|CHAPTER ONE|

There's a fine line between knowing what you need and what you want. I learned that sometime ago, long before anyone else had separated these two essential facts of life.

I always balanced my life accordingly, pushing aside what I didn't need at the moment and putting my mind to building a sturdy foundation for my life. My mother's friends called me a poster child—the kind of kid they dreamed of raising.

That's just the thing, you can only teach what you know, and my mother was a professional at sorting out her priorities.

Call it what you will, murmur under your breath about how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, because you're exactly right. My mother buried herself in work, wasted no time with mindless tasks, spent most of her time elbow deep in some city project or volunteer assignment—ended up being the most hardworking, involved mayor Ashwood Creek has ever seen.

 No dilly-dally, straight up, blunt, and unnaturally good—that's how she operated. I think the only crazy thing she ever did in her life was get knocked up. And, well, that began the story of me: Jovie Underwood—unexpected, somewhat embarrassing result of a one night stand with my mother's assistant.

Now, of course, she had years to come to terms with the fact that a dedicated, otherwise hardworking woman like herself, made a mistake one night in a moment of weakness. My father—or Henry as I refer to him as—on the other hand, couldn't be prouder of the fact he hooked up with my mother and ended up with me.

 You see, his mad crush on her still lives on to this day, but she doesn't ever acknowledge their previous engagement unless it boils down to me.

I liked to think off them as a tragic love story—my mother: a headstrong woman entirely devoted to her work fell for the charm of her secretary, a carefree man who was madly in love with her, and gave in to what she thought would be a harmless night of fun only to discover herself pregnant and forever bound to him by the ties of their daughter despite her efforts to forget their rendezvous.

And, while the tragic love story idea is attractive, it's called tragic for a reason. The thing I learned from my parents was to distinguish between need and want. What's necessary, what's luxury, and how  that choice would ultimately affect me.

Because I am so much like my mother, I always chose need and spent most of my life throwing myself into education and friendships I only deemed beneficial. I didn't have time for drama, I didn't have time for distractions. I was a spinning wheel, and nothing could slow me down or sway me off my course.

When I met Bash, however, my wheel began to teeter.  I suddenly understood what weakness felt like. I started losing control, became reckless in my own way. It seemed the only thing I could get a good grasp on was the idea of graduation looming over my shoulder.

 That was our expiration date. Like a one night stand, Bash and I needed to know our limitations. We knew it would end—and it did.

Tragic.

I didn't want him to go. I didn't want him to understand how I operated. I didn't want to be so much like my mother. But, I needed to be.

 Drama, distractions, no way. I couldn't. So, we said goodbye.

I don't regret it, though. Being with him let me experience what a relief letting go was, how closing my eyes and blindly choosing want was exhilarating, nearly trance inducing.

 I didn't need him. I never needed him. He was always pure want, pure heart-pounding, gut-wrenching desire. Not like that passionate stuff they make up in the movies, a real friendship, true excitement, magnetic. He made me happy. He taught me things. Some were trivial like big words, but mostly sensations: spontaneity, craving.

I was programmed to be a machine, taught to do what was expected, what looked right. I'm still this way because you can't completely change a person, but now I know what straight up freedom tastes like—how letting my hair down and heart open allowed me to really breathe.

It was worth it.

Maybe I can have all of that again someday, but not now. It's not the time. What I can do is reminisce, marvel at what we were: Bash and I.  

●════════●♥●════════●

There was nothing special about the day I met Bash—there hardly ever is anything important about the weather or events leading up to those sorts of occasions.

No ray of sunshine shone through a ceiling to floor length window to announce how important he would become in my life, no ominous clouds and thunder to announce the kind of pain our separation would cause me. No warning signs, no hints, not even intuition.  In fact, I didn't even realize we made a connection until days later, but that's getting too far ahead.

Let me start with that morning. There's a handful of things to note.  Mid-summer in Ashwood Creek is one of the most unbearable times of the year. The humidity makes you sticky, no amount of deodorant makes you socially presentable, and most people find themselves falling into a horrible habit of barring themselves up in their air-conditioned homes for comfort's sake.

I seemed to be living on the wrong street of the city to make any of these things true.

Our next door neighbor owned chickens, presented for the entire neighborhood to see in a pen displayed, non-other, than on her front lawn.  They were horrible, loud things that made strange foreign noises when you walked outside. Otherwise, they spent most of their time squawking and being insufferable.

Across the street was an old man whom I'd never actually met, but spent nearly all of his time on his front porch under an awning singing show tunes to his heart's content while shucking pea pods. Whenever I got the mail he'd wave and yell a cheery hello.

There were very few people I bothered with, but I maintained a friendship with Quinn Alberstein, a girl from down the block, to help pass the time during summer and enlighten me on normal teen behavior during the school year. She was unavoidable growing up. Her mother babysat me when mine went back to work. Sisters is probably a better word to describe our relationship and explains why we put up with each other.

Anyway, it had come to that point in the summer where being cooped up indoors was a bore, the chickens were intolerable, awkward interaction with the Pea Shucker was off-putting, and being roped into another session of lifeguard stalking with Quinn at the local waterpark was no longer an appealing idea that I decided I needed to find something to do outside my neighborhood.

So, I hopped on the bike Henry gifted me years back to encourage my visits during the weekdays, and braved the humidity in search for a more productive way to spend my summer.

I hadn't planned on ending up in the library, I only went inside because I'd been biking for a fair amount of time, and it was the one place I knew that offered: a) air-conditioning b) a bubbler c) a comfortable chair I could rest in.

So, I locked my bike up and climbed the cracked steps up to the heavy doors of Merriweather Public Library. Note that I wasn't looking to meet anyone special that day. I was a sight for sore eyes with my frizzy near-black hair pulled into a sloppy bun on the top of my head, last-minute decision strappy tank top, faded flip-flops, and perspiration from the bike ride lingering at my hairline. But, I was there for a breather only.

Merriweather Public Library hadn't changed one bit since the last time I was there—which had only been earlier that year for study prep—but is always something I feel like I need to make a point of saying when I haven't been somewhere for an extended period of time.

The women at the front desk waved to me when I walked past, and the sun beat down on me through the skylight windows as I walked up the stairs to the upper level where I knew the water fountain was.

After spending an enormously obnoxious length of time at the bubbler refreshing myself, I found a comfy chair to sit, appreciating the cool leather when my bare skin came in contact with it. For a moment I just sat and stared out at the few people browsing books or sitting at computers. I felt myself gradually begin to cool off and relax, and I decided that while I was there I could humor myself with a walk around. So, just as quickly as I sat down, I got back up and strode toward the nearest aisle of books.

For whatever reason, I got invested fast. Soon, I was standing on tip-toes to read the titles on the top shelf, ducked low to see those hiding on the bottom, and lightly touched the spines of every book I could.

I got this sort of childish giddiness from it, something I forgot happened when scouring the library.  It was easy to forget my surroundings and pretend like nothing else exsisted. It was just me and thousands of books I hadn't touched.

I barely noticed him at first. He was so quiet, weaving his way around the aisles, packing books tightly in their place, and somehow managing to stop the cart wheels from squealing as he went. In fact, I didn't notice I was in another person's presence until I found myself nearly bumping into him.

I shuffled back apologetically after almost running him over and mumbled an awkward "sorry", because I could only imagine being in his place. The amount of times people had been inconsiderate to my presence annoyed me, and I hated being on the giving end of that action.

He sent me a brief half-smile and turned back to finding where the book in his hand belonged. It occurred to me, then, how young he was—only a few years older than I—and yet he was stacking books in the library. My eyebrows crinkled together at that, a peculiar site as it was—a young man stacking books when a woman nearing retirement was usually the one on the job—but it wasn't the only strange thing about him. He seemed oddly aloof, his entire posture relaxed even though I had just invaded his personal space.

I would expect him to be more rigid—the way I would normally react, the way I'd always seen others react. But, no awkward tension between us presented itself. I could stand there forever, probably as close as I like, and he wouldn't even blink. He was too busy with the task at hand to care.

Intrigued, and admittedly curious about him, I snuck a glance, eyes lingering long enough to make note of his features. His face tilted away from mine, blonde hair just long enough to be tied back, making  high cheek bones jut out and jaw appear sharper than is probably was. The slope of his nose was short, sitting high on his face. A little higher, yet, were wide eyes under thin brows. A skinny lower lip was sucked under his teeth, being chewed on slowly as if in thought as he searched for the place a book entitled Living Proof belonged. Finally, his eyes slid toward me, and I realized I'd been staring.

I cleared my throat and quickly moved my eyes elsewhere.

 "Do you need something?" He asked.

My cheeks flushed at his question, embarrassed that I'd made him acknowledge me, and also aware of how frightening I must look. I cared very much how he would perceive me—and in that moment, I knew there was a great chance that I was accidentally making myself look like a fool. I'd already ran into him, and now I was staring.

"No," I answered and wrapped my arms across my chest, hand sweeping across my forehead to smooth down any frizzy baby hairs.

He abruptly turned to the cart at his hip and pulled a book from the stack, extending it to me.

"If you can't find anything," he said, "I found this to be quite mesmeric."

I couldn't stop the short laugh that broke forth from my lips as I took the book from him. "Mesmeric?" I asked of his interesting choice in language.

A smile stretched across his face. "Cool word, right? It means fascinating."

I nodded and turned the book over in my hands. It was worn hardcover, practically falling apart in my hands with yellowing pages and an old book smell reeking from it. The title scrawled across the top was gold, elaborate calligraphy spelling: The Lost City.

"Atlantis?" I shook my head and gave the book a quick page through.

"It's supposedly based off of a real documentary." His eyes grew a little, giving away the fact that he didn't believe a word of it. "But, storyline is absolutely prodigious."

"Mesmeric, prodigious..." I chuckled lightly and raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're using those right, or are just trying to sound smart?"

He rested a forearm atop the cart and pursed his lips at me. "Ye of little faith."

There was a fair amount of challenge in his voice. He seemed confident he knew what he was talking about, and I knew I sounded snobbish instead of playful—which was both accidental and on purpose. The word "mesmeric" was endearing until "prodigious" followed. I found a certain kind of annoyance with his use of pretentious vocabulary. He wasn't much older than I, but made sure to sound as though we were decades apart.

 I shook my head and looked back down at the book entitled The Lost City, puffing out a short breath.

My lack of response seemed to alert him that our interaction was over and his job was done, so he tapped a finger on the book in my hands and offered a short nod. "Let me know how you like it."

I opened my mouth in an attempt to object because I didn't really want the book he offered, but he  placed both hands on the book cart and rolled past me, turning down a different aisle before allowing me to reply.

With a defeated sigh, I carried the book back with me to the chair I started in. Since I was stuck with the book, I thought I'd give it a chance—see for myself if it was truly "mesmeric."

Regrettably, I enjoyed the beginning of that book and came back the following day to check it out, thankful that I didn't run into the young man who suggested it.  

So, my first impression of Bash before I even knew him was this: He was a try-hard with good taste in books—and that was that.