Year 28 - J.L. Mac Page 0,1

at her black fingernail polish.

You two are not getting us into any further trouble. Where’s Happiness? Practicality whines.

Leave of absence. Self-Loathing snickers. Negativity joins her and they laugh raucously. Blind Rage is turning red in the face.

I think we should probably just go tell Mom, Practicality suggests, nodding her head.

Hell no! Negativity coughs. She will lose her everlasting mind. She won’t understand how Miss Perfect Daughter got herself into such a pickle. She says pickle like it’s a swear word.

Obviously, we should just put a lid on this, set it in cement and bury it twelve feet deep. You’d destroy people that love you if they ever found out, Regret says in a tone laced heavily with accusation. It makes me want to mentally crawl away because I know she’s right.

“Rae? Are you okay in there?” Momma knocks on the bathroom door.

“Yeah! Yes!” I startle. “Be out in a minute, Momma!” I shout above the noise of the water. I hold my breath until I hear her footsteps trail away, down the hall.

Anxiety gets up from her seat and paces the room, shaking her head and muttering to herself while occasionally wiping sweat from her hairline. We’re so fucked. Everyone is going to find out. People will spread rumors about us and then momma and daddy will have to hear all of it. This is bad, bad, bad.

Would you sit the hell down? You’re making even me nervous and I don’t do nervous, Self-Loathing clips, pressing her lips into a harsh flat line.

Optimism, do you have any suggestions to add? Practicality asks pleadingly.

I—I’m sorry. I got nothing. Optimism grimaces, then hangs her head while pretending to pick lint from her bright yellow sundress. All at once they begin shouting over each other, rolling eyes, glaring, displaying wary expressions, and I shrink further back into the shadowy corner, preferring to be anywhere else except my own head right now. It’s a jumbled mess in here.

This looks like the right place, a version I don’t recognize shouts from the doorway. Everyone goes quiet and sits up straight, eyeing her from head to toe. Her long black hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail. Her black skinny jeans pair nicely with black leather boots and a white tank top. Happiness is going to be away for a while. She sent me, she explains with calm command oozing from her pores.

And you are? Negativity narrows her eyes.

Self-Preservation. I’ll take things from here, she says firmly, leaving no room for argument, and for the first time in what feels like a long time, my heart slows its rushing pace and I breathe deeply, prepared to hand the reins over to someone else.

Don’t fail me now, Self-Preservation.

Chapter 1

Sylas Broussard

Present day

The water out on Cattail Bay is still and calm this morning. Year Ten cuts through the nearly nonexistent chop on the bay, her three outboard motors barely putting forth any effort at all. She’s the smallest in the fleet, but she’s the vessel I am most partial to. When I came home to Louisiana with nothing to devote myself to, my mind tormented, and my heart aching, Year Ten and the work we accomplish together soothed my wounds—both physical and mental. Buzzsaw Chartered Fishing, my nonprofit organization has kept my mind calm since the maiden voyage.

I breathe deeply, trying to draw some of the water’s stillness deep inside me. I’m not attending to any guests or doing anything for anyone else this trip. This trip is about me. I’m zeroing in on myself, my thoughts, and seeking an even keel in oncoming turbulent waters.

The thing about having a past is that it comes back in waves like water against the shore, regardless if it is a good or bad past. Stormy or tranquil, it always rolls right back in to touch the place it doesn’t belong. Unfortunately for me, my waves of good are interspersed with the bad and they all center on one woman—one unforgettable woman who has an uncanny ability to make me feel whole, then obliterate me in the very next breath. Like the damned waves that roll forward touching dry land where they don’t belong, memories of her roll forward kissing my heart where she doesn’t belong—where she shouldn’t belong.

I could fight back against thoughts of her. God knows I’ve trademarked the craft of suppressing memories pertaining to her, but today I choose to not fight it. I’ll let all memories, confusion, and emotions anchored to her wash over me and