Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series Read online

  I recall it being a big deal because half the kids were enthusiastic to participate, while the other half were completely against it, even going so far as to print off flyers in protest.

  The basic foundation was simple: students dropped notes into the lockers of other students. “Reasons Why,” the project was called. It was a way to influence us to be better citizens. The idea was that, once a week, we would write down a brief “reason why” we liked or admired someone. It was short and sweet, typically just one sentence, but it made us think. It made us notice all the little things other people do, things we should appreciate about each other.

  Like say, I noticed once that even though the captain of our football team acted like an immature asshole most of the time, he always held the door open for people with their hands full. Didn’t matter if the student was someone he didn’t talk to, or if it was a teacher he didn’t particularly care for. He was always thoughtful enough to do so.

  Or, there was the time I noticed Amy Swanson—the ultimate mean girl, and my mortal enemy—would sometimes pay for other students snacks in the check-out line at lunch if they didn’t have enough money. It was the only thing about her I ever found worth admiring, but hey, at least it was something.

  Oh, and I once noticed something Nash did, which I just couldn’t not comment on. In winter time, he brought quite a bit of clothes to drop off in the donation box intended for less fortunate families our local Baptist church left at the school for collection. It was all name-brand stuff too, like American Eagle and Pac-Sun. But that’s not even the commendable part… I recognized some of it as being his older brother, Hayes’ belongings.

  You bet I ignored all the bad blood between us and chose him to be the object of my “Reason Why” for the following week.

  It had to have taken a lot of heart to part with his deceased loved one’s things. Heck, even I couldn’t do it. At the time, Mom’s stuff was still sitting right where she left it—several years after she’d passed away.

  I’ll admit, I may have come to enjoy writing the nice little notes more than most—I knew they would brighten someone’s day, but I didn’t always feel that way about the concept. When I first heard we were going to partake in this project, I really dreaded it. I was certain I’d be left out.

  I mean, who would have something nice to say to me? Not any of my peers. In fact, more than half of them went out of their way to pick on me—to shoulder check, trip, and make snide remarks about everything I said or did. They made fun of my outfits, which were perfectly fine clothes; half the time I styled them bearing in mind some expensive outfit I’d seen a celebrity wearing in a fashion magazine.

  I didn’t expect to be included.

  But I was.

  I’ll never forget the way I felt when I found my first “Reason Why” in my locker. My heart was beating so hard as I picked up the light blue, folded piece of paper. My fingers fumbled as they attempted to open it up without ripping it apart in the process. I was a little scared and a lot cautious, convinced I’d be the butt of a joke, that the contents would be cruel and hurtful.

  And I still, to this very day, remember exactly what it said.

  Reason #1…I admire your resilience. You’re stronger than you know.

  Pride had surged through me, someone had noticed my struggles. Someone had recognized I hadn’t buckled under the weight of them.

  I was sure it would be the only one I’d receive for the entire semester.

  I was wrong again.

  The next week I had another one. This one said…

  Reason #2…You’re kind. Even to those who don’t deserve it.

  When I found that follow-up note, I took a tentative glance around me, my eyes wandering around the busy hallway in an attempt to see if anyone was watching. I knew it was from the same individual, hence the way they had ordered the notes numerically, but I couldn’t for the life of me imagine who it could be.

  Maybe that nerdy girl, Julie, in my Chem class who sometimes partnered up with me? But it didn’t sound like her.

  Maybe it was Sara, Miss Laurent’s niece. That one had seemed like a real possibility, especially if Grace had hounded her into doing it; Miss Laurent was always worrying about me like that. So, I asked her, and she kindly informed me that she’d been making her notes out to the boy she had a crush on.

  I figured I wouldn’t get one the next week, because two already seemed like a stretch, even when being done out of pity. It was the third time I was wrong. Week Three’s note came right on time, as did Week Four’s. Then, eventually, I came to look forward to every Wednesday, which was delivery day. It was my favorite day of the week. I lived for that one, kind compliment when everyone else was throwing me snide insults left and right. That one simple sentence of praise almost felt like I was winning some type of award that came complete with a trophy and all. Which is probably why I locked them all away in a box, savoring them like they were the meaning to life.

  Hell, I still have the things.

  One of my favorite “Reasons” of all time came a week before graduation, and it was just when I needed it desperately. The past month had been terrible. Valley was suddenly gone. My shit-tastic boyfriend and I had recently called it quits under less-than-desirable circumstances.

  That week was Reason Sixty-Seven—and if you’re wondering how exactly I got to that high a number of “reasons” when there’s only fifty-two weeks in a year and not even all of those weeks are filled with school being in session, it’s because my secret admirer began going above and beyond by dropping off my little notes more than just the prescribed once a week.

  An intense sorrow overtook me as I held the folded paper in my hand. My gut told me it would be the final one, and that knowledge made me reluctant to read it. I didn’t want it to end. These notes had become the high-light to my senior year, sad but true. They were my little rays of light in a world that was otherwise bleak and dark. Aside from my friendship with Valley, and my more sporadic friendship with Sara, there wasn’t anyone I was close to.

  I desperately wanted to find out who the notes came from, and I wasn’t ready for our correspondence to end.

  I wasn’t ready to let go.

  It took two days for me to muster up the courage to read the final one, but I finally did.

  Reason # Sixty-Seven…You made me feel when I felt nothing. You took away the numbness, the nothingness that was my life and injected it with reasons.

  Maybe it’s because I never did find out who they were, but I still don’t understand how I was so important to this anonymous, one-sided pen pal. I’ve always wondered about them. I still think about them from time to time.

  Which is probably why I’m going into full-blown panic attack mode right now.

  Leaning down, I retrieve my phone from the floor beside my bed, giving it a precautionary once-over to ensure the screen isn’t cracked. Thank God for the inventor of the modern-day phone case. I waste no time pulling up Valley’s number and shooting her a text to inform her of my new information regarding BiggestContender. She’s the only other person who knows about the notes, so I could really use her insight. She always offers up words of wisdom, enabling me to see things in a different light.

  When my phone dings to alert me of her response, I’m quick to snatch it up from my lap, desperation beginning to consume me. It dings several more times back to back, so I know she’s going to elicit some Grade A advice.

  Valley: Omigawd. No way! Maybe he’s like, some romantically hot stalker... He’s had his eye on you for years, watching in the background. You could turn this into a book. Speaking of which, when ARE you going to start writing romance novels? It’s only a natural course seeing as how you’ve read like every one ever to be printed.

  Valley: So, what are you gonna do? Oh, and we still need to revisit the Nash and You shopping together today topic…

  Valley: Maybe you’ll finally answer the age-old mystery—Who left Lyra “the notes” years ago?

  Va
lley: Have you responded to him yet?

  Valley: No probably not, you probably left him hanging to tell me. SAY SOMETHING TO HIM!

  I groan, my head falling back. Gee, thanks. So much for those wise words of wisdom I was counting on.

  But she is right about something…I totally left him hanging. With a sigh, I reopen the Qpid App.

  CuteN’Colorful: Are you a stalker?

  Nope. Too forward. I delete it before I can send it.

  CuteN’Colorful: Wanna come over?

  Deeeleeetttteeee. Ugh. Even more forward than before. I also toy with sending I think I’m in love, but that would definitely scare whoever he is away before I even have a chance of discovering his identity.

  CuteN’Colorful: I’m in awe.

  It takes an entire ten minutes of staring off into space to come up with the three-word response, but with a great amount of reluctance, I finally manage to hit send.

  BiggestContender: So, you remember me and my notes.

  Not a question, a statement.

  CuteN’Colorful: Meh. They may have been my favorite part of my senior year. Well, besides becoming friends with Valley.

  BiggestContender: Why do you say that?

  CuteN’Colorful: Why were they my favorite part of senior year??? Is that what you’re asking?

  BiggestContender: Yup.

  CuteN’Colorful: Do you even remember my senior year? Or Junior? Or Sophomore? Were you around that long, or were you someone who transferred to our school sometime in 12th grade?

  BiggestContender: Are you trying to narrow me down?

  CuteN’Colorful: Kind of. But it’s also a rhetorical question in case you didn’t catch on.

  BiggestContender: Oh, I caught on. And yes, I remember. I was there to witness it all.

  CuteN’Colorful: Oh, okay. So then, you’re well aware of the fact my days in high-school sucked. They were filled with Amy Swanson and her crew picking on me—of making my life a living HELL any way they could think of. When the accident happened…I lost everything. But maybe you weren’t paying as close attention as you let on.

  Okay, so I might have just went off, but dammit, it’s not my fault. How can someone claim to remember me from high-school and just act like everything was all hunky-dory for me?

  Unless they were part of the crowd causing me problems. Maybe whoever is on the other end of this conversation feels guilty and tricked their minds into forgetting they treated me like shit. I know a lot of people act petty in high-school, then come to regret it once they mature later on in life.

  After about a minute, I finally receive a reply.

  BiggestContender: Not to be a dick, but how do you figure you lost everything? Didn’t your dad survive? Seems to me, Nash Hudson was the one who lost everything.

  What an asshole thing to say.

  At least we can narrow Nash down as not being my secret admirer, AKA my reasons giver. Not that I expected it to be him anyway…

  If the previous response caused me to go off, this response will cause me to explode. I can practically feel the anger simmering through my veins like white-hot fire, blistering my blood over to the side of boiling. My fingers begin the rapid staccato of replying, of defending myself.

  How dare he make me seem unsympathetic to Nash.

  I know, more than anyone, how badly he suffered; so badly, so intensely in his grief, that he couldn’t even bear looking in my direction. He went through great lengths to avoid me, even requesting a transfer out of our shared class. In fact, after the accident, we didn’t have another class together until our Senior Year. Even then, after two years had passed, he didn’t speak to me.

  He suffered.

  I suffered.

  We both suffered.

  And I’m going to tell this Dick on the other side of the screen what’s up.

  CuteN’Colorful: Haven’t you ever heard the saying no person’s pain is greater than another person’s? Everyone experiences pain and hurt, it’s part of life. But, why should we compare whose is worse?

  Don’t be a shit-stirrer. Don’t bring up Nash again.

  Only the classmates who grew up with us know exactly how close Nash and I were growing up, at the same time, because of the accident, that particular bit of our history has been all but forgotten—except by me apparently.

  Not even Valley has been privy to the entire story. I once admitted my feelings for him to her, but I toned down the truth of everything. I alluded that he was simply nice to me in elementary school, which was why I developed a crush, instead of admitting he was once my best friend.

  I couldn’t have her looking at me with even more pity than she already did.

  BiggestContender’s response is immediate.

  BiggestContender: I got the message loud and clear. I take it you’re not a fan of him?

  Seems an awful lot like fishing for info, and more shit-stirring. I type out every single thought that flows through my head, and I hit send before I can even take the time to review or edit. It’s always irritated me when people send super long texts or messages online, but fuck it, I’m breaking my own rules In this moment, my filter is a no-show.

  CuteN’Colorful: Why do you say that? Because of all the shit that happened to me and my family due to my dad’s involvement? That’s stupid. The way the entire town reacted—it’s not his fault. I said, don’t mention him, but since you already have, I’ll try to answer your question and explain my position.

  Yes, I realize, in comparison to me, he did lose everything. He lost his family. His world was uprooted and flipped upside-down and he had to learn to cope the best he could.

  He was forced to adapt to an entire new life, minus the three people he was closest to. I couldn’t have done it, and to be one hundred percent honest, I don’t think I know of a stronger person than Nash. But if you want to compare my sufferings side-by-side with his like it’s some competition, understand this…

  I lost my entire childhood. High-school was not the experience it was supposed to be. Everyone started picking on me; even some of my teachers gave me a hard time. I went from popular, to garbage. I lost nearly every single one of my friends, which, thinking back on it now, was probably for the best. They weren’t my real friends anyway.

  But fake friends aside, I also lost the one true friend I had. I may not have lost my family, but I lost someone I loved too, and maybe they didn’t die, but my heart definitely couldn’t tell the difference. So yeah, maybe I didn’t actually lose everything, not in comparison to Nash, but it sure as hell felt like it to me.

  And the reason I don’t like talking about him, isn’t because “I’m not a fan.” It’s because he was such a big part of my life, then he was ripped from it in a matter of hours, and losing him…? It. Still. Hurts.

  Hell, I should have just wrote mystery guy a letter. Not that he would have read it. I’m sure he won’t even read all this.

  Way to go, Lyra.

  Five minutes pass by, and while BiggestContender is still showing to be online, he isn’t responding.

  With a heavy, and still slightly irritated heart, I lay my head back on my pillow, dropping my phone back onto my desk.

  Thirty minutes ago, I was excited. I thought I was finally going to find out who wrote the notes all those years ago, but now I’m not so sure I care. Finding out would probably just upset me.

  Maybe it’s best to let the past stay in the past.

  Chapter Eight

  Nash

  I check my phone for the millionth time since yesterday morning, feeling like a chick who’s waiting on the dude to call after our first date.

  Will she call or won’t she?

  I might as well turn in my rights to manhood, because this is some pussy-ass shit.

  Still no messages.

  You’d think I was obsessing over the damn device in hopes my fiancée has called or texted to say she’s had a change of heart, that she’s not going back to our apartment in the city, and wants to stay with me here.

&
nbsp; But that’s not the case at all.

  Shit is not going good in my relationship. It’s rocky—at best. We’re way past arguing…skirting around each other, exchanging pleasantries and only interacting when it’s absolutely necessary. Like keeping up appearances.

  Still, I’m not obsessing over my phone because of my fiancée. The reason for checking my phone over and over and over again, and then once more, is because I may have slipped Lyra my number at breakfast yesterday.

  Was it a bad idea? Probably.

  Should I have asked to be put in a different waitress’s section instead of insisting I be placed in hers? Likely.

  Do I give a flying fuck? Hell no.

  As far as Lyra Knightley is concerned, I’ve got it bad, fucked up as that may be all things considering. There’s a chink in my armor that I never realized was there before. A soft spot with her name all over it—a soft spot just like one would find on a ripe apple that’s been bruised. Over time, it continues to grow larger, and darker, and more pronounced, until eventually, the entire fruit is made up of nothing but it. So, assuming I’m a fucking apple—apparently this parenting shit is going to my head if I’m suddenly likening myself to fruit—I’m basically screwed. Eventually, she’ll become my ruin.

  Not that I should be expecting anything less of her, being the Knightley that she is.

  My aunt and uncle raised me—or put up with me—through my high-school years. Uncle Randall is my late father’s brother, and his wife, Marlowe, has always treated me as her own. She can’t have kids, and maybe it’s the reason she has loved me so wholly, maybe it’s not. It’s simply a fact.