Until We Crash: The First line & more
/I’m a sucker for great first lines in novels. They should set the tone, shouldn’t they? If it’s a character speaking/internal thoughts, you should get a feel for that character. If it’s more of a narrative, you should walk away from the opening lines having an idea of the story’s theme. Or, that’s what I attempt conveying with every opening I write.
The opening paragraph for Until We Crash came to me a long time ago. In fact, I was so happy with it, and it took me forever to finish the chapter. It presents a picture of Jess you may not recognize from earlier From The Wreckage novels, but it’s exactly where she is at this point in her life. Remember Until We Crash takes place about two years after the last FTW book, After The Fall. Our beloved characters are entering their final year of college. This is an exciting time. Are you ready?
Until We Crash releases August 27, 2020
This is a STANDALONE New Adult ‘return to hometown’ sexy romance
Rated-R for language and sexual situations.
Check out the opening line for Until We Crash, and read on for the rest of Jess’s opening POV
ONE
JESS
There’s a strangling bitterness that creeps into my bruised and suffocating soul at having to save him over and over. It takes the shape of an impenetrable wall, adding height and depth with every bailout. After ten years, it’s an unmovable tower. No matter, I stretch to the tips of my aching toes and claw to the top—hoping this is the last time. This time he’ll notice how hard I’m climbing for him, and he’ll wise up. He never does. I rescue him, and when I’m done, I’m alone and bitter and hopeless. My battered heart cries out; I’m trying to fix him. Will anyone help fix me?
The question plays across my mind the way an inclement weather warning scrolls over my favorite television show—at the most inopportune time. I should be on a beach or at the lake with friends. Nope, I’m wandering into the land of beer and desperation for the umpteenth time. I enter, squinting and adjusting to the feeble lighting as the aroma hits my nose. Hell, bottle the stench and I’d own the perfume of every bar I’ve dragged Dad out of over the years. On the opposite side of the chipped red doors, the sunshine is abundant on this early June afternoon. Within these walls, is another world. There are no windows reminding patrons what they’re missing on the other side; there are only dusty fixtures hanging over scratched wooden tables and dank walls. Unlike the bars around A&M’s campus, the music flowing out of this jukebox is old-school country—a little Tammy Wynette “Stand by your Man.” How poetic.
This is my summer vacation—returning to Rossview and following around a man who cannot pull his shit together. Ten to one, I’ll lose the one job I found because he’s unable to hack sobriety for an hour, forget the time it requires to work an entire shift.
“He’s in the corner, darlin’.” Eddie waves from behind the bar.
Yea, we’re on a first-name basis. There are a handful of bars in Rossview, and Dad is intimate with them all. “You could refuse him service, Eddie.”
“And have a repeat of last year’s incident?” Eddie sniffs. “Sorry, he pays, he drinks.”
Maintaining a grown man’s sobriety is not the responsibility of Eddie or any other bar owner. My head shakes with disappointment as I offer up thanks.
“You called, so that’s something,” I say, steering toward the lump of a human hunched over a glass of amber liquid.
Dad.
My shoes suction to the floor with each step. Another lovely trait Dad’s favorite haunts have in common. Sticky floors, sticky air, and—come sundown—sticky morals. At this hour, though, the television in the corner flickers in and out, re-airing a football game as Tammy’s song ends and Hank comes to life. Yep, there is a tear in my beer, Hank.
Weary faces turn my way, and I tug at my skimpy work uniform. I’m a college girl and former cheerleader—I’m comfortable showing my body off, but the twenty steps across this bar put me on display. The mid-afternoon drinkers are factory workers coming off the first shift. They stop by with their buddies, have a beer, and return to their wives and kids before repeating the process. The life is one I understand well—unchanging and straightforward—but today they’ve won a free show with their liquor: Jessica Womick and her curves.
“What an exhibitionist. Like her mother.” Even if unsaid, I imagine the thoughts run through the mind of every man present.
I near the corner and Dad’s bent form. “Dad?” I struggle for a smooth voice.
He grunts into the table.
“Dad?” I inch in. A second unintelligible grunt greets me. Sweat dampens the small of my back as I poke his rounded shoulder. “Dad, time to go.”
He lifts his head, and unfocused eyes stare past me. “Jess?”
Maintaining an even tone and treating him like an adult is difficult as I hunch at his side and say, “Let’s go.”
When I was a child, he was a vibrant hulk of a man with thick, dark hair and smiling eyes. He would throw me on his shoulders and parade me around our hometown. He was a man who was proud of himself and the life he’d built. He worked for his girls—for Mom and me. Things changed. We moved to Rossview, and the factory underwent layoffs. They cut hours and brought in automation. Money became tight, and our home became loud.
The hulk disappeared. The pride fell. The daily grind of a life filled with backbreaking work chipped at him, but Mom’s betrayal left the husk of a man I see today.
He straightens in the chair and wraps one hand around his liquid savior while extending the other toward me. “I needed fresh air.” His words slur as he pats my head.
I manage a sympathetic pat of my own. Offering compassion is challenging after years of excuses. Impossible when his right hand lifts toward his lips for another drink.
“Stop, Dad. Come on.” I reach for his glass.
My attempt is in vain. He blocks my arm while angling himself toward the wall and tossing the last shot of whatever poison he’s drowning in today back in one gulp. The worst part of his drinking? He’s an alcohol whore. He throws down anything he gets his hands on. Whatever sends him to the place of incoherence the fastest is his new best friend. His empty glass hits the table with a thud. With nothing left to guzzle, he stands on wobbly legs and throws a hand out as if saying, ‘After you.’ It’s the second-worst part of his drinking. He’s a happy drunk for the most part. Hell, he doesn’t even fight when I cut him off nowadays.
Eddie offers his assistance as I stumble to the door under Dad’s weight, but I refuse. This is a familiar rodeo, pal. I’m adept at the job. I release my hold on his side and sling my arm around him, digging my keys from my waistband as we exit. He wanders with the change in my grip.
“Dad”—the keys fall to the gravel drive as Dad ricochets off a parked pickup truck like a pinball— “my car. The red one,” I say through gritted teeth, kicking the keys.
“Red?” he mutters. “Red. Red. Red.”
Settling him into my vehicle is a two-person job, and by the time he’s buckled in and I’ve closed the passenger door, my boobs swim in sweat. I inhale a deep breath and lean my hip against the car. He isn’t three-sheets-to-the-wind wasted today, which is a good thing. When Eddie called with the news of Dad’s arrival, he said he’d serve whatever Dad’s measly dollars could afford. Eddie could tell Dad drank before he arrived. This means he bought alcohol at the grocery store, consumed it, and returned, where they likely refused him for being impaired. It wouldn’t be the first time.
A dense thump against the car window prods me into action. I round the vehicle and climb in, giving Dad a cursory glance before I crank the engine. He’s leaning against the glass, eyes closed, body slack. Great, he passed out. Heading home should be uneventful.
* * *
The drive from Rossview’s bars to the ranch-style house we moved into the summer before my freshman year of high school is minimal. The proximity is what keeps Dad knee-deep in liquor. I suppose I’m grateful he doesn’t drive drunk, but his having easy access to alcohol derails my cause. Driving to the back of the house, I park nearest to the door as I can get. Our neighbors are at work, but it’s summer, and people talk. All I need is one kid getting an eyeful of me chaperoning Dad from my beat-up Acura to the front door, and the do-gooders will arrive in swarms. The Womick name is a permanent fixture in the rumor mill these days. I’ve been at work for three days, and the looks of pity from my new co-workers have already started.
I shift into park and cut the engine. “Dad? We’re home.”
His even breaths are soft, and I lean my head against the headrest with a sigh. The sun is on a mission to incinerate the earth, or I’d roll down the windows and let him sleep this off. His waking up in a pool of his sweat would be a daughter’s justice. The thought is fleeting. I need the car to return to work, and as angry as I am with him, finding the strength to hate him and stop taking care of him isn’t happening. Not today.
STAY TUNED FOR CARTER’S OPENING POV NEXT TUESDAY
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