Homebound Read online

  Alyssa B. Cole

  Homebound

  Copyright © 2019 by Alyssa B. Cole

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

  Cover art by rebecacovers

  Proofreading by princessedits

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About the Author

  Also by Alyssa B. Cole

  Preface

  During my junior year of high school, I published my first book. It was titled Under the Flag of Stars and Stripes. I soon realized I had no idea what I was doing and took it down after a year or so. But the desire remained to tell the story of Abby and Ethan, even though I knew it would be in a very different way. Under the Flag was set during the Vietnam War era in the South. Homebound is contemporary with a magical twist, set in Minnesota. That is just a few of many differences. But I’m pleased with the result of all these changes.

  New fans, I hope you enjoy my writing, and longtime fans, I hope you fall in love with this version as much as I have.

  Chapter 1

  I’m taking off my spring jacket when Greg says, “Babe, what’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “On your arm.”

  I cringe. I swear to God, if it’s eczema or something and he starts making fun of me, I’m going to push him into the fountain.

  We’re at a restaurant uptown, which makes us feel very fancy. Said fountain is located in the middle of the outdoor seating. It’s stunning, plumes of water shooting up and making little rainbows in the process. The basin is deep enough that it will definitely make Greg sputter if he gets pushed in.

  Perfect.

  I mean, far be it from me to cause a scene at a restaurant that required me to actually dress up a little, but this is the same guy who kept pushing my black-and-blue mark the other week from when I ran my knee into my desk at work, asking, “Does this hurt?” Like, yes, it does, so stop touching it. I adore Greg. I’m completely in love, we’ll be together forever, yada yada. But he can have the emotional sensitivity of a turnip sometimes. Does that analogy even work? I don’t know. I can’t think properly, with him tracing my upper arm, right around my shoulder. I’m wearing a sleeveless top today. It’s a little early in the year to dress like this, but back here there’s enough direct sunlight to keep me warm.

  I slap his hand away. “Stop it,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. My glare fades at his expression. His face has that oh, crap kind of look, like when he realizes he’s late to work. I tell him to put an alarm on his phone for when he needs to go to work instead of just relying on me, but he says he keeps forgetting to do so.

  Wincing, I now pull away, putting my jacket back on. “Is it that bad? I didn’t think it was itchy or anything. Is it a bug bite?”

  “Uh, no. Did you look in the mirror this morning?”

  “Well, yeah, but I don’t exactly stare at my shoulder.” I was too focused on getting my makeup right. It’s funny, because as a teenager I hated makeup. I was very unfeminine in general. It was only once I started going to college that I started loosening up and allowing myself to try different things. Nowadays, while I’m not the type to spend twenty minutes at the sink trying to get my eyeliner right, I can’t go a day without putting on mascara and at least a subtle shade of lipstick.

  Greg swallows, pulling away and collapsing into his seat. He’s looking a little less like he’s been electrocuted and a little more like he’s vaguely nauseous. “You might want to go to the bathroom and check it out.”

  “I’m not going to do it here!” I hiss, imagining some nasty-looking thing festering on my arm, like on one of those YouTube clips he shows me sometimes of doctors popping pimples.

  “Okay.” He lets it go, but he doesn’t touch me once during the whole lunch. That’s not a huge shock or anything; we’ve been dating for two years and honestly, we’re past the cutesy phase. What really catches my attention is how he barely touches his food. And he forgets to tip the waiter when it’s time for us to go. Greg never forgets to tip. It’s something that impressed me on our first date. He always does at least 25%, which is easy enough when you usually only eat at cheap places. It’s because he worked as a waiter as a teen, and he knows the struggles they go through. I always admired that about him.

  But this time, I watch him put down exact change (we’re probably never coming here again; the food was good but was not worth $50, and while we are professionals we are young professionals and still have a crap ton of student loans) and stand up to leave. I pause before depositing a $10 bill from my own purse and hurrying after him.

  “Greg, what’s going on?” I ask. “Talk to me.”

  We’re near the doors of the restaurants when he mutters something. It’s too crowded and noisy for me to catch it.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a mark. On your arm.”

  “Yeah, you already—”

  But he’s staring at me now, face pinched with pain, and I realize—oh. I’ve got a Mark. With a capital M.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, because I don’t. People get theirs by age 25, usually way before that. I’m 26. I’m clearly Markless. And that’s fine, because I don’t need an official soulmate. Greg practically is mine.

  “I’m not Marked,” I say again, because he’s still giving me that pinched look around his eyes he gets when he’s trying not to be upset, and now I’m trying not to be upset, because upset guys always make me upset, and oh my God, if it gets him to cheer up, I’ll go to the freaking bathroom and check, because I’m feeling my old anxiety creeping up my throat again and I am not about to freak out in the fanciest place I’ve ever been in.

  “Hold this.” I thrust my purse at him and storm off into the bathroom. Which would be more effective for a dramatic exit if I actually knew where the bathroom was beforehand. I go in one direction, but it’s just a coat closet, so I have to sheepishly ask the hostess where the restrooms are. I follow her directions, rounding a corner and stepping into the room with a fancy cursive “Ladies” sign written above it rather than just a stick figure in a dress.

  There are a few women using the restroom and checking their makeup in the mirror. It’s a vague comfort, to know that the bourgeois pee like the rest of us. I wait till the three women gossiping and laughing by the mirror leave before taking off my jacket and turning my body.

  My breath catches.

  There in the mirror, I see an intricate design. I can’t really describe it; there are lots of swirls and dots, and it makes me think of a treble and bass clef merging. It gleams gold as it catches the light of the ceiling lamps.

  “No no no,” I mutter, grabbing a towel, dampening it with some cold tap water, and scrubbing at it.

  It doesn’t come off.

  Come on, Abby. Breathe.

  This has to be a mistake. There’s no way it’s a Mark. I’m Markless. It’s all good. Yeah, Gr
eg and I kind of held our breaths last year as we waited to see if either of us would get a Mark, but that was last year. We were safe. Why now? Why after all this time? Why am I late?

  I hiss a curse under my breath, dumping the towel on the vanity. My sandals click on the tile as I pace. There’s no way this is happening. I’m too old for this!

  Greg. Greg’s my age. Maybe he’s late, too? Maybe his will appear? It’s not unheard of for couples that dated pre-Mark to end up being soulmates. I mean, it’s rare, but it’s not impossible.

  I point a finger at myself in the mirror, hazel eyes sharp. “Get yourself together,” I hiss.

  “Um…”

  Whipping around, I notice a woman hesitantly exiting the bathroom stall, smiling timidly at me. “I just wanted to let you know,” she says, “that there are options out there.”

  “Options?” I parrot.

  “You know, I volunteer at a women’s health clinic down the road. You might be interested in stopping there sometime.”

  For a second, it doesn’t compute. All I can think of is, Is there a way to get unMarked besides getting a lousy tattoo over it?

  Then it clicks.

  “I’m not pregnant!” I screech, too upset to calm down. Instead I storm out of the bathroom, grab a gloomy Greg, and tell him, “You’re going to be Marked, too, so just you wait!”

  Chapter 2

  He doesn’t.

  We wait for a month. It never shows up. In the meantime, he turns 27. Our hopes seem to die on his birthday.

  That’s fine. We’re fine. Things are fine. All we have to do is -

  “You should go to your parents’ house without me.”

  So, never mind that, then.

  “Fine,” I tell Greg. Because it’s fine. I’m fine. Sure, I was finally going to introduce him to my family, whom I haven’t seen in person for a few years. Sure, I’d actually begun looking forward to going back to Minnesota thanks to him. But it’s fine. It’ll be fine. I can deal with my family on my own.

  And then he proceeds to tell me how we should break up.

  This time, I am not fine.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, which immediately makes me hate myself more than my usual amount because I sound so clingy and needy. So what if he doesn’t want me? I wouldn’t want me, either. That’s fine. I don’t have to get all emotional in front of him.

  “Of course not,” Greg says, which makes me feel mildly better. “But you have a soulmate out there, Abby. And I think we have to come to the realization that I’m not it.”

  Of course. Of course Greg Bernstein, who cried over the last episode of Adventure Time, has decided that now is the time to handle things like an adult. I could smack him.

  “You’re definitely it,” I tell him. “We just need to wait a little longer - ”

  “It’s done, Abby. We’re done.”

  “I’m not done,” I snarl, tempted to stomp my foot like a toddler because he’s not listening.

  We argue back and forth, and eventually, we switch roles. I start calmly pleading and reasoning, while he starts to heat up. Eventually, we come to an agreement: We’re going on a break.

  Fast forward three weeks, and here I am, grabbing my luggage at the airport. Alone. Well, not alone, because there are a million people power-walking around me, but still. No Greg. Not even a text. I sent him one as soon as the plane landed: Arrived safe and sound :)

  Nothing back.

  “Whatever,” I huff to myself, grabbing my suitcases (plural, because I very well might be here for longer than intended) and head off, my phone burning a hole in my shorts. With every step, I ache to check it.

  I hadn’t just texted my not-really-ex. I’d also sent a text to Beth, telling her when I landed. She’d said that she’d be waiting outside the airport by the time I left. I know she had to snag a ride from a friend, since she hates driving in near the Twin Cities and our parents are working, so I don’t know if I should look for her car or another when I leave the sliding glass doors and step out into the humid air. August in Minnesota is not kind, but it’s better than New York.

  “Abby!”

  I know that voice.

  Beth comes barreling up to me, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug. She’s a couple inches taller than me, and a little skinnier (curse her), but we both have the same dirty blonde hair, though, I notice when she pulls away, hers is in neat, loose curls while mine just dangles limply in a ponytail.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she gushes. “You got everything?”

  “Yup! You look good.”

  “Thanks! You too!”

  That can’t be true, because I’m just wearing an Adidas t-shirt and shorts, with a pair of sneakers, which were a mild pain to deal with going through security. I don’t even have mascara on, because I knew I’d cry in the bathroom at some point like a high schooler dumped at prom.

  But even if it’s a lie, Beth’s being kind, living up to her namesake from Little Women. As my big sister, she’s always been admirable. We’d have arguments growing up, but usually it was my fault. I’m pretty emotional, whereas she’s very easygoing.

  She grabs one of my suitcases, and I follow her to a car (hers, I recognize) where a man is waiting, watching us. He’s got a bit of dark scruff and short hair. His blue eyes meet mine for a long, silent moment, and then he blinks. The ends of them crinkle as he smiles.

  “I’ll help,” he says, popping the trunk of the small Hyundai and grabbing one of my suitcases.

  “Thanks, Ethan,” Beth chirps. “Abby, you remember Ethan Perry, right?”

  My eyes zip back to the man who’s shoving my suitcase into the trunk. As he straightens and turns, he smiles again at me. “It’s been a while, Constance.”

  Ugh. Yup. It’s definitely Ethan Perry. He must have seen me as a little sister since he was friends with Beth, and God knows he was always teasing me. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him; I hadn’t seen him since he left for the military when I was almost 16.

  “You know,” I say with a thin smile, because it has been ten years and I’ve matured at least a little bit, thank you, “I still prefer to go by my middle name.”

  “I still like Constance. But Connie will work,” he says, winking at me. I roll my eyes. Clearly, he thinks I’m still a child, even though he’s just three years older.

  “Ethan actually just got home a couple years ago,” Beth says quickly. “He got his soulmate Mark then, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Whoa.” I never knew that anyone else got Marked late. Well, it had to happen. I couldn’t be the only person. “Good for you,” I say, not sure if I mean it or not. I glance at Beth, but she gives nothing away as she sends a text.

  “Thanks.”

  We finish loading up the car. To my surprise, Beth sits by me in the back rather than up front with Ethan.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in twenty years,” she moans. “You know that when you go off for college, you can come back, right?”

  “I know. Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, about that,” she says, a teasing lilt coating her voice. “Weren’t you supposed to bring your boyfriend?”

  My stomach clenches. I’d actually forgotten for five beautiful minutes about the crapshoot that’s been the past few months.

  “Yeah, well, he’s busy.” I glance at Beth and then meaningfully turn my eyes toward Ethan, hoping she gets the picture.

  She doesn’t. Beth is as beautiful as she is oblivious. Ironic, since she’s a real estate agent and supposedly quite adept at her job. “Oh, are things a bit rough between you two?” she says, glossy lips sliding into a frown.

  Hesitating, I glance at her shoulder. She and I haven’t talked about soulmates; we don’t talk much at all, really. We stopped being very close once I entered adolescence. She had her circle of friends then, and I had a few of my own. Our circles never really intersected much, except for Ethan showing up after school to work on homework with her.
In any case, as far as I know, she’s not Marked, but I don’t know how she feels about that. Usually, people who are Markless aren’t happy about it. Most people like the idea of knowing definitely that they have a soulmate out there. If I complain to her, will it upset her?

  “Connie, you’ve gotten really quiet over the years,” Ethan says, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

  “Shut up, Ethan,” I say automatically. Some habits never die. “If you really must know, not all of us are happy to receive our Marks.”

  Ethan pulls up to a red light and stops, which is probably good timing since Beth immediately shrieks. “No way! You’re Marked? You never told me!”

  “It just happened a couple months ago,” I grumble. “I was late.”

  “Apparently! Let me see!”

  I purse my lips. Marks are usually considered a fairly intimate thing. It’s not like flashing someone, but even though I hate it, it still feels a little revealing, like baring one’s soul. But I roll my shirt sleeve up and show her.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Geez, Beth. Chill. Most people don’t like to show off their Marks,” Ethan says, surprising me. Then again, he has a Mark too, so I guess he’d get it.

  “Sorry. I mean, I’m fine being Markless, but it’s still interesting to me,” Beth replies, her hand retreating. “Why aren’t you happy about your Mark?”

  “Because it’s ruining everything,” I grumble. “I was perfectly happy being Markless. Preferred it, even.”

  “Oh,” Beth says, eyes widening in understanding. “Your boyfriend doesn’t have a Mark?”

  “No. And he’s 27 now, so that’s not happening.”

  “Well, I guess it’s not meant to be, then,” she says with a shrug and a tone of dismissive optimism. I force a small smile while I clench my jaw. This is going to be a long trip.

  By the time we pull up to Lake Redwood, the afternoon has faded into the pink glow of summer. I forgot how far the sky goes in Minnesota, at least when you’re out of the metro area. You can see a storm rumbling in the distance, but it takes ages for it to be on top of you. Meanwhile, even outside of the city, the sky in New York is small, the hills and trees pulling the horizon in close. If you see a storm looming, it’s probably going to kick in at any minute. Except if you’re at the beach, of course.