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This EXCERPT is from Chapter One of Hometown Heartless,
read from the point
of view of it's heroine, Kennedy.
Keep in mind this sneak peek is
completely unedited. Enjoy!
He’s alive.
“Everett, honey. They rescued him. He’s alive. Oh, thank God.
Marcia and Grady got the call two hours ago, that he was on U.S. soil.
He’s coming home. Everett is coming home.” My mom practically shakes me
to knock the news into my brain.
Have
you ever been so shocked that all you can do is laugh? It’s a morbid
reaction to emotional news, especially horrible news. Not that this is
horrible news, this is incredible news. But, I’ve always been one of
those people who cackles hysterically in high pressure, sad, emotionally
charged, or otherwise situations. It’s a defense mechanism, like my
soul can’t take the seriousness of the matter so it revolts against
societal norms.
Well,
my tried and true behavioral technique doesn’t fail me now. While the
rest of the neighborhood stands on the street crying tears of joy and
weeping with relief, I double over, spill my pom-poms on the driveway,
and laugh my goddamn head off.
“He’s … coming … home” I giggle, holding my hand over my mouth to make it appear like I’m crying.
“Oh, Kennedy, not now!” Mom scolds, chiding me.
As if I can help this. I want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m too caught up in my fit of chuckling to do so.
It’s
comical, if you think about it. For an entire year, I’ve mourned the
death of the boy I’ve dreamed about since I was old enough to have
crushes. Laughter is the only way to react to the news that the prisoner
of war, the hometown hero the entire town wept over, is coming home.
That he’s alive.
Everett Brock. And just like that, my memory jumps back two years time, to the last time those bright green eyes held mine.
The
rumbling of the truck coming down the street is unmistakable. No
ordinary car sounds like that. It isn’t the sleek, black car of death
that visited the house next door just nine short months ago. That
vehicle had been silent and vicious in its attack on our street.
No, this one announces its presence, causing everyone on the street to whip their heads toward it.
I
make out the camouflage paint on the old Ford pickup before I even
realize that it’s headed straight for me. Everything feels like a dream
right now, as if my life is moving in slow motion but my heartbeat has
settled somewhere between manic and atrial fibrillation.
I
straighten, my mouth sobering to the point that not only will laughter
not come out, I’m not even sure breath is escaping past my lips.
He’s
in there, I know it. Why else would an army vehicle from the base about
an hour from here be driving down the street we both grew up on?
“Oh my Lord …” Mom gasps, because everyone is watching this like some kind of car crash they can’t look away from.
None of us have any idea what he might look like.
A
car is fast on the truck’s tail, and this I would know anywhere. Marcia
and Grady Brock come screeching around the corner in their navy blue
BMW, and the car slams into park on the street. They’re out in a flash,
dashing across the driveway, and Marcia sends a watery smile Mom’s way.
The door to the truck opens in the driveway next door, an officer pulling the handle.
I
see a boot first, black, scuffed. Part of me wants to look away, wants
to wait until he’s fully out of the car. I’m not sure I can handle it
bit by bit, or if seeing him full on for the first time in two years
will be worse.
But I am helpless at this point. I wish I could stop time, have a minute or two more to process this.
A long leg follows it, and then another, and then he’s appearing from the truck as if he hasn’t risen from the dead.
No
longer the boy I waved goodbye to as he drove off to basic training,
Everett stands before me in the body of a man. Ropey muscles coat his
arms, the height I thought he possessed before now put to shame by the
couple extra inches he miraculously sprouted since eighteen. A scruffy
beard masks most of his face, and his hair is too long and greasy, but
anyone can see how intensely handsome he is, even under the coarse
forrest.
It’s
one of those moments in life, when you look back on it, that will be
set to music in the memory. As my eyes trail up, hitting every part of
his long, lean body, a sorrow-filled, haunting melody plays in my ears.
The kind of tune that departing lovers dance to before they’re
separated. A harmony with only one note of hope thrown in at the end,
only a singular note of uplift.
I swear, I almost lose my balance when my face is level to his.
Because
there are dozens of people on the street now. His parents are
practically sobbing over him. My own mother is calling his name, yelling
her congratulations. The army officers are murmuring to him, and I hear
the slamming of doors as I know that local reporters must have rushed
to get the news on the missing hero who has just returned.
But Everett is only looking at me.
The
whole world might as well have vanished, that’s how soul-deep his
exploration of me is. My feet are rooted to the ground, every cell in my
body completely paralyzed by the direct, familiar gaze he’s pinned on me.
I look at him, trying to memorize every pore. Yes, he resembles the boy who left to serve his country. But this … man is no one I truly recognize.
And
those eyes, the blazing green clovers that I’ve daydreamed about for
years, are … dead. In them, I see only ghosts and horror.
Everett Brock is back in Brentwick. And nothing will ever be the same.
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