Page 1 of Collision
Prologue
I come from a regular family.
My father was an honest worker, my mother a dissatisfied housewife. As for me… To tell the truth, I never quite knew how to define myself.
Most of the time, I had a clear sense that life was passing me by; I was too busy looking at it to actually live it. I hid behind the printed page, daydreaming of love.
Romantic, I know, but “romantic” is practically my middle name.
I spent entire days reading, wondering when it would be my turn and what it would be like. I imagined love as harmonious as a symphony. Light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Gentle as a feather swaying in the wind.
That’s how I pictured it: easy, pure, romantic. Because that’s how it’s supposed to be.
But I was wrong.
For me, love turned out to be none of that.
From the first time he touched me, it was the twang of an electric guitar. An onslaught like a hurricane.
A soul’s fate sealed by its collision with another.
Because the truth is, nothing could have prepared me for this.
Because when you meet someone for the first time, you don’t know it…
You don’t know the impact they’ll have on your life.
You don’t know the power they’ll have over you.
You don’t know that every particle of your body will change, and that after, you’ll never be the same.
Part One
One
Corvallis in the fall has a special charm. With its little houses, parks, and dense forests all around, it looks like one of those enchanted snow globe landscapes that I used to collect when I was a little girl. The arrival of the first storms makes everything even more magical. Just like now, with the rain pounding violently on the asphalt, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the smell of the wet streets. There’s no better awakening in the world, to me.
The peace doesn’t last long, though, because the blaring sound of the alarm clock reminds me that today is the first day of my sophomore year at Oregon State University. Needless to say, I wish I could keep curled up under the covers a little longer, but after the third beep, Nirvana’s “Breed” comes on at full blast, practically giving me a heart attack. I reach over to the nightstand next to the bed, groping for the phone, as Kurt Cobain’s voice fills the room. When I finally get ahold of it, I turn off the alarm, pull up my green frog sleep mask, and force myself to open my eyes.
Clutching the phone in my hands, I give in to the urge to check for a message or call from Travis. Nothing. I should be used to it, but it’s still a disappointment every time. That’s how it always is with him: after every quarrel he goes off the radar for entire days, demonstrating time and time again how little he cares about salvaging our relationship, now on its last legs.
Is it possible to be exhausted before your day even begins?
Reluctantly, I pull myself out of bed and step into my fuzzy unicorn slippers. I gather my messy hair into a loose bun, throw on my fleece robe and inhale the intoxicating perfume of fresh laundry, and walk over to the window in front of the bed. I pull back the curtain, rest my head on the cold glass, and let my gaze wander over the garden path wet with rain.
Travis takes it for granted that I’ll be the one to make the first move. But this time I have no intention of breaking the silence, not after what he did. Seeing an Instagram story with my own boyfriend falling-down drunk, dancing and grinding on a bar with two random girls, while I was at home all by myself in bed with the flu, is a kind of pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. When I called him furious and looking for an explanation, he dismissed me with his usual “Vanessa, you’re overreacting,” and wisely decided to hang up and not call back again. I spent the entire weekend holed up at home, depressed, drinking ginger tea to soothe my sore throat, reading and organizing books and notebooks to get ready for the first day back at college. But not even FaceTiming with Tiffany and Alex, my best friends in the world, was able to completely erase the memory of that video and the humiliation of being disrespected like that by Travis for the umpteenth time.
The situation has become so consuming that I don’t even have the strength to cry anymore. Which is strange, because for as longas I can remember, the only thing I can manage to do when I’m overwhelmed by emotion is cry. In a burst of frustration, I hurl the phone on the bed, massage my face, and compel myself to think of something, anything else, because the alternative is giving me a headache. I’d better start getting ready, I have a long day ahead of me.
After a quick shower, I go back to my bedroom to get dressed, and even though I know it’s stupid, I take another little peek at the phone. But once again, no calls and no messages. An unhealthy desire to call him and shower him with insults starts welling up inside of me.
“Nessy, are you up?” My mother’s shrill voice snaps me out of those thoughts, along with the smell of hot coffee wafting through the house. It’s a little like walking a tightrope between hell and heaven.
“Yeah, I’m up,” I respond hoarsely, lifting a hand to my aching throat. The cold from the last few days totally wiped me out.
“Come down, breakfast is ready!”
I let out a big sigh, and still wrapped in my robe and with my hair wet, I head downstairs, hoping I’ll be able to camouflage my awful mood. The last thing I need is to be subjected to one of Mom’s never-ending lectures where she repeats that I’ve got to hold on to this one because he’s from a good family. Who cares about his mistakes and my suffering—the love my mother harbors for Travis’s family fortune is even bigger than the love she has for her daughter. When, two years ago, she found out that I was in a relationship with the scion of an oil company executive, to her it was like winning the lottery.
