On the day I am scheduled to leave, I find a brown envelope on my windshield. I briefly think that I received a parking ticket somewhere, and failed to notice it until now. But when I lift my wiper and pull it away the paper is crisp, not something that’s been sitting outside in the wet, Seattle air. It’s also heavyish. My universe tilts. I spin in a circle looking for him in the trees and down the driveway. I know he’s not here. I know that. But he was, and I can feel him.
Everything is boxed up in my house, including my sound system, so I turn the car on and push the silver disc into the car radio. It has just started to snow, so I open all of the windows and blast my heat so I can have the best of both worlds. I hit play, and hold on to the steering wheel. I’m about to careen off a cliff. I know it.
I can hardly breathe as I listen to the last song that Isaac will ever give me. I listen to it while my breath freezes and smokes into the air.
And while snow flies into the car windows.
And while my heart beats, and then aches, and then beats.
I listen to my soulmate’s heart with saltwater seeping out of my eyes. He’s speaking to me through a song. Like he always has. It’s a hard thing to know that I’m never going to see him again or hear his music, which woke me up from a long, restless sleep. The shadows still chase me. And I know that when I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, he won’t be there to climb in bed behind me and command them away with the complex way he loves me. The song crushes me. Our cosmic love, our cosmic connection.
Nick was wrong about me. Having a mud vein didn’t kill me; it saved me. My vein drew Isaac. He was the light and he followed me into the darkness. He became the darkness, then he carried my burdens so I wouldn’t have to. Isaac saved me from myself, but in the end, no one could save me from cancer.
I’m terminal. That’s a funny word. Cancer can kill my body, but it can’t kill me. I have a soul. I have a soulmate. We are vapors; here today and gone tomorrow. But before tomorrow comes I want to see color—the color threaded throughout Italy and France and Sweden. I want to see the Northern Lights. And when I die, I know there will be an invisible red thread connecting me to my soulmate. It can tangle, and it can stretch, but it can never break. When I die, I’ll be in the light. And someday Isaac will find me, because that’s what he is.
I put the letter in my mailbox and flip the little red flag up.
Dear Isaac,
I finally understand your tattoos. I never voiced how much they bothered me, but sometimes in that house in the snow, you’d catch me looking and I’d see the hidden smile on your face. You knew I was trying to work it out. When I asked you about it, you told me that we were all bound by something because we needed something to hold us together. What you wrap around your soul determines your outcome—that’s what you said to me. But I didn’t get it. I though that was crazy, until the day you held my hand, clamped over a knife, and pointed it at your body: both of us cutting into your skin.
You bore my burdens that hour. Does that make sense? You took my self-loathing and bitterness, my promise to pay back the world, and you pointed them at yourself. I loved you then. Because you saw me. It’s the very instance that I woke up from a blinding, and knew that I was standing face to face with my soulmate. A concept I didn’t believe in until your soul healed mine. The darkness that formerly commanded me yielded to your light. That’s how I understood your tattoos. The ropes that bound me were no longer self-loathing and bitterness. They suddenly became you, but in a good way. I need those ropes to hold me together. I didn’t want to hurt myself anymore because it hurt you.
Oh, God. I’m rambling. I just needed you to know.
Every minute you spent getting to know me, I got to know me. Forgive me for not recognizing our soul-likeness sooner, while we still had time. The nature of love is that it conquers. Hate. Even bitterness. Mostly, it conquers self-loathing. I was sitting in a white room hating myself, until you breathed life back into me. You loved me so much that I started to love myself.
Who would have thought that day that I was running out of the woods, I was running straight into the arms of my savior? Right out of an ugly life that had me conquered. I did not choose you, and you did not choose me. Something else chose for us. The snow covered me, and you covered me, and in that house—in pain, and cold, and hunger—I accepted unconditional love. You are my truth, Isaac, and you set me free.
We are all going to die, but I’m going to die first. In the very last second of my life, I will think of you.
Senna
I guess I should start at the beginning. In 2012 Nate Sabin met me for the first time and called me, Mud Vein. After my initial shock receded, I realized that Nate was right; I did have a mud vein. It’s my defining feature. Being that this book is dedicated to his wife, I’ll just go ahead and thank the Sabin’s for being the type of people who inspire me and call me out on my shit.
My dad, who has leukemia and is not afraid of anything. Thanks for the fearless gene. P.s. Sorry I have so many tattoos. I hope I can still go to Heaven.
Cindy Fisher, the best mother in the world. Our mansions will all sit in the shadow of yours.
Stephen King, thank you for teaching me how to write. You’re a goddam genius.
My friend and assistant, Serena Knautz, you are shrewd as a snake and harmless as a dove. You put love into action. I adore you.
Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations, you are a true artist. This is the most beautiful cover I have ever seen. The vision was all you.
Marie Piquette, my editor, I, am, sorry, I, use, so, many, comma’s.
Christine Estevez for always being on my team.
The blogging Jedi: Molly Harper of Tough Critic Book Reviews, Aestas Book Blog, Maryse’s Book Blog, Vilma’s Book Blog, Bec’s of Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews, Madison Says Book Blog and Shh Mom’s Reading Book Blog. Each of you gives blogging a different flavor. I appreciate each one of your voices and the time you take promoting my books. Vilma, that was the most beautiful review I’ve ever read.
I’d also like to thank Madison Seidler, Luisa Hansen, Yvette Huerta, Rebecca Espinoza and my little Nina Gomez for their input and friendship. Jonathan Rodriguez for assuring me every day that I’m a genius (even though I can’t do fractions).
Tosha Khoury, I am so blessed to have you. You get me. You get what I write. I don’t know anyone who believes in my books more than you.
Amy Tannenbaum, my tiny, tough, agent.
My vicious PLN army/gang, I love you! Sundae Coletti, Jennifer Stiltner, Robin Stranahan, Dyann Tufts, Robin Segnitz, Amy Holloway, Krystle Zion, Sandra Cortez, Nelly Martinez de Iraheta, Monica Martinez, Sarah Kaiser, Chelsea Peden McCrory, Dawnita Kiefer, Miranda Howard, Courtney Mazal, Yoss, Kristin McNally, Tre Hathaway, Shelly Ford, Maribel Zamora, Maria Milano, Fizza Hussain, Brooke Higgins, Paula Roper, Joanna Hoffman Dursi, Marivett Villafane, Amy Miller Sayler, and my favorite Kristy Garner. I wish I could list you all.
Since publishing my first book, I have met so many people who made me view the world differently. There is none more rare and precious than Colleen Hoover. She is a light shining in darkness. Thank you for loving Mud Vein, and for recognizing our red thread. You have no heart, and you have the biggest heart.
And finally, to the God who says: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” I live for you, mud vein and all.
I packed, drove, and showered quickly so I could make the morning meeting on time. I wondered if April would be there now that she seemed close to being brought on as a full-time teacher. Hopefully she would be. I’d have to decide whether to sit next to her and breathe in her intoxicating floral scent or if I wanted to sit on the opposite side of the room so I could simply look. Or stare. Let’s face it—I would probably stare.
The room was half-full when I arrived with five minutes to spare. A few of the teachers looked up when I came in. Their faces registered surprise, clearly not expecting to see me back so soon. I got a few nods in my direction, but no one spoke. Teachers aren’t usually morning people unless they’ve had their cup or two or six of coffee. Their silence made it evident that the liquid brown drug was not yet coursing through their bodies. Or that seeing me was a little awkward, considering the state I was in when they last saw me. I tugged on the collar of my shirt and ducked my head.
April was seated on the second row and seemed to be lost in a pile of paper on her lap. She was wearing a long-sleeve white button-up shirt, with the sleeves folded halfway up her forearm. Her skirt was black, and her hair was back in a ponytail. Her outfit brought to mind just about every teacher fantasy I had ever allowed myself to indulge in while growing up. Because her hair was pulled back, the pearly white skin of her neck was exposed. God, I was starting to have serious vampire thoughts.
I will kiss that neck, I told myself. More than once. I will.
I’d never promised myself that I would kiss the body of a married woman before, but there’s a first time for everything, I guess. There was something about her neck that made me want to claim it. So Maniac Marco could go f*ck himself for all I cared. Knowing what I did about him, he probably wished he could f*ck himself. Arrogant prick.
I snuck my way into the third row and took a seat behind her, one seat over to her left. When I sat down, I felt like I had immersed myself in a field of lilies, her soft, sweet scent filling my nose.
Yeah, her neck is mine.
Among other things.
“Good morning,” I said, not wanting to stir her from her paper reading. But very much wanting to also.
She turned around.
“Oh, there you are,” she said with a sense of familiarity that made my nerves tingle. “Good morning back.”
God, all she had to do was smile and I swear I would have done anything she asked. Including commit serious crimes.
“Is this your first meeting?”
“No, I came to the meeting on Tuesday also.”
“Oh, nice.”
She lowered her head and her voice, “They are so much fun!”
This time I smiled. Sarcasm almost always made me smile.
“Why are you sitting back there?” she asked. “You’re dumb. Sit next to me.”
She patted the chair to her right and I went straight for it, like a dog being called to the side of its owner. There hadn’t even been a second thought, just an immediate response. Surely, anyone paying attention would have thought I was pathetic.
The meeting better start soon or I can’t be held responsible for what I do next.
“What are your thoughts on James Joyce?” she asked as more teachers shuffled in.
Her question caught my lily-obsessed mind off-guard.
“Uh...”
“You’ve read him, yes?”
I could read the look on her face as she read the look on mine. I had never read him, and she could clearly read that on my face.
“Oh my god,” she said under her breath. I couldn’t tell whether she was mortified or repulsed.
“There are plenty of authors, April. I haven’t had a chance to get to them all!” I said, feebly trying to defend myself.
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “No. That doesn’t fly with me.”
My mind was trying to race through a list of authors I had read, ones I thought maybe she hadn’t.
“Well, what about Michener? Have you read him?” I asked.
She looked at me with a look of incredulity. And then she laughed.
“Are you asking me if I have ever read a Pulitzer Prize winner?”
Shit.
“You’re going to have to try a little harder with me, Luke.”
God, I loved this woman.
“What about Joseph Conrad?”
More snickers.
“Heart of Darkness, Nostromo. Come on.”
The meeting started, and we had to stop. But my mind continued. I started compiling a list in my head of authors that I could try to use against her. I wasn’t about to lose this easily. I paid attention to nothing that was said during the meeting. A passing mention was made about my return, I think. But my mind was occupied.
As soon as we got out into the hallway and started our walk together to our classes, I picked up again where we had left off.
“D.H. Lawrence?”
“Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I read that in high school because I thought it would be particularly scandalous. It wasn’t what I expected.”
“E.M. Forster?”
She actually stopped when I said his name.
“Any person worth a damn has read Howard’s End. Fact.”
I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was around to hear the damn. Thankfully, no one was on our end of the hallway.
“Less casual swearing in the hallway, ma’am. You don’t want to get fired before you even get hired.”
“Are you going to turn me in?” she asked, and I could have sworn she batted her eyes.
“No, ma’am,” I said, knowing that even though I wasn’t a blusher, I was probably blushing now. She was sexy.
“There you go with that ‘ma’am’ shit again,” she said, putting very clear emphasis on the word shit. She wasn’t going to back down.
“Are you normally this defiant?” I asked, wanting to jump her right there in the hallway.
She shook her head, slightly.
“I guess you just bring out the best of me,” she said.
With that, she turned and walked into her classroom, giving me a splendid look at her ass.
God, when did I become an ass guy? Better yet, when did I become the kind of guy who had the hots for a married co-worker?
Classes may have started but that didn’t keep us from communicating. I felt a little childish for basically texting her as soon as I sat down at my desk.
Wharton...
I figured I could judge by the amount of time it would take her to answer whether or not she was looking the author up. Even if she had read it, if she took a while I would just assume so and hold it against her.
Her response was immediate.
I thought we already discussed you asking me about Pulitzer winners?
Dammit. Age of Innocence.
I needed someone who hadn’t received any significant awards. Time for a curveball.
Collins.
Who? she asked. Then followed with, Jackie Collins? Do you take me for a reader of trashy novels?
No, not Jackie. Suzanne.
I’m not familiar with that name, she replied.
This time I was shocked.
If you tell the students that, they might lynch you.
Why? What did she write?
Oh, just this little series about games. And hunger.
Huh?
The Hunger Games!
Oh god. I think I knew that.
And you haven’t read the series??
No sir...you can’t judge me for not reading a book written for teenagers.
Sure I can, if you are working with teenagers. Which you are!
Well, that didn’t happen until just recently! Are you giving them your seal of approval?
How should I know? You think I’ve read them??
God, you’re such an ass. Stick with classics, Luke!
The bell chimed to let the students into the building.
I would have to look up some authors, books that I might have forgotten reading. Yeah, she was an English major also, but she hadn’t read every book ever written. I would find one.
And how was James Joyce the determining factor on whether or not I’m an imbecile??
H.G. Wells, I sent next, thinking perhaps science fiction wasn’t her forte.
A few of my first period students started making their way into the classroom.
“Hey, Mr. H!” a few of them simultaneously said.
One of my students, Warren Gold, stopped at the door, saw me, and shouted down the hallway, “Hey guys, Mr. Harper’s back!”
I wasn’t entirely sure if he was excited to see me, or warning everyone else that they needed to get to class on time and not expect a substitute again.
My phone vibrated.
Wells does not belong in the same category as the aforementioned names. But, I begrudgingly read War of the Worlds freshman year.
The bell to signify the start of class was about to ring, so I shot out one more name.
Maugham was my next attempt.
I had read Of Human Bondage in high school because I was bored and found it at the library. I was most definitely not a fan.
I HATE Maugham. Hate, hate, hate!
Wow...such strong feelings.
If you bring him up around me, I’ll spike you in the face with my heel.
Fair enough! Frequently bring up Maugham in your presence...
There will be serious consequences for breaking my rules, buddy!
Oh yeah? Like what?
You’ll see. Don’t underestimate me.
The morning flew by, thanks to movies and a texting partner that was as into the conversation as I was. My classes were all occupied watching videos, but I had no idea what she was doing over there that allowed her to be on her phone the whole time. I hoped she wasn’t interrupting class every two minutes to text me. I could just hear it now, kids wandering the hallways and lunchroom saying “Mrs. Batista and Mr. Harper texted alllll morning!” Then the glances would come from other teachers, then someone would inform the principal, and then pretty soon we would be called in for meetings and threatened with punishment if we continued this little texting game. I could try to convince them it was harmless. “It was an author game!”—I would say—but they would kick me out, fire me. I’d end up homeless, living out of my Roller Skate, begging Holly to take me in, along with her delinquent alcoholic of a brother. She would say family comes first, and I’d be stuck in my car until Marco eventually found me and shot me in the head. Or had one of his Cuban cronies do it for him. At my funeral, they would all be muttering “Supposedly it was just an ‘author game’... if you can believe that!” I’d be dead, and it would all be James Joyce’s fault.
Yeah, so maybe my mind can turn everything into the worst-case scenario. My mother was a worrier.
But, these thoughts of being murdered in my house-car didn’t stop us from talking. We continued the game, back and forth with authors we had read: London, Hughes, Achebe, Stein, Chesterton, Dostoevsky, Browning, Longfellow. On and on we went, and she seemed to have a story behind every author she was familiar with, every story she had read. I hadn’t met anyone who shared my love of literature to quite the extent that she seemed to.
As the lunch bell chimed and my class dismissed, she was immediately at my door waiting for me.
“You are a persistent man,” she said, smiling.
She was doing bad things to my mind. I was contemplating a throw down on the death couch with her, but if I was worried about texting getting me fired and killed, having sex with her in my classroom would probably achieve that end much more quickly.
“Can you blame me for trying?” I asked, getting up from my desk to meet her at the door.
“No,” she replied, “I’m just not used to someone so competitive.”
“Please,” I said as we began walking down the hall, “you are married to a professional athlete. I am fairly certain he’s competitive.”
“That’s different,” she said. “So, you need to read James Joyce,” she added, clearly wanting nothing to do with the fact that I brought her husband into the conversation.
“Okay. I will.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, tell me what to read and I will.”
“Okay. Well you have to read Dubliners then. Short stories, mostly depressing.”
“Sounds like my kind of pleasure reading.”
“Oh shut up. You’ll love them. He’s my favorite author.”
“That’s a pretty bold statement coming from someone who has read so many different books.”
“I can be a fairly bold person.”
“I can see that,” I said, wondering why certain things she said gave me goose bumps—the good kind.
“So you promise you’ll read it?” she asked as we neared the lunchroom. The sound of the students waiting in line was almost as offensive as the smell of fried food wafting through the halls.
“I do. I’ll just have to hit up my local public library and find it. It’s probably covered in dust.”
She jabbed me with her elbow.
“I have two copies at the house. Come by after work sometime tonight and I’ll let you borrow one.”
“Are you sure your husband won’t mind if I stopped by?”
“He won’t be home.”
And with that, she smiled and walked into the lunchroom.