The Edge of Never

The Edge of Never

Grand Central Publishing

CHAPTER 1

Natalie has been twirling that same lock of hair for the past ten minutes and it's starting to drive me nuts. I shake my head and pull my iced latte toward me, strategically placing my lips on the straw. Natalie sits across from me with her elbows propped on the little round table, chin in one hand.

"He's gorgeous," she says staring off toward the guy who just got in line. "Seriously, Cam, would you look at him?"

I roll my eyes and take another sip. "Nat," I say, placing my drink back on the table, "you have a boyfriend—do I need to constantly remind you?"

Natalie sneers playfully at me. "What are you, my mother?" But she can't keep her eyes on me for long, not while that walking wall of sexy is standing at the register ordering coffee and scones. "Besides, Damon doesn't care if I look—as long as I'm bending over for him every night, he's good with it."

I let out a spat of air, blushing.

"See! Uh huh," she says, smiling hugely. "I got a laugh out of you." She reaches over and thrusts her hand into her little purple purse. "I have to make note of that," and she pulls out her phone and opens her digital notebook. "Saturday. June 15th." She moves her finger across the screen. "1:54 p.m. – Camryn Bennett laughed at one of my sexual jokes." Then she shoves the phone back inside her purse and looks at me with that thoughtful sort of look she always has when she's about to go into therapy-mode. "Just look once," she says, all joking aside.

Just to appease her, I turn my chin carefully at an angle so that I can get a quick glimpse of the guy. He moves away from the register and toward the end of the counter where he slides his drink off the edge. Tall. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Mesmerizing model green eyes and spiked up brown hair.

"Yes," I admit, looking back at Natalie, "he's hot, but so what?"

Natalie has to watch him leave out the double glass doors and glide past the windows before she can look back at me to respond.

"Oh. My. God," she says eyes wide and full of disbelief.

"He's just a guy, Nat." I place my lips on the straw again. "You might as well put a sign that says 'obsessed' on your forehead. You're everything obsessed short of drooling."

"Are you kidding me?" Her expression has twisted into pure shock. "Camryn, you have a serious problem. You know that, right?" She presses her back against her chair. "You need to up your medication. Seriously."

"I stopped taking it in April."

"What? Why?"

"Because it's ridiculous," I say matter-of-factly. "I'm not suicidal, so there's no reason for me to be taking it."

She shakes her head at me and crosses her arms over her chest. "You think they prescribe that stuff just for suicidal people? No. They don't." She points a finger at me briefly and hides it back in the fold of her arm. "It's a chemical imbalance thing, or some shit like that."

I smirk at her. "Oh, really? Since when did you become so educated in mental health issues and the medications they use to treat the hundreds of diagnoses?" My brow rises a little, just enough to let her see how much I know she has no idea what she's talking about.

When she wrinkles her nose at me instead of answering, I say, "I'll heal on my own time and I don't need a pill to fix it for me." My explanation had started out kind, but unexpectedly turned bitter before I could get the last sentence out. That happens a lot.

Natalie sighs and the smile completely drops from her face.

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling bad for snapping at her. "Look, I know you're right. I can't deny that I have some messed up emotional issues and that I can be a bitch sometimes—."

"Sometimes?" she mumbles under her breath, but is grinning again and has already forgiven me.

That happens a lot, too.

I half-smile back at her. "I just want to find answers on my own, y'know?"

"Find what answers?" She's annoyed with me. "Cam," she says, cocking her head to one side to appear thoughtful. "I hate to say it, but shit really does happen. You just have to get over it. Beat the hell out of it by doing things that make you happy."

OK, so maybe she isn't so horrible at the therapy thing after all.

"I know, you're right," I say, "but ..."

Natalie raises a brow, waiting. "What? Come on, out with it!"

I gaze toward the wall briefly, thinking about it. So often I sit around and think about life and wonder about every possible aspect of it. I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. Even right now. In this coffee shop with this girl I've known practically all my life. Yesterday I thought about why I felt the need to get up at exactly the same time as the day before and do everything like I did the day before. Why? What compels any of us to do the things we do when deep down a part of us just wants to break free from it all?

I look away from the wall and right at my best friend who I know won't understand what I'm about to say, but because of the need to get it out, I say it anyway.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to backpack across the world?"

Natalie's face goes slack. "Uh, not really," she says. "That might ... suck."

"Well, think about it for a second," I say, leaning against the table and focusing all of my attention on her. "Just you and a backpack with a few necessities. No bills. No getting up at the same time every morning to go to a job you hate. Just you and the world out ahead of you. You never know what the next day is going to bring, who you'll meet, what you'll have for lunch or where you might sleep." I realize I've become so lost in the imagery that I might've seemed a little obsessed for a second, myself.

"You're starting to freak me out," Natalie says, eyeing me across the small table with a look of uncertainty. Her arched brow settles back even with the other one and then she says, "And there's also all the walking, the risk of getting raped, murdered and tossed on the side of a freeway somewhere. Oh, and then there's all the walking ..."

Clearly, she thinks I'm borderline crazy.

"What brought this on, anyway?" she asks, taking a quick sip of her drink. "That sounds like some kind of mid-life-crisis stuff—you're only twenty." She points again as if to underline, "And you've hardly paid a bill in your life."

She takes another sip; an obnoxious slurping noise follows.

"Maybe not," I say thinking quietly to myself, "but I will be once I move in with you."

"So true," she says, tapping her fingertips on her cup. "Everything split down the middle—Wait, you're not backing out on me, are you?" She sort of freezes, looking warily across at me.

"No, I'm still on. Next week I'll be out of my mom's house and living with a slut."

"You bitch!" she laughs.

I half-smile and go back to my brooding, the stuff before that she wasn't relating to, but I expected as much. Even before Ian died, I always kind of thought out-of-the-box. Instead of sitting around dreaming up new sex positions, as Natalie often does about Damon, her boyfriend of five years, I dream about things that really matter. At least in my world, they matter. What the air in other countries feels like on my skin, how the ocean smells, why the sound of rain makes me gasp. "You're one deep chick." That's what Damon said to me on more than one occasion.

"Geez!" Natalie says. "You're a freakin' downer, you know that right?" She shakes her head with the straw between her lips.

"Come on," she says suddenly and stands up from the table. "I can't take this philosophical stuff anymore and quaint little places like this seem to make you worse—we're going to The Underground tonight."

"What?—No, I'm not going to that place."

"Yes. You. Are." She chucks her empty drink into the trash can a few feet away and grabs my wrist. "You're going with me this time because you're supposed to be my best friend and I won't take no again for an answer." Her close- lipped smile is spread across the entirety of her slightly tanned face.

I know she means business. She always means business when she has that look in her eyes: the one brimmed with excitement and determination. It'll probably be easiest just to go this once and get it over with, or else she'll never leave me alone about it. Such is a necessary evil when it comes to having a pushy best friend.

I get up and slip my purse strap over my shoulder.

"It's only two o'clock," I say.

I drink down the last of my latte and toss the empty cup away in the same trash can.

"Yeah, but first we've got to get you a new outfit."

"Uh, no." I say resolutely as she's walking me out the glass doors and into the breezy summer air. "Going to The Underground with you is more than good deed enough. I refuse to go shopping. I've got plenty of clothes."

Natalie slips her arm around mine as we walk down the sidewalk and past a long line of parking meters. She grins and glances over at me. "Fine. Then you'll at least let me dress you from something out of my closet."

"What's wrong with my own wardrobe?"

She purses her lips at me and draws her chin in as if to quietly argue why I even asked a question so ridiculous. "It's The Underground," she says, as if there is no answer more obvious than that.

OK, she has a point. Natalie and me may be best friends, but with us it's an opposites attract sort of thing. She's a rocker chick who's had a crush on Jared Leto since Fight Club. I'm more of a laid back kind of girl who rarely wears dark-colored clothes unless I'm attending a funeral. Not that Natalie wears all black and has some kind of emo hair thing going on, but she would never be caught dead in anything from my closet because she says it's all just too plain. I beg to differ. I know how to dress, and guys—when I used to pay attention to the way they eyed my ass in my favorite jeans—have never had a problem with the clothes I choose to wear.

But The Underground was made for people like Natalie and so I guess I'll have to endure dressing like her for one night just to fit in. I'm not a follower. I never have been. But I'll definitely become someone I'm not for a few hours if it'll make me blend in rather than make me a blatant eye sore and draw attention.

Natalie's bedroom is the complete opposite of OCD clean. And this is yet another way she and I are so completely different. I hang my clothes up by color. She leaves hers in the basket at the foot of her bed for weeks before throwing them all back into the laundry to be washed again because of the wrinkles. I dust my room daily. I don't think she has ever actually dusted her room unless you call wiping off the two-inches of dust from her laptop keyboard, cleaning.

"This will look perfect on you," Natalie says holding up a thin, half-sleeve tight white shirt with Scars on Broadway written across the front. "It fits tight and your boobs are perfect." She puts the shirt up against my chest and examines what I might look like in it.

I snarl at her, not satisfied with her first pick.

She rolls her eyes and her shoulders slump over. "Fine," she says, tossing the shirt on the bed. She slides her hand in the closet and takes down another one, holding it up with a big smile that is at the same time a manipulation tactic of hers. Big toothy smiles equal me not wanting to crush her efforts.

"How about something that doesn't have some random band plastered across the front?" I say.

"It's Brandon Boyd," she says, her eyes bugging out at me. "How can you not like Brandon Boyd?"

"He's alright," I say. "I'm just not into advertising him on my chest."

"I'd like to actually have him on my chest," she says, admiring the tight-fitting V-neck top made much like the first one she tried to show me.

"Well then you wear it."

She looks across at me, nodding as if contemplating the idea. "I think I will." She takes off the top she's already wearing and tosses it in the laundry basket next to the closet and then slips Brandon Boyd's face down over her huge boobs.

"Looks good on you," I say, watching her adjust herself and admiring what she sees in the mirror at several different angles.

"Damn right he does," she says.

"How's Jared Leto going to feel about this?" I joke.

Natalie spats out a laugh and she tosses her long dark hair back and reaches for the hairbrush. "He'll always be my number one."

"What about Damon, y'know, the non-imaginary boyfriend?"

"Stop it," she says, looking at me through the reflection in the mirror. "If you keep raggin' on me about Damon like you do—." She stops the brush mid-way in her hair and turns at the waist to face me. "Do you have a thing for Damon, or something?"

My head springs back and I feel my eyebrows knot thickly in my forehead.

"No, Nat! What the hell?"

Natalie laughs and goes back to brushing her hair. "We're going to find you a guy tonight. That's what you need. It'll fix everything."

My silence immediately tells her that she went too far. I hate it when she does this. Why does everybody have to be with somebody? It's a stupid delusion and a really pathetic way of thinking.

She places the brush back on the dresser and turns around fully, letting the jest disappear from her face and she sighs heavily. "I know I shouldn't say that—look I swear I won't pull any match-making stuff, alright?" She puts both of her hands up in surrender.

"I believe you," I say, giving in to her sincerity. Of course, I know too that a promise never stops her completely. She may not directly try to hook me up with somebody, but all she has to do is bat those dark eyelashes of hers at Damon about any guy in the place and Damon will know right away what she wants him to do.

But I don't need their help. I don't want to hook up with anyone.

"Oh!" Natalie says with her head in the closet. "This top is perfect!" She turns around dangling a loose-fitting black top with the fabric in the shoulders missing. Across the front it reads: SINNER.

"Got it at Hot Topic," she says, sliding it off the hanger.

Not wanting to drag this shirt-choosing session out any longer, I slip off my own shirt and then take it from her hand.

"Black bra," she says. "Good choice."

I slip the top on and check myself out in the mirror.

"Yeah? Say it," she says, coming up behind me with a big smile on her face. "You like it, dont'cha?"

I smile slimly back at her and turn to look at how the bottom of the shirt just barely covers the top of my hips.

And then I notice it says SAINT across the back.

"OK," I say, "I do like it." I turn around and point sternly at her. "But not enough to start raiding your closet so don't get your hopes up. I'm content with my cute button-up tops, thank you very much."

"I never said your clothes weren't cute, Cam." She grins and reaches up and snaps my bra against my back. "You look frickin' sexy on a daily basis, girl—I'd totally do you if I wasn't with Damon."

My mouth falls open. "You're so damn sick, Nat!"

"I know," she says as I turn back to the mirror and I hear the devilish grin in her voice. "But it's the truth. I've told you before and I wasn't joking."

I just shake my head at her, smiling while picking her brush up from the dresser. Natalie had a girlfriend once, during a short breakup with Damon. But she claimed she was 'way too cock-crazy' (her words, not mine) to spend her life with a girl. Natalie's not a real slut—she'll knock your face off if you ever call her one—but she is any boyfriend's nympho dream, that's for sure.

"Now let me do your makeup," she says stepping up to the vanity with me.

"No!"

Natalie thrusts her hands on her hourglass hips and looks at me wide-eyed, as if she was my mom and I just mouthed-off to her.

"Do you want it to be painful?" she asks, glaring at me.

I give in and plop down on the vanity chair.

"Whatever," I say, holding up my chin to give her full access to my face, which has just become her blank canvas. "Just no raccoon-eye shit, alright?"

She cups my chin vigorously in her hand. "Now hush," she demands, barely breaking a smile and trying to look all serious. "An arteest," she says with a dramatic accent and the flourish of her free hand, "needs quiet to vork! Vut do you think these ees, a Deetroit beautee parlor?"
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Edge of Never by J. A. Redmerski. Copyright © 2013 J. A. Redmerski. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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