Page 4

Past: Two Years Before the Accident—Twenty-Two Years Old

I walk past the main floor of the library toward the stairs.

Get in. Do my research.

Get out. No time to waste.

A handful of people have their heads down, diligently scribbling on their notepads or reading under the soft glow of the vintage green lamps from the turn of the century.

The windows rattle as the storm traps the city in a sea of white and gray.

Except for that flash of red.

Stopping, I glance back at the front door where the girl was, recalling her flawless, creamy skin.

Luminous blue eyes. Hair the color of fall leaves.

She was a breath of fresh air, momentarily distracting me from my purpose here at Ravenswood.

Sunbeam.

That nickname tumbled out of my mind.

She was radiant—the smile, the warmth and vibrant energy rolling off of her in waves.

It suited her—the mysterious girl with the spark in her eyes.

Geez, Ethan. Get a grip.

I rake my fingers through my hair and continue walking.

If Liam were here, he’d grumble about how he should be at home gaming or blasting the new Lethal Dead single instead.

Most people assume I’m the same way, wanting to have fun instead of working .

Then again, most people don’t have my last name.

They don’t understand the pressures of being an Anderson.

But here among the books written by the great minds of the past, the smell of aged parchment and worn leather wafting to my nose, I can finally breathe.

There’s no judgment or expectation in the library.

After all, many authors lining these shelves—like Herman Melville and John Keats—blundered through life before they were considered great.

And now, nearly everyone knows the whale in Moby-Dick , and poetry lovers still read Keats.

Let’s hope you find your place before you die, Ethan.

I shake away my insane thoughts.

The stress of what’s happening next Monday must be getting to me.

After all, that’s why I’m here, to read a newly published financial modeling book since my copy was delayed by the blizzard.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out to read the incoming text.

Liam

Dels the Nerd, you didn’t really go to the library, right?

We graduated from college already.

You don’t need to study anymore.

I roll my eyes at his nickname, a play on my middle name, Delaney, and make my way up the stairs.

Ethan

Just got here.

Go play Final Assault or something.

The rest of us have to adult.

Liam

What you’re doing isn’t adulting.

It’s some sick, twisted, workaholic OCD thing you got going on.

Don’t think I didn’t see you up at the crack of dawn exercising and eating your healthy food like you’re still on the swim team.

Liam

And I have a job, fucker.

Ethan

I like my routine.

Everyone who’s anyone has one.

That’s how they achieved greatness.

Ethan

And hacking is not a job.

Liam

I’m denying your allegations officially.

Seriously, why would you text that?

To the Feds who are monitoring these messages, Ethan’s a jackass, and he’s joking.

Liam

And I’m not hacking.

I’m exploring vulnerabilities in a corrupted system.

Honestly, I have no idea what Liam does in his “work.” He’s self-employed and his services are quite in demand, but whenever he talks about firewalls and malware in the apartment we share, my eyes glaze over.

Then, as if his texts aren’t enough, he calls me.

“Seriously. I’m at the library. Is it urgent?” I head toward the business section.

“When are you coming back? Firefly’s ditching me for dinner and Charles is holed up at work.”

“You can’t eat alone?” I scan the shelves for the modeling book.

“I can. But then who’s going to make sure you don’t eat alone? You hermit.”

“Can’t. I have dinner with my fam later. Need to get work done before then.” Aha!

Here it is. I pull out the brand new volume tucked away in the back.

“You’re working at Fleur, your family’s company. Relax. ”

I chew my cheek.

“They don’t know I’m an Anderson. This was the plan all along, remember? Why I stayed away from the press? Why you scrubbed pics of me off the internet? I’m working my way up from the bottom to earn my place there.”

And be a worthy Anderson.

Yanking my collar, I rake in a deep breath.

My Achilles’ heel.

The great Linus Anderson has five kids.

The fraternal twins, my eldest brothers, Maxwell and Ryland, are most like Dad.

Maxwell, with his quiet shrewdness, the reclusive heir to Fleur Entertainment, and Ryland, the suave, charismatic visionary who wants to improve anything he touches.

There’s Rex, the third son, and marketing extraordinaire.

The life of the party, womanizer, making people laugh whenever he steps into the room.

Sweet Lana, the youngest, who’s still in college.

She’s sharp and can defuse difficult situations the way an explosives expert can disarm a bomb with a few careful snips of wiring.

Then there’s me, the fourth son.

The quiet one stuck between Rex and Lana, but feels like a pale shade of whatever vibrant color the rest of my siblings are.

Sure, I graduated with honors and received my MBA before I turned twenty-two earlier this year.

I have the same dark brown hair and gray eyes as the rest of my family and can crunch numbers to the best of us.

But I’m lost.

Quarter-life crisis, maybe.

The swirling in my gut is more apparent these days.

“You know, you’re the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever met.” Liam munches on something on his end.

“Be like me. I’m a Vaughn. My family owns a bank. But I don’t go around trying to prove myself to anyone. I don’t need to.”

I sigh.

He’ll never understand.

I recognize I’m the definition of privilege.

The CFO position at Fleur is earmarked for me whenever I’m ready.

I’m set for life and doors open whenever I throw out my last name .

But it’s not enough.

I don’t want to phone things in.

I want to get there because I deserve it.

I want Ethan Anderson to be synonymous with something.

Is that too much to ask?

“Anyway, I haven’t seen Firefly in ages. Thinking I’ll drop by her place later and surprise her with some dessert.” Liam slurps down some drink.

“Want to come with? You haven’t met her yet.”

I scoff.

“You want me to meet your sister? Are you sure? Didn’t you always say I’m not supposed to meet your sister?”

“Oh fuck, you’re right. You and your broody, mysterious vibe with your dark hair and shit. Stay away. Forget I asked. And don’t you even think about it—I know you; you can’t settle down and commit to any woman. What was I thinking—”

“Chill. I promised you before—you’ve nothing to worry about from me. I won’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship. And I’m not interested in your little sister.”

Who probably just grew out of her braces and happily follows her brother around whenever he’s home.

“Got to go, Liam. See you later tonight.”

I hang up as my phone pings.

Cleo

Ethan, come on, baby, don’t be this way.

I didn’t mean what I said.

I was just hurt. Call me?

I swallow a groan. This is what Liam meant.

I broke up with Cleo two weeks ago because our relationship has been circling the drain for a while.

She wanted things I couldn’t give her—moving in together, meeting the family.

“Why couldn’t you have protected me? You shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you.”

Her tear-streaked face when I left her apartment after our break up haunts me.

When we started, I explicitly told her love wasn’t in the cards.

Love and Anderson men don’t mix.

That’s been proven time and time again .

Plopping down in a chair, I get to work.

Focus. Work is my number one priority.

Come Monday, I’ll be Delaney Anders, entry-level financial analyst at Fleur, eager to fetch coffee and lunch orders, hungry to climb the corporate ladder as fast as he can.

In order to do that, I need to be current on the markets and financial forecasting models, like the ones described in the book I’m holding in my hand.

The hours fly by as I mull over the text and take notes.

It’s cutting edge stuff in a nerdy way, but it gets my gears working.

The next time I look up, the floor is mostly vacated, and it’s dark outside.

Only the howling winds banging against the windows and the glow of the lamps keep me company.

I check my watch.

Five p.m. Shit.

Almost time for dinner.

I gather my things and put on my jacket, my mind still whirring with graphs, numbers, and worries about work next week.

But as I head toward the lobby, something catches my attention.

A spiral staircase tucked away in a dark corner.

The gleaming gold on the banister calls to me, and my pulse quickens.

I stare at the narrow steps which seem to lead up to another world.

A minute later, I find myself on the rare text archival floor, a place I’ve never visited before, since I’ve only been to this library twice in the past.

My heart pounds as I admire the rows of books—poetry, my secret friend, lining up the walls, leather volumes of science texts and literature in neat stacks, undisturbed and probably gathering dust.

I trail my fingers on the shelves, admiring the beautiful books and the intricate stained glass window with a hummingbird design in the far wall, when suddenly, I see it.

A thick, caramel book that looks newer than its neighbors.

My brows furrow and I read the title on the spine.

Letters to the Univers e

I flip it open.

The handwriting catches my attention first—elegant, precise…

and whimsical? The t’s curved at the ends, the y’s looping with a flourish.

Leaning against the nearest shelf, I read the first page.

To the Keeper of My Secrets,

Yes.

That’s you, the nosy person reading my journal.

And also yes, I want you to keep reading.

You see? Whoever you are, it’s fated we meet like this.

Out of the tens of thousands of books in this building, you chose to pick this one up.

Then you chose to open it, being the nosy person you are.

And you’re still reading it even after you know this is someone’s journal containing their private thoughts.

(See my usage of “their”?

I may be an odd duck, but I’m not stupid.

You could be a sixty-year-old-creep for all I know.

So, there’s no way I’m telling you my gender.

Or anything identifying, for that matter.)

Anyway, fate.

I snort. This entire passage screams female.

Someone younger. Someone who still believes in fate and hasn’t had life hammer the magic out of her.

I should stop reading…

it’s a private journal after all, but somehow, I can’t.

You’re probably wondering why my journal is here.

You see, I have a motto.

Several, in fact.

First, don’t wait to live because the clock keeps ticking.

Second, there’s a reader for every book, including mine.

Third, if you believe it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

I don’t know about you, but my life is a giant ball of uncertainty.

Like I’ve reached a fork in the road and instead of the usual two options, I get five, or six, and I can’t even ask an eight ball because that thing is broken too.

Sometimes, my next steps are obvious, other times, they’re a mess, tangled up in the pressures of real life and the need to know all the answers this instant.

Amid this chaos, I find it hard to be authentic because I’m afraid of disappointing people.

My family tells me they expect nothing of me and I should be thankful for that.

But it hurts. It makes me feel replaceable.

I think they do have expectations—maybe they’re not telling me because they don’t think I’ll amount to anything.

So, the only place I can be me is here within these pages, navigating my colorful stream of consciousness as life hurls at me more questions I have no answers for.

But I believe someone out there understands what I’m feeling.

Maybe someone who’s completely different from me, someone who probably wouldn’t look my way if we saw each other in real life.

Maybe this person is also experiencing the same thing.

And so, I ask fate to find that person.

Because if I believe, then he or she must exist. Because the clock keeps ticking and we aren’t getting any younger, so we must take action now.

Because I believe there’s a reader for my book.

So, congratulations.

You apparently are that person.

If you accept this role, please write back and put the journal in its proper place.

Your greatest secret and newest pen pal,

Alex (and no, this doesn’t mean I’m a guy or a girl, for that matter.

It’s just a name, so you have something to call me.)

I stare at the spot of ink where her pen landed at the ending stroke of her sentence.

Do I want to reply? I don’t have time for this crap.

I have real world pressures—proving myself, finding my place in the world, moving up the ranks at Fleur, and making it bigger and better than before .

I put the book back on the shelf and walk away.

Someone else can be the reader of her book.

But then, her words keep echoing in my mind.

Sometimes, my next steps are obvious, other times, they’re a mess, tangled up in the pressures of real life and the need to know all the answers this instant.

Amid this chaos, I find it hard to be authentic.

My breathing quickens.

Her scribbles, however whimsical they are, exactly describe the restlessness inside me, like she took a peek inside my mind and tugged out the dark, knotted mess hiding within, ashamed to face the world.

It’s a lonely place to be in.

My jaw works, and I make a decision.

I spin around and walk back to the bookshelf to grab the journal.

Flexing my fingers, I sit on the ground, flip to the next blank page, and begin writing.

To Alex,

You’ve made quite the impression…