[STORY SAMPLE]
A close, easygoing friendship can all change with just one kiss. Seventeen-year-old Remi Beaufort learns this the hard way when she plays a blindfolded kissing game at a party.
And the kiss...it's amazing. It makes her forget about he...
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Back in the third grade, my parents sat me down and declared the impending apocalyptic doom of something called a "divorce." Or at least it had seemed doom-worthy, judging by the dual expressions they wore that day. "Mommy and Daddy are going to live in different houses," they'd said, "but they still care about each other. Do you understand?"
And that was it. No huge blowout. No yelling or screaming. "Irreconcilable differences" in my parents' case meant "falling out of love." Like a snowflake falling from the sky, slowly fluttering before it hit the ground. It almost sounded whimsical.
But even though their separation hadn't been dramatic or world-ending, I never wanted to do that in my life. The idea of falling out of love with someone was enough to break my heart. If I was being honest, that was the reason I was picky with guys, settled with harmlessly flirting when it didn't matter so much. I didn't want to give my heart away, only to have them fall out of love with me later on. I didn't want that kind of wishy-washy love story. I wasn't naïve enough to think that all high school relationships lasted forever, but I couldn't bear the idea of falling in love with someone and then falling out of love with them.
"Mom," I called into the house, juggling my backpack and my shopping bags with one arm, tugging on the door with my other hand. The dampness of winter agitated the springs or the jamb or something, and the door felt like it fractured more and more each time it opened. I made a mental note to ask Elijah to come over and check it. Mr. Pottery Hands knew a thing or two about tools—at least more than Mom and I did. "Mom, you home?"
"In my office," she answered, her smoky voice trailing down the hallway. "Don't forget to take your snow boots off before you come in, Remi."
With a grunt, I finally slammed the door shut. Clumps of ice and snow covered the bottoms of my boots, and it was hard to toe them off in the cluttered entryway.
One thing about Mom: ever since Dad left, she collected junk. Really useless, cumbersome things. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes hung on nearly every wall. Glass vases, some empty and some filled with fake flowers, on almost every flat surface. There were even three shoe racks in the foyer, and the two of us barely filled one. "They're for decoration," she'd tell me in her superior voice. "Who's the interior designer here, Remi?"
Her, technically, but I'd never seen anyone on TV decorate with three shoe racks.
After hanging my coat and putting my boots on the stand, I carried my bags into the house, dumping everything in my bedroom before going to find Mom.
She sat poised in front of her office computer, probably peering at a Pinterest collage of bathrooms.
"I'm home," I said, waiting for her eyes to lift.
People said Mom and I looked alike, but I didn't see it. Mom had a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and I had none of those things. In comparison, my face was as round as a basketball and, as far as I was concerned, my cheekbones were made of rubber. Her eyes were a light brown, accentuated by a thick line of kohl. Her hair was so dark it could've been considered black, cropped in a sharp bob at the middle of her neck. My blonde hair and blue eyes were a gift from my father. Looking at her professional cut made me think of my at-home barber job on my straight-across bangs. The first time I'd ever done it, Elijah made fun of me for a week because I'd cut them too short.
