When Clyde Parker, the wayward son and the rotten-apple of the Parker family-tree, storms his way back into Avery Fields, he sets out a flurry of butterfly effect in Dawn Marshal's life.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SUNDAY MORNING SHE WOKE up earlier than usual, at least as early as a heavy-sleeper such as herself could. Although Sunday was the worst possible day to be a morning person or to be productive at all; she has had enough of wiggling inside her jeans and concluded with a heavy stone that she was terribly out of shape.
Even if she couldn't cut down on all the carbs and gluten which would otherwise, make Mia cringe at her, she could certainly burn down the fat.
She put on her jogging pants, trainers and tiptoed down the stairs embraced by the serenity; the house was a cemetery.
"Hey sleepyhead," she knocked softly on Ethan's door to be greeted by the lazy silence and the droopy snoring. It was too early even for her brother to torment the neighborhood with his depressing rock music.
She heard the jingle of keys and the front door shut abruptly. It was none other than the writer of the sticky notes which lay in abundance all over the house.
"Mom..." she mumbled, her mother hung her faux leather bag on one of the barstools in the kitchen and stumbled further into the foyer, embracing her in a needy hug. It wasn't a 'I missed not seeing my daughter throughout the week' hug but it was more of a 'I had a crappy day at work and I need a hug' hug. Either way, she wasn't complaining.
Mrs. Marshal was in her crinkly teal scrubs, that on one of these days Dawn swore, her mother was born in. Her mother smelled like a hospital, the gritty scent of disinfectant was in the air.
Her mother left her gleaming pumps by the door and let go of her. Murmuring incoherently along the lines of her boss being a douche, her mother sauntered up the stairs to hit the sack.
When the coast was clear, Dawn sighed louder than usual and spun around reaching for the door. "You better not be sneaking out young lady!" Tucked in layers of blankets and perhaps reading something of Ernest Hemmingway, Mrs. Marshal hollered at her daughter.
"I am just going out for a jog, it's almost seven!" she called back slipping through the door realizing her mother was too tired to even acknowledge the daylight.
After her parents' divorce, her mother naturally refused for alimony claiming she didn't want his money, that's how they ended up in their mother's maiden house, on the verge of hitting rock bottom with their financial crisis worse than ever and since then her father's reference has been a taboo in the household.
°•°•°
Outside, the sun was peeking through the grey clouds and the misty wind rapped past a rusty old mailbox. The birds chirped and there was a sheen of warmth in the air. It almost felt like summer.
She waved at the bald gardener raking the amber leaves from the park and he waved back smiling broadly. The grass that sprouted between the crevices of the pavement, tickled her ankles. After a long gloomy and grey week, today felt different.
She heard the faint honking of cars, but the road wasn't crammed except a few old ladies, health freaks and people like her who didn't know any better. The sudden chiming of bells made her jump as the paperboy cycled past her tossing newspapers around the neighborhood.
Her trainers squelched against the rough asphalt and she plugged in her iPod shuffling between playlists. Her music taste was a spectrum of too many genres.
Warming up, she paced back and forth till she had this notion to run against the wind-she wasn't a pacer or a jogger she has always been the runner, not the kind that hits the gym or resorts to the treadmill.
Faster and faster, the wind battered against her body, her limbs flung about sweeping past it. And she ran not caring about where she was going
°•°•°
When she stopped, she was on the other side of the town with all foreign houses and shops. She bent over, her fingers gripping her knees as she struggled to catch her breath. Her sides throbbed from all the running and her throat felt like sandpaper, scratchy and hoarse.
She should've brought along a bottle of water.
It was then she had this inkling like she was being watched. All the hair on the back of her neck stood straight. She was certain there was a shadow lurking behind her. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.
She instantly turned, irrespective of how much tired she was and looked out.
She saw a speck of a figure walking through the smog. She jogged up to the speck that turned into a blob then a figure and then a boy in a grey hoodie with striking blue eyes and a patch of raven hair sticking out.
Clyde Parker.
"Are you stalking me?" She rolled her eyes, looking at him incredulously through the thicket of her lashes.
"What makes you think I am stalking you?" He laughed dryly and wisps of smoke wheezed out of his mouth as he spoke. She thought, the boy had a death wish-he was always smoking.
With her hands on her hips, she tried to look intimidating although she looked like a little girl who couldn't hurt a fly. He stared at her, humor glinting through his eyes, "So, what if I am stalking you?" Inching closer, his long strides seemed to have fazed her.
His fingers caressed her cheeks before tucking a strand of hair from her ponytail behind her ear. She parted her lips, trying to wrap her mind around the current scenario.
"Why?" Three letters, that's all she managed to blurt out when his hand snaked around the small of her back, his fingers curling around her sides. Flustered, her breath clogged in her throat.
"I don't know. Perhaps, because you intrigue me, Dawn Marshal." He was close, too close that his ashy breath was fanning her cheeks. A shiver whizzed up her spine.
"So, does the Bermuda Triangle, Clyde Parker," she smirked. He furrowed his eyebrows and just then, with only a flick of her index finger she pushed him off her.
She felt hollowed as soon as his warmth abandoned her body. How could someone so cold be this warm? When she released herself from his grasp, she ran the other way shouting over her shoulder, "You have got about as much charm as that of a dead slug, Clyde!"
His face bore an unreadable expression as he slowly disappeared in the smog.
On her way home, she pondered about the way his tongue twirled around her name as if tasting it like a delicacy and why on earth she found it so goddamn sexy.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I must be in a better mood or it could be the blueberry cheesecake I had for dessert either way, here's another update. Don't forget to vote, comment, and share this story if you like it!
