ZOE

Without You // Oh Wonder

I googled it: you can die of a broken heart. Am I about to perish at the age of seventeen because I was stupid enough to fall for a guy? It would be a seriously dumb way to die. But it might just happen, because every time I picture him I feel this heaviness in my chest and I can't seem to take a full breath. I swear I'm not imagining it, this physical pain I feel when I think of him, even though no one would believe me if I said it out loud.

I pull the stripped gray and white shirt with little splatters of paint I'm wearing up until it's against my nose and I take a deep breath. It's his shirt and it still smells like him—smells of oranges and sandalwood. And paint thinner. Mostly paint thinner.

Did I mention how desperately I miss him?

Without thinking, I drop the sweatshirt and grip the headphone cushions currently covering my ears. Without You just started playing and it's practically crushing my soul. This song is the last thing I need right now, but I can't skip it to the next. I can't turn it off. It's too much, too real, too soon. And that desperate feeling of missing Dylan just intensifies as the lyrics rush into my head.

I miss those strong fingers threaded through mine whenever we walked together. ...solo...I miss talking to him about my day and my family woes. I miss listening to him ramble on about his art and watching him play the drums. Hiding... I miss the feel of his soft lips pressing against mine whenever we were truly alone. ...lonely...But most of all I miss his smile. That smile was like the sun breaking through storm clouds, it had magical powers—just seeing it could morph my bad mood into a good one. ...without you...

My heart. It's cracking just thinking about him. The end is near, I swear it.

I'm on the floor. I slowly roll over on my back, smashing an empty carton of kung pao chicken with my shoulder, finding my foot resting on the remnants of a pizza box, and stare up at the ceiling. The song has ended, but its ghost is still lingering in the room. I've been a self-imposed hermit, refusing to leave my room for the past seven days. I can't even be bothered by the smell at this point. Yeah, I do actually smell it, but I don't even care. My stepmother, who I've nicknamed dragon lady, has spent all week trying to coax me out of my bedroom. But nothing she says brings me comfort. She can't possibly understand.

I know how she thinks and I'm sure, as she has been standing on the other side of my bedroom door all week trying not to lose her temper, she's contemplated knocking the door down. But so far, she has held her temper and has shown surprising restraint. I know it's only because my father is away. If he was home, no way he would put up with my behavior. He would have commanded I come out and I probably would have obeyed.

It's hard to ignore the old man, especially since I'm still living under his roof, and he has so much control over my life. Whenever I go against his wishes he takes things I care about away: A car that is mine, but not really. The title is still in his name. My allowance, which I work hard to earn by babysitting my impossible, incredibly bratty younger brother.

Without the car and money, there are no trips to the mall, no weekend movies, no social life to speak of, not that I want one anymore. Who needs a social life when they're dead, which I will be soon. I'll perish from this broken heart I just know it.

The current song playing in my ears is interrupted by a ding. I look over at my phone. A new instant message. Usually, my phone is always in my hand, or the pocket of my jeans, or in the front flap of my khaki canvas messenger bag, with the cord of my headphones trailing up to my ears. But since the breakup, I've ignored everything but the music on my playlists. I've purposefully kept my distance from the apps—the temptation to stalk him on social media is far too strong. I almost deleted them all, but at the last second couldn't go through with it. But I really don't want to be one of those girls, the bitter ex-girlfriend who cyberstalks the guy, posting his dirty secrets to the entire world. Plus the thought of seeing pictures of the two of them together makes me hyperventilate. Which aggravates my broken heart. Which is about to kill me anyway.

I look over at the calendar hanging above the desk next to my bed. It's Monday morning. School starts in two hours. Dragon lady will lose her shit if I try to skip out on school. Dreaded forced social interaction in the hallowed halls of education looms over me.

Another ding and then that crazy ringtone—a freaky little voice that's singing a song about bananas—completely halts the music I had been listening to. It's Chelsea. The song is a big joke between the two of us. We've been friends since we first sat next to either other in fourth grade. She's worried about me and I know she wants to help, but nothing she says will make this all better.

There is no pint of chocolate ice cream, no tub of cookie dough, no marathon of horror movies that is going to make this pain go away. The worst thing about the whole situation is how stupid I feel...and that broken heart that's about to do me in.

I loved him, and I had let him become my whole fucking world. But his love had an expiration date. For eight months I'd been happy, not every single day, but most. Apparently, I was living in a delusion, a made-up wonderland. Stupid boys! Why did I ever let myself have feelings for one of them? They're like an alien life form that sucks your soul right through his mouth. That delicious mouth that I lost myself in...

I'd been out of my mind in love, mooning over him every waking moment, and he was... a cheating son of a bitch who was screwing some girl he met over the summer.

How long has he been with her? Two months? Four? He says just a few weeks, but he is an asshat and a liar. How can I believe anything he says? He says he doesn't love me anymore. No matter how many times the words twirl through my brain I can't make myself believe them.

How the hell does someone fall out of love so fast? Is it a gradual fall? Or a sudden explosion of self-realization?

I lie on the floor and wipe the tears from my eyes and force myself to try and remember how to breathe. Maybe this is it. The final countdown.

The last note of the banana song hangs in the air and there is a knock at my door.

Surprisingly there is no pounding, no shouting, no cussing.

The knock is followed by the words, "Zoe, I made breakfast. Made a stack of pancakes. Time to get up and get ready for school."

Dragon lady is trying a different approach, now acting as if it's a normal Monday, except if it was, she would have left for work already, and the breakfast waiting for me would have been a box of sugar coated cereal, a package of frosted cherry pop-tarts, and a quart of orange juice. The fact she's cooked real food shows me how desperate she has become.

I take a deep breath. There is still a tightness in my chest, an unbearable ache surrounding my heart. The desire to stay on the floor, to stay hidden away, locked away in this room forever is so incredibly strong. But I force myself to move. Even though I'm dying, slowly dwindling away, this broken heart of mine will completely shatter any moment. Clearly.

On goes a pair of faded black jeans that, moments ago, were crumpled in a pile on the floor. Off comes his shirt and from the closet, I pull out a black t-shirt with the words the black veil brides in white lettering scrawled across the front. The next layer I shrug on is a thin gray hoody I grab from the back of the chair by my desk. I lace up a pair of gray vans and sling my bag over my shoulder, and a make a grab for my phone. I refuse to look at the screen of the phone before I slid it into my pocket. The very last item I now re-adorn myself with, the most essential, the one thing I am never without—purple beats headphones that I wrap around my neck.

This time, when the banana song chirps away I answer my phone. "Zoe, what the fuck! I've been calling you all weekend!" It's Chelsea. I whisper in the phone just before I walk through the kitchen, "Hey, I can't talk right now."

"Be outside in five minutes." And with those words the phone goes dead.

I snatch a piece of bacon from the table while Dragon Lady is flipping pancakes, her back to me. Then I sneak out the door and head for Chelsea's car, or my hearse if this day goes the way I think it will.

EMERSON

Anarchy in the UK // The Sex Pistols

I haven't googled it yet, but I'm pretty sure if I played this album loud enough the bass might crack my mirror. That's not my goal, but I wouldn't be upset if it happened. There's just something about Johnny Rotten's voice and Sid Vicious' bass that creates a need to be destructive. Most of the time I take pity on my mom and listen through my headphones.

But not today.

Today I'm making a statement and I don't care how destructive it is. Being forced to move across the country, away from everything and everyone I've ever known just so my dad could continue to climb the corporate ladder has been a bitter pill to swallow. I fucking swallowed it, though.

"Turn that music down, son!"

Speak of the devil. Without responding to him, I walk over and turn the volume down. It's still loud enough for the entire house to hear, just not to rattle the dishes. I hear his footsteps as they continue down the hall. My room is my one sacred place in the house. My dad would never enter without my permission, although I would never invite the devil directly into my lair. And it is quite the lair. This room is the real me, the one I have to keep locked up. Music is what drives me, not business, not sports or all of the other shit my dad forces down my throat. Some day I'll be able to leave all the other things behind and focus on what's actually important. Today is not that day, however.

I continue to shove my things into my backpack, preparing for what could be the worst day of my life. Starting a new school on the first day of senior year can't possibly go well. I wish I could literally say 'screw you' to my dad and be myself. Instead, I pull on the v-neck sweater and lace up the loafers, running a comb through my hair when I'm done.

I give my poster of Sid a salute, wishing I could pull off his mop of hair instead of the clean cut fade my dad forces me into every six weeks. Whatever. I'm a rich prick so there's no way I could pull off violent punk asshole. It's a dream, not a reality.

I walk past the parentals as they finish breakfast. Rosa, our newest housekeeper, offers me a plate. Wonder how long she'll last. My dad changes housekeepers like changing pants. All the freaking time.

"French toast today, sir."

It pisses me off that she calls me sir. I hate this lifestyle but I've got to suffer through it until I'm eighteen and can make my own life choices.

"I'm just Emerson, Rosa. Save the sir for him." I thumb over in my dad's direction. I don't have to look at him to know he's scowling. It's his go-to-look where I'm concerned. I disappoint him daily, I am aware. He wants a mini-me and I'm not it.

"Show respect, Emerson." He's barely able to disguise the disgust in his voice.

So I don't bother disguising mine. "I am, dad. That's why I asked her to call me by my name." He's such an asshole. Without turning back, I continue to the door, snagging an apple on my way.

"Emerson," my dad's voice rings through the kitchen, "a word."

Oh shit. I hate it when he wants to have a word. That's code for a lecture, one I never signed up for. Trying to avoid him now that he's addressed me is impossible, so instead of bolting out the door, I turn around to see him standing next to the table. When we make eye contact, he turns to walk into his study.

Rich fucker. It's just a damn office but he insists on calling it his study. I roll my eyes, because his back is to me, and follow him like a puppy. He's trained me well.

Once inside the study, he waves his hand toward the door, his silent command for me to close it. I obey, because I don't have the guts to defy him that openly yet.

"Son, I wanted to speak with you before you embark upon your senior year."

Holy shit, he sounds like a pompous ass, trying to be proper and formal. The guy was raised in the south Bronx. He worked his way through college and made a name for himself in the tech industry. Not because he's some kind of genius from the projects who turned technology on its ass. Nope, he's a great fucking organizer, gets people to toe up and follow commands. He's a rich drill sergeant for the white-collar crew, and I'm paying the price.

Of course I say none of this, just stand at attention like a good soldier, or puppy, or whatever the fuck he wants me to be. "Alright. What would you like to say?"

"I realize that the move has been difficult, and it's been made worse now that there isn't any available spots at the Webb Academy for you, despite my attempts to convince the dean of the school to make an exception."

Thank goodness that didn't work. I have no desire to go to the preppy rich kid school in town. I just barely tolerated the jerks at the last school I attended.

"I understand. Thanks for trying," I say, hoping he doesn't hear the grain of sarcasm in my voice.

"Regardless, our plan for your future will not be deterred. Your grades and extra-curricular activities show your aptitude and will no doubt earn you a spot at your school of choice."

Again, this is all code for 'don't fuck up because I still expect you to get into Harvard.' He's been shoving ivy-league schools down my throat my entire life.

"I'm sure it will. Is that all? I really need to get to school to figure out the layout and get my schedule." This is a lie. I don't give a shit about the layout or what my schedule might be. It's high school, how difficult could it be? But it's the perfect excuse to get the hell out of here, and thankfully my dad takes the bait.

"Of course, son. I like the initiative you're taking."

The urge to roll my eyes is so strong I almost pull a muscle keeping them in place.

"Awesome talk, dad. See ya."

I take a bite of the apple as I pass my mom still sitting at the table reading an online magazine. She waves, but doesn't look up from her device. Rosa is the only one who says anything to me.

"Have a good day, Mr. Emerson."

"Thanks, Rosa. You, too."

And off to teenage hell I go.

It's finally here! And what are your thoughts about our queen, Zoe? Her status as Queen will be firmly established in the next chapter. And what about Emerson? He's got his own obstacles to overcome, doesn't he. Once their paths cross, the real drama will begin!

catrinaburgess and I are working hard on this, as well as our Horror romance, My Bloody Valentine posting on her profile. The plan is to post on Saturdays, but with two of us working on each chapter, things might get delayed occasionally.

Music is a must with this story! Some chapters will have two featured songs, such as this one. Without You by Oh, Wonder! is all Zoe's heartbreak. Anarchy in The U.K.  by The Sex Pistols is Emerson's war cry. Love them both!

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