When a 14-day dating challenge erupts between skeptical Blossom and her secretly smitten best friend Hunter in the waning days of 1999, their easy friendship is plunged into a maelstrom of teenage angst, unrequited affection, and the terrifying poss...
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~ ~ ~ 1999
The Virginia sky, a vast canvas of inky blue peppered with the diamond dust of distant stars, was supposed to be a tranquil backdrop for sleep. The bed of Hunter's old Ford pickup truck, crammed as it was with blankets and pillows, was meant to be a cozy haven. But for Blossom, sleep offered no escape, only a chilling return to a past she'd buried deep.
She stirred, a low whimper escaping her lips. The dream clung to her like a damp shroud, a vivid replay of a night she'd tried so hard to erase. It wasn't the familiar black void of a nightmare; it was a Technicolor, bone-deep ache.
She was back in London, the city a confusing labyrinth of ancient brick and modern steel, its sounds muted, almost underwater. It was summer, and the air hung thick and heavy, a stark contrast to the dry heat of her Virginia home. She could almost smell the faint scent of Earl Grey tea and the underlying richness of old money, the olfactory signature of the world Jamison inhabited, a world she never quite fit into.
Jamison, with his short black hair and eyes the stormy grey of a London sky, was standing beside her. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, in a crisp white shirt, the image of tailored perfection. He looked nervous, fidgeting with the cufflinks on his sleeves, a rare display of unease she'd always found endearing. Yet, that night, his anxiety felt like a harbinger.
They were at a charity banquet, the kind of opulent affair that made Blossom feel like an interloper. The ballroom shimmered with crystal chandeliers casting pools of light on the starched linens and glittering jewelry. The air hummed with polite conversation, punctuated by the clinking of champagne flutes. The faces, all polished and refined, seemed to look through her, or worse, at her, with a cool, assessing gaze. She had always felt like a misplaced character in a play she never auditioned for.
Jamison's parents, the architects of this gilded cage, were present, their faces masks of controlled cordiality. They were impeccably dressed as always, their smiles brittle and condescending. His mother, with her severe bob and piercing blue eyes, had never hidden her disdain for Blossom. His father, a pillar of the London upper class, had offered only the barest of nods in her direction as if she was a particularly tiresome piece of furniture.
The night had been progressing in that stilted, uncomfortable manner when it all went sideways. A hush fell over the ballroom as the event's host took the stage, a plump, jovial man with a self-satisfied grin. He began to make his announcements, his voice booming through the room. And then, he uttered the words that ripped through Blossom like a shard of glass. He spoke of Jamison, his family's legacy, and the bright future that awaited him...with his partner.
The host never said Blossom's name. Instead, he announced the name of another young woman, a name that was accompanied by a photo of another girl, one that was the spitting image of the social circles they moved in. The room erupted in applause, the sound echoing like a death knell in Blossom's ears.
