Trust Your Heart [Preview]

Chapter 1

Maren

I have always loved alarm clocks. They signal change. Night to morning. Time to pause and start again. A beginning and an end. I peek one eye open at the clock on my bedside table. Four more minutes.

"I'm here," my sister Libby calls from the kitchen. She lives one floor below and swings by every morning. "Are you awake? Dressed? Almost done? Are you eating breakfast? Maren? Do you hear me?"

I do not move. My favorite part of the alarm is the wake-up sound I have selected.

"Maren?" Libby swings the door open. She stands in the doorway with her eyes wide and her mouth parted. "You're not even out of bed? I thought we talked about this."

I hold up my index finger. The numbers on the alarm tick to round out the hour and the beautiful noise of loose change dropping fills my ears with a satisfying sound.

Her hand grasps and slides over the doorknob like it's holding her in place. "You need to set the time for earlier."

"I will be ready in exactly twenty minutes," I say and get out of bed.

Ten minutes in the shower. Five minutes for blow drying my hair. Thirty seconds for mascara and clear lip gloss. Four minutes for selecting my clothes. Entering my closet is the final step to completing pre-work activities. My wardrobe is organized by season and my shoes are in boxes with a photograph of each taped to the outside. The less time I spend picking out clothes, the more time I have to play a game on my iPad, Countess Coins. I grab an outfit and put it on.

I step out of my room and confront what I know is waiting: Libby's scrutinizing gaze.

She looks me over from head to feet. "You wore the shirt yesterday and the pants..." She gives my legs an extra second of scrutiny. "Stretch pants won't work for the event tonight."

Ugh. That's right. The event for her work that we're going to. "It's Friday," I remind her. Fridays are for coming home and being lazy.

"We've been over this." Libby rolls her eyes and sets her mug on the counter. "You're not a kid anymore. Just change your shirt and pants."

"I'm twenty-five-years-old. There are 365 days in a year, which means I've been breathing for 9,131 days. Stop being obsessed with my outfit choices. I'm not changing."

Libby's mouth turns small and pointy. My words don't go over well.

I'm working on paying attention to how Libby sounds and looks when she speaks. There's so much more to words than what you say. Body language is supposed to clue me in to what a person really means when they speak, but seriously? There's a lot to process. Take Libby for example, folding arms over her chest and smiling. The whole folded-arms-thing means she's not happy and she's standoffish. The smile is what throws me off. Is she happy and unhappy? It's a lot to process at six-thirty in the morning.

"Don't be stubborn," Libby says, drowning her coffee with coconut creamer. "It would mean a lot to me if you could dress...professional for the museum event." She sips from her big mug and watches me. "You're a pretty woman, Mare, you've got to highlight your features. Looking your best is important every time you step out of this apartment and even more crucial when you have somewhere to be."

"You mean when I have to be somewhere with you."

Libby's lips form a straight line. "Come on, Mare. Do this for me. I really want you there. I'll pay you twenty bucks."

The prospect of making cash revs up my interest. "Make it fifty."

"Twenty."

"Okay. Fine. But I'm not changing outfits."