Page 1 of Dear Future Husband

1 Mayhem

Maybelle

Dear Future Husband,

I stared at those three words. Words I’d written a hundred times. Words I cherished and words I cried to. Pulling my blanket up over my shoulders, I glanced at my bedroom windows. Bruise-colored evening light stained the blinds. I twisted back to the book spread out on my lap as I clicked my pen once, then twice.

Sucking in, holding and then letting out a deep breath, I put my pen to the paper.

The only time I ever truly feel alive is when I imagine escaping. Running away from the pain, the memories, and the fears. It makes sense that running away is why I often have this dream.

I’ve told you about this dream before.

A vivid dream that is full of so many conflicting wants. A dream that’s always so intense. Intense enough that I can feel the sand beneath my bare feet threaten to rub my skin raw. But I don’t let up my efforts—I relish in the feeling.

In this dream, I am racing, flying down a beach bathed in morning light, away from the past, the dark corners of the world. The salty sea air is a welcome aroma to my senses and a delight asit combs through my curly hair, whipping and tangling as I press forward.

The dream is always on a beach, and it always leads to a fork in the road. A choice.

Growing up, when I found myself faced with the choice of one way or the other, I often let my gaze dance to the path on my left. The one that would lead me to you.

I mean—at least—I think it’s you.

My being feels drawn to the path where you stand. I hesitate, looking out at you while you watch me from where the waves brush up on land. Then I turn my attention to the right.

That way is empty, a clear path to the end that lures me away. Through the years, I’ve veered left, running with all my might. My breathing is labored. My heart is scarred. I’m weary with a soul-deep exhaustion, but you are the fantasy I chased after.

As I’ve gotten older, the image of what I believe is you on that beach has blurred. It’s becoming more of an illusion than a hopeful dream. And the lonely, short path to my right is one I find myself often stepping toward. I never get far enough to see what the other path offers; I usually wake before I can. Finding myself in my small bed alone, trapped, stuck, tangled up in the confines of my comforter and sheets—

Just as I did now.

“Maybelle! You up? We gotta go.”

I rolled to the right. My blue alarm clock stood smugly on my nightstand. It looked down on me with a disdainful time face that informed me just how late I was to start another day.

“Maybelle,” the familiar holler of my name rushed out from some place down the hall. “If you aren’t out here and ready to go in the next five minutes, I’m leaving your ass to walk to school!”

Lovely.

“Go ahead,” I drawled back as I accepted defeat and buried myself back under my bedcovers.

As much as I wished I could skip, Mom wouldn’t letme miss the last days of school—no matter how pointless attendance was.

Peeking out from under my bedsheets, I rubbed a hand over my sleep-riddled eyes. I shifted to look at the nightstand to my left. The journal I fell asleep writing in sat atop the table surface. It didn’t look down on me condescendingly like the alarm clock. It smiled at me, giving me the motivation I needed to keep breathing.

Today marked the last official Monday and week of our high school careers—mine and my brother’s.

Today’s spectacle was the rally. It was a whole ordeal—one that Liam, my twin brother, the student body president, and varsity football captain, was in charge of. And currently the one threatening me with the shame of walking the five miles to school alone.

Jerk.

It may have taken every drop of my diminishing motivation to pour myself out of bed, but I picked up a pair of jeans from my bedroom floor and slipped on my favorite, fitted grey shirt.

“T-minus two minutes!” Liam shouted from what I guessed was the kitchen. Which meant he was on the move, nearing the exit, my abandonment and impending long walk to the school.

I didn’t bother answering him as I brushed my teeth. Sliding a pair of strappy sandals on, I tied my long curls into a loose knot on top of my head. Then I stumbled out the door behind Liam, with about thirty seconds of his patience to spare.

Regaining my balance, I approached our short driveway and the tiny family car we shared with our mom.