left of his shitty, nearly bald tires.

As he made a sharp right turn back onto the interstate, I had to choke back a sob and hold back the tears. It wasn’t just about the curly fries. It was about Jonah. His track record with people was long, and he was known for flaunting his jerkish-tendencies at anyone that remotely pushed his buttons.

“Addie,” he murmured suddenly, his voice soft and smooth like velvet, “please don’t cry.”

I bit my trembling lip. How did he know? He always knew, and I hated how translucent I had become. It was as if he knew, really knew, that it wasn’t just about French fries anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he continued slowly, not phased by my silence. “God, I’m such a jackass.”

If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve assumed that he was poking fun at me, but he wasn’t. Jonah turned from hot to cold quicker than a faucet, and I had learned to get used to his sudden changes.

“It’s okay,” I stuttered out, unable to look anywhere but out the window. “Curly fries are overrated, anyway.”

He didn’t question it—not any of it.

Jonah was the kind of slow-spreading poison. The more I hurt and ached, the more he spread. Taunting. Jonah Everett wasn’t sorry—not even in the slightest. I knew better than to assume.

When Jonah spoke, those were the words he didn’t mean. It was his silent words that he meant, and right then, those words spoke in volumes, trapping me into a place I would never escape from.

“Great,” he mumbled, splitting his attention between the road and the 8 track player. “I’m in a sixties mood,” he remarked, shuffling through the center console again. “Any requests?”

My throat tightened up. Requests? Jonah’s piece-of-shit Escort was his and because it was his, that meant the driver had sole dibs on the music. I wasn’t stupid enough to mess with something like that.

“Not really. I’m sure you’ll pick something good.”

“Why can’t you give me straight answers? You’re acting like a puppy with its tail between her legs—like I kicked you or something.”

I froze. “Because I don’t have a preference Jonah.” My tone was steely and colder than usual. And suddenly, it didn’t feel like I was talking to my best friend. No, this Jonah Everett was clear and cold and as heartless as glass, and it contained any fire and ambition I had to talk to him.

Just when had my best friend changed so much?

“That’s your problem,” he told me. “You don’t want to stir up waves. You just tell me exactly what I want to hear.”

I shrugged. “I guess I just aim to please.”

Jonah tipped his hat and pulled his sunglasses from the visor. Within seconds, he was sporting a pair of aviator glasses that were much too large for his eyes.

“How about The Beatles?”

I gave a tiny smile. “Yellow Submarine?”

And hope had been restored—despite how temporary it would be.

- - -

It was one of the most miserable of days. Clouds were absent from the sky, overtaken by a deep, midnight blue color that was slashed with gray and purple swirls. It held a murky, sinister feel—one that chilled me to the core.

All I could do was look away, breaking my gaze, and settling for an eye-level, fifty mile per hour view of the scenic countryside. It was beautiful, loaded with daisy and dandelion patches. Hundreds of horses grazed in the backdrop—spanning over hundreds of acres of endless pastures. And then I saw the one thing that stood out like a sore thumb against the beauty of nature.

“Look,” I blurted, staring in the distance. I had to blink ten or more times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. “Is that a Six Flags?”

Jonah stopped humming along to Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band abruptly. His eyes locked on the large amusement park, and he whistled the kind of whistle that made me cringe. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I chanced a look at his mesmerizing, sparkling green eyes. “It brings up memories, doesn’t it?”

He made a funny, half nod. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose. “All kinds, actually.”

“I remember when we were fifteen. After months upon months of begging, our parents finally let us go on our own. And we were waiting in line for a water ride and this sleazy guy started hitting on me. You threatened him despite the fact that he was a head taller to you, and he was decked out in biker clothes and tattoos.”

Jonah laughed a dry laugh. “Oh I remember. He had one hell of a left hook. I needed stitches after that.”

“And you cried like a baby, Jon. You had nightmares for months.”

He pouted. “That’s not fair, Ad. I was fifteen.”

“Exactly. You were fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds don’t have nightmares about creepy, tall, bikers with tattoo-covered skin.”

Jonah’s laugh drowned out Yellow Submarine. “What would a fifteen-year-old have nightmares about?”

I pursed my lips together, ticking the names off the tips of my fingers. “Freddy Krueger. Jason Voorhees. Michael Myers.”

“That’s the greatest collection of shitty slasher movies, Ad. They’re more fake than the electric blue dye in your hair.”

“Gee, thanks Jonah,” I mumbled sarcastically. “That was some comparison.”

He grinned. “Stuff it, crayon eater.”

I crossed my arms across my chest. “Must you always have the last word?”

“Must you always try to have the last word?” he teased.

“I don’t.” I lifted my head taller. “That’s your problem.” I stared over at the half-empty amusement park. “It’s kind of cold, Jon, but how do you feel about a deviation in our scheduled plans?”

“I say great.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Okay. Next time around—things will start to come together. I promise. Plus, amusement park scenes are always fun to write.