In Ruins (37 page)

I don't want to wait until I have a degree and a license to help people. I know better than most how empty life can feel at times—how despairingly hopeless—and the difference one can make by simply providing someone to talk to in those moments.

When I was first diagnosed with depression barely months before my sixteenth birthday, I wouldn't have counted myself lucky. But I was. Infinitely. I had access to the best professionals money could buy, and an endlessly patient family to support me through the taxing and terrifying process of whittling down the right combination of medication and therapy.

It was a steep uphill battle, one not without its trips and tumbles, and while I stumbled through the inevitable process of elimination, there were still times when it was myself I wanted to eliminate.

I was already familiar with the vicious world of neuroses, thanks to the social anxiety that's plagued me since childhood. But if there's anything I've learned over the years, it's that there's no getting used to having your thoughts and emotions hijacked by the chemicals inside your own brain—having your life sabotaged by a invisible rogue force inside your own body.

It was thanks to my mother and Sammy, and not least of all to Dr. Schall, that I found a treatment that works for me. And it's still a struggle some days, but while I've accepted that it will always be a part of me, I've also learned how to embrace it—how to channel it into something positive. In fact, David actually helped with that, even if he doesn't know it.

But I'm fully aware that many others aren't so lucky, and I don't underestimate the power of simply having someone to talk to when the hopelessness starts to take over. Which is why I respect Professor Bowman so much for donating such a great deal of her time to the student help-line. With her credentials, and—according to Google—her five-hundred-dollar-per-hour session fee, surely it would be more lucrative to focus on her private practice. But the amount of time she spends on campus tells me she really cares about her work, which makes me admire her even more.

It's only the third class, but it's already obvious that she also happens to be a great teacher, and I don't have to feign my interest in her lecture, or fight to stay awake. Bowman is knowledgeable and engaging, and the class flies by.

But despite my interest and her competence, I find myself distracted by an inexplicable sense of unease.

I feel strangely unsettled. Like someone is watching me.

A vague shiver creeps down my spine and I'm struck with the urge to turn around.

So I do. I peek over my shoulder from my seat in the first row, and my gaze automatically lands on the culprit.

My stomach flips as I try to place the stranger. He isn't even watching me—he's
glaring
at me.

Aren't you supposed to look away when someone catches you staring?

Glaring.

A beat passes. Two. A third, and then he looks away with irritation, as if he doesn't feel particularly compelled to submit to this social demand, and only does so reluctantly. I return my eyes to the front of the room.

What the fuck was that?

Who
the fuck was that?

If I've ever seen him before, I have no memory of it.

I decide to sneak another peek.

This time he has the grace to look away faster, but his eyes were most definitely on me a split second ago. And what eyes they are. Completely foreign, and yet somehow unfathomably familiar. Deep blue, similar to mine in shade, but different in every other way. His are like the ocean. Not the translucent aquamarine of the Caribbean, but a dark ocean. A stormy, turbulent one. An ocean hiding secrets below its depths, its murky waters concealing the dangers within.

The kind of ocean that will drown you if you're not careful.

But I have no intention of getting caught in a riptide, by him or any other man. I've been there, done that, been drowned and reborn, and I'll stick to the safety of swimming pools, thank you very much.

But then, this guy didn't seem to be staring at me in the usual way a boy stares at a girl, which is all the more off-putting. He wants something from me, I've no doubt, but I don't think it's what most guys want, and that frightens me.

I take advantage of his attention being elsewhere, even if he's faking it, and take a moment to check him out.

I hadn't noticed him before today. Which is strange. Not because I've taken note of each of the fifty or so students in the room—I haven't—but because he's the kind of guy a girl notices.

Even seated, his stature is unmistakable. He's got to be at least six feet, probably a few inches over. He's bulky in a way that makes it obvious he's committed to his fitness, but I doubt it's out of vanity. He seems intense—the kind of guy who works out to release hostile energy, and his sculpted muscles are simply a happy byproduct. His face is all sharp lines and hard planes, his dark, prominent, masculine brow furrowed in what seems to be perpetual agitation. He positively radiates disquiet.

It raises my hackles even more.

I'm about to look away when he resettles his glare right on me, this time brazenly meeting my eyes. It's shameless, but instead of averting my gaze, I find myself returning his glare.

And why should
I
back down?
He's
the one challenging me with his inappropriate fucking staring.

A lightning bolt of familiarity strikes in my gut like a wave of déjà vu, and it makes no sense. He must remind me of someone. David, maybe. Or my brother, who definitely has his intense moments.

And then, so subtly I almost miss it, the corner of the stranger's mouth twitches, as if it wants to smile, but barely knows how.

Big surprise that the glarey asshole doesn't know how to fucking smile.

I narrow my eyes, refusing to surrender, because regardless of what he thinks I look like, I am not some weak little girl.

I am a
survivor
. And he will not intimidate me with a fucking glare.

“Okay, guys. See you Tuesday.” Professor Bowman dismisses us, and glarey asshole looks away first—
victory!
—grabs his notebook, and pushes his way down the aisle, students scampering out of his path as he moves. Yeah, he has that kind of presence. I'm done wasting my time on him, so I approach Bowman to ask her about volunteer hours. She offers to meet me tomorrow morning, which is perfect since I don't have a class until noon. Sure, I agreed to that party, but it isn't like I'm planning to nurse a hangover or anything, and I'm used to getting up early.

Glarey stranger is gone when I leave the room, much to my relief, and I head to my last class of the day wondering if there's any way of getting out of the party altogether. Of course, David would probably show up at my dorm and drag me by my hair. I blush at the prospect. It doesn't sound all that terrible.

Firstly I have to thank all of the readers who fell for the Something More series with Normal, and who continue to show these characters nothing but love. Your support is everything.

Infinite thanks to my editor at Forever, Amy Pierpont, for her endless patience, and for still being kind when that patience starts to run out. Thank you for loving Carl and Tuck as much as I do. And to Madeleine Colavita for the gentle nudges when deadlines came and went.

A million thank you's to Erica Silverman at Trident Media Group for believing in this series, and for always being in my corner.

Thank you to my betas, Becky, Gabi, Drew, Morgan, JC, Margo, Paula, and Christie for your time and honest feedback.

To the bloggers and their blogs, big and small, who got the series out there in the first place, and who continue to devote so much time and effort for the simple love of literature; I am in awe of you. Bianca at
Biblio Belles
, Celeste at
The Book Hookup
, Jordan at
Young Adult Book Madness
, Michele at
Devilishly Delicious Book Reviews
, Trish at
Bedroom Bookworms
, Kristin and Amber at
A Beautiful Book Blog
, Stacy at
Books Unhinged
,
Lost to Books, Prone to Crushes, Crystal's Many Reviews
, and so, so many more I couldn't possibly name them all.

To the entire indie community, for all of the book-love and support for authors—whether indie, “hybrid,” or traditional—and for providing authors with a platform to get our books out there. To everyone who takes time out of their busy day to post reviews, share book news, engage on social media, attend signings, etc. Your passion for our characters and their stories gives authors the fuel to keep going during the inevitable times of self-doubt.

Above all, I have to give a special thank-you to my family. To my mom, Margo, who has encouraged me to write—quite literally—since I could hold a pencil, and who is quick to jump on Grandma-duty when deadlines strike. To my Aba, Jay, who is always my biggest and most vocal fan. To Lana and Mike, my second pair of parents, who take on so much for the love of their children and grandchildren, and who are always ready to play babysitter, chef, driver, and whatever other roles they can take on to help, always. None of us would accomplish half of what we do without you there to help us keep it together.

To my two incredible, gorgeous future-book-boyfriends; you both inspire me so very much. To little miss good-luck-charm, whose birth not only landed on the one-year publishing anniversary of my first book, but also brought with it my first book deal. I'm not usually one to believe in signs, but some things can't be ignored. I guess I'll have to keep her around.

The one person this book simply would not exist without, however, is my handsome, loving husband of ten years, Roman. Thank you for picking up my long and winding slack, and for playing
Mommy
when Mommy disappears into the writing cave. For being the father every girl dreams of having for her kids, and for being the husband I don't always deserve. But most of all, thank you for our first decade of true, perfectly imperfect love and marriage. You have been the center of my world since I was nineteen years old, and writing love stories is easy when I have my own, real-life version as inspiration. You do put the “
Roman
” in “
romantic
.”

And the “
antics
”.

Danielle Pearl is the bestselling author of the Something More series. She lives in New Jersey with her three delicious children and ever-supportive husband, who—luckily—doesn't mind sharing her with an array of fictional men.

She did a brief stint at Boston University and worked in marketing before publishing her debut novel, Normal. She writes mature Young Adult and New Adult Contemporary Romance..

You can learn more at:

DaniellePearl.com

Instagram @daniellepearlauthor

Twitter @danipearlauthor

Facebook.com/daniellepearlauthor

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