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.
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AVERY FIELDS WAS NOT that big of a town but big enough to make one feel lost. Edinburgh Street was way off into the east, a few miles away from their school. Almost every house there was made of burnt bricks and every house had a red mail-box.
Hence, half an hour, twenty-something brick-houses and red mail-boxes later with Mia's poor sense of direction Dawn finally succeeded in finding her best friend.
Mia stood in the dark alley, draped in a white crumpled bed sheet, her blonde hair in a disarray, her perfect curls falling loose. Her makeup was blotched, tears ran down her eyes along with her mascara and eyeliner. She thought, her best friend looked so un-Mia-Thompson-like.
Dawn stopped her car beside Mia, she had never seen Mia look so lost and broken, she wanted to hold her tight. And she did. "I am fine..." Mia croaked, her cold breath fanning Dawn's hair and let go.
"I know you are and I know you will be better tomorrow."
That was how Dawn Marshal came up with another one of her theories which was perhaps one of the universal truths, second to the world being round—Tim Graham was a jock, so was Caleb Parker and although, jocks were fine as hell, they were dimwitted, gutless bastards.
After she was done changing in Dawn's spare pjs in the backseat they drove home in silence. She decided not to pepper Mia with questions since Mia Thompson's, applied and tested theory was to ignore it and it will go away.
But she was aware, it was not something that could be fixed over tubs of Chunky Monkey and soppy chick flicks. This was not some itty-bitty heterosexual high school break up. Mia was cheated on, she was broken. Her heart was torn apart by the love of her life. And it could only be fixed with time and much needed space.
"Why does it hurt so bad this time?" it was the only thing Mia, the usual chatter-box had said the whole ride home.
"Maybe it hurts so bad because it was real." Dawn replied with a riff-off version stolen from a John Green novel.
°•°•°
He had been standing at the edge of the cliff with a roll of cigarette between his lips, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time.
For reasons unknown, this place had been calling out to him since he first set foot in this town. He knew he wouldn't jump, a few days ago he might've but seeing her changed things.
When the sirens blared, he had been too lost, staring out in the black hole of nothingness to pay heed. Then blue-red lights fell on him, he had heard sirens, voices. His heart hammered against his chest.
Chucking the cigarette onto the gravel, he scampered off into the wilderness where his motorcycle, a metallic black Ducati Monster 696 was well-hidden from public eye. Dark Knight, he called it. He threw his leg over the fender, kick starting it with his hands prominently clutching the handgrip.
