Unstable: A Novel

Chapter 1

For as long as I could remember, my mind had felt like a war zone, constantly stuck between what I wanted and what I was afraid of— usually, those were the same thing. As I scrubbed my hair and washed my freshman year of college down the drain, I was struck by the sense that this summer, and the fresh start that came with it, had the potential to put me in the path of everything I’d tried to avoid but secretly hoped for.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me, I made my way from the bathroom down the hall to my new bedroom. The ivory walls and dark hardwood floor fit the coastal style my dad had chosen when remodeling the place. It felt sort of like a summer home meant to be occupied for three months out of the year by people escaping their city lives, only to be covered in bedsheets come October. For a moment, I let myself daydream of hours laying on the beach with a good book, taking long bike rides along the coast, or aimlessly browsing boutiques in this quaint seaside town—an escape from reality that would make this summer feel almost like the long vacation I yearned for.

I pushed the thought aside.

I made my way through a labyrinth of open suitcases scattered across the floor of my room to reach a box sitting in the corner. Sifting through a pile of half-folded items, I found my worn-out Cleveland Cavaliers T-shirt and a pair of faded denim shorts from the box labeled Summer Clothes and slipped them on. My familiar wardrobe felt out of place here. Most of my clothes had been waiting for me to arrive since December when they’d been shipped from Ohio. In the meantime, I’d been at school in Boston, only getting to Newport the night before. It felt like a time machine having access to these clothes again, even if it had only been a few months. It seemed as if everything had changed since then.

I stepped over an overflowing box of books on the way to my mirror— mostly romance novels. Ironic. I could never understand why I couldn’t have a romantic moment of my own without an equal and opposite moment of pain recollecting it afterward.

I didn’t want to end up like my parents. Their divorce was filed the minute I’d moved into my freshman dorm, and I only questioned why they hadn’t split any sooner. My mom stayed in Painesville, Ohio, where I grew up, while my dad made the big move to the East Coast. I assumed this was to evade the memories of his failed marriage. My dad said he should have known it would be hell living in a town called Painesville. He’d only moved there to be closer to my mother. As soon as they were divorced, he’d traded the Great Lakes for the Ocean State, and I was glad at first. Initially, I figured it would be great to take weekend trips away from school to see the fall foliage in Rhode Island and to enjoy the beaches for a few weeks in the summer. That was before I knew that his decision to move would be part of the reason I wouldn’t be returning to Ohio as often as I’d wanted to, or at all really.

My desk, pushed up against the wall opposite my bed, was empty apart from a single photo of the Boston skyline that I’d taken as a goodbye. It was pinned to a corkboard, surrounded by nothing else.

Lots of space to fill with new things.

I’d printed the lonely photograph the night before in hopes of finding a decent frame and adding some decoration to my walls. I’d only spent one night here so far, but I was eager to make it feel more like home… since technically, it was. It would take a bit longer to get used to that.

While staying with my dad, I was required to work two shifts a week at Briarman’s Books, the relocated family business, and attend some occasional family dinners—which would be just the two of us now. Other than complying with my father’s wishes, my goal for this much-needed summer break was simple. I was determined to find a way to stockpile some money before the impending tidal wave of responsibility that would be my sophomore year began. Tuition bills had been weighing on me ever since I’d gotten my first email from the Financial Aid Department, and the summer would be the perfect time to get ahead of the payment schedule, since I wouldn’t have classes or homework eating up my spare time. My parents’ divorce, however conveniently timed they thought it to be, really put a damper on the funds allocated for college—meaning I would have to find a way to make it work all on my own if I still wanted to attend my top school. My dad had always given me a decent wage at Briarman’s, but I knew it would take more than that to even make a dent in what I already owed from my first year.

My hair was still wet as I headed downstairs. I grabbed my keys from a hook above the kitchen counter and made my way to the back door.

I’m heading out, I shouted before closing the door behind me and turning the lock. I felt lighter than I had in weeks, finally letting the weight of finals fall off my back. The afternoon sun was high in the sky as I slipped on my sunglasses and took a deep breath of sea air. Our backyard was charming, as was to be expected from a suburban beach house. I could hear birds chirping as they splashed around in the stone birdbath, and I could just make out the sound of waves crashing in the distance.

My first shift at the bookstore wasn’t until tomorrow, so I had the whole day to get to know my surroundings a bit better and begin to acclimate. Maybe find a second job?

Desperate for some caffeine, I searched for the nearest coffee shop on my phone. Coastal Toast—it seemed like a good enough place to start. I typed the address into my GPS and noticed that the cafe was near the route my dad had driven me through downtown Newport on the way home the night before. Last night, the sunset had cast a golden glow on the waterfront and drenched the buildings and boats in orange light. I’d reached for my camera, wanting to capture it, but we were back on the side roads before I could get the exposure right to snap the picture. It could wait—I knew I’d have a chance to photograph everything here over the next few months.

After parking in front of the coffee shop, I slid a few coins into a meter and checked my bag to make sure I had remembered to bring my book.

The cafe was quaint, its wooden exterior weathered from years in the briny air, making it fit in well with the historic buildings surrounding it. A bell jingled as I opened the door, catching the attention of the barista who smiled in my direction. She sprang into action as the landline beside her started to ring, picked up the phone, and held the receiver to her ear.

Thank you for calling Coastal Toast. Yes…today’s special is strawberry and hazelnut toast on whole wheat. We’re open until 3 pm today. Uh-huh…great, see you then. She set the phone down with a huff. It’s been ringing off the hook today.

Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore silver rings and teal nail polish on her fingers. Definitely college-aged, like me. She smoothed out her apron and asked, What can I get for you?

I scanned the chalkboard menu behind her as if I was still deciding. Could I have an iced cold brew with skim milk please…and one of today’s special?

Name for your order? she asked, holding a plastic cup and Sharpie at the ready.

Charlotte, I replied, then shook my head. Charlie.

The only person who called me by my full name was my mother— there was no use for that formality here. I watched as the barista crossed out what she had written and revised it.

Charlie is much more fun, she said with a smile. Your order will be out in just a sec.

I grabbed a seat by the window, surrounded by mismatched chairs and worn-out couches, and took a bite of my breakfast before rummaging in my bag for my book. This week’s read was the Boston Public Library’s copy of Emma by Jane Austen. The stamp on the inside front cover reminded me that it was due back at the library by tomorrow, not that I’d be back in Boston any time soon. I had a bad habit of keeping books long past their due date, sometimes never bringing them back at all. I wasn’t proud of this character flaw of mine, but it couldn’t be helped. I was much too forgetful for my own good.

My love for classic literature was the only resemblance between my mother and me that I still chose to acknowledge. I knew I had her brown hair and green eyes, but I tried each day to convince myself that we looked nothing alike. Sometimes, if I looked quickly, I would catch a glimpse of her in my reflection. I’d made a habit of avoiding mirrors.

I ran my fingers along the spine of the book—clothbound, my favorite—and my mind wandered back to the library in our Ohio house. My parents had always been avid readers—hence the bookstore—and even my name had been inspired by a fictional character from one of my mom’s favorite stories. My mother always said she loved Charlotte Heywood because of her quick wit and curious nature, since women weren’t supposed to be so outspoken in the Regency era. This character came from the very last thing Jane Austen had written, an unfinished novel called, Sanditon. Jane had died in the middle of writing it, and my mother said that since Charlotte’s story would never have a conclusion, she thought I should carry on the name and give it a second chance. Of course, she had to choose the one story that didn’t have a built-in happy ending to look forward to. Thanks, Mom.

I might have left my relationship with my mother in Ohio, but I refused to leave behind the stories I’d spent most of my life revering. It was my mission to make it through Austen’s entire literary collection by the end of the summer, and so far, I was only two books in. I’d already requested that my dad keep the remaining books stocked at the store for when I needed them, so I was fully prepared.

I took another bite of toast, chewing as I got lost in the banter between Emma and Mr. Knightley, and when I reached for my coffee to take a sip, I missed my mouth and spilled it directly on the novel open in my lap. I jumped up and scrambled to grab a napkin from the dispenser across the room—admittedly taking way more than necessary—when I was distracted by a bulletin board mounted on the wall.

My eyes scanned the image of an ocean vista with a horse galloping down the eastern coastline. Take a trail ride this summer at the most prestigious equestrian academy in Rhode Island, it read.

Remembering what I was doing, I tore one of the pull tabs from the bottom of the poster to use as an impromptu bookmark and rushed back to where I had been sitting. After dabbing the mess until it looked more like an intentional tea stain than a spill, I saved my page and tucked the book away in my bag. Best not to tempt fate and ruin more pages of a book that wasn’t even mine.

My car rumbled to a start and a light on my dashboard indicated that the gas tank was nearly empty. I’d deal with that later. My dad was always nagging me to sort out my issue with forgetfulness, saying I needed to start taking responsibility for things now that I was an adult. I tried to explain to him that when I turned eighteen last year, it hadn’t magically made me more responsible, to which he’d rolled his eyes. That was his usual reaction these days, he didn’t push things like he used to. It was as though he had accepted the fact that I’d grown up and was allowed to make my own decisions. I was still his daughter, but things were different now.

I was living under my dad’s roof for the summer, but in some ways I already felt like I was out on my own. Everything else I had, I had to pay for. I could tell my dad felt guilty for not having much to contribute to my tuition anymore. He tended to avoid eye contact whenever I brought up my looming bills. His obvious remorse made it a slightly easier pill to swallow as the statements piled up.

I’m home, I yelled as I closed the door behind me. I’d spent the rest of my afternoon on the job hunt.

How are you liking the town? my dad asked from his favorite chair in the living room. It was the one piece of furniture he’d gotten in the divorce—my mom had good lawyers.

I leaned against the doorframe. The lighting was gorgeous today.

My dad closed the book in his lap and smiled at me. Make any friends?

Not quite, I said, turning to walk upstairs.

I hadn’t had any luck finding another place to work yet, it seemed everyone was already fully staffed for the season. Restaurants, retailers, even ice cream shops were turning me away. I gave up after the seventh rejection and decided I could figure it out another day.

Note to self: next year, apply for summer jobs in March.

Chapter 2

Iwas sitting at the kitchen table the next morning, skimming the newspaper left behind by my dad when my phone buzzed. I ignored it at first, trying to focus on the article I was reading about the local art gallery scene while munching on a spoonful of Cheerios. My dad wouldn’t keep anything other than his non-dairy milk options in the house, so I was stuck with the bland taste of almond milk with my breakfast. He was newly vegan, which I liked to refer to as his recently-divorced life crisis.

I still felt groggy from all my 4 am study sessions the week prior, which was why I’d struggled to get out of bed before noon. I folded the newspaper and pushed it to the side in defeat, unable to shake the foggy feeling in my brain. My shift at the bookstore started in an hour, so I’d have more time to read then, if it wasn’t too busy.

As I took one last bite, my phone buzzed again. I placed the now-empty bowl in the sink and pulled my phone out of my back pocket.

Missed call from Mom.

My stomach lurched. I hadn’t heard from her in months—not since Christmas break.

What could she possibly have to say to me?

I deleted the notification and slid my phone back into my pocket, closing my eyes and pushing out a slow breath.

Forget about it. Don’t let it ruin your day.

***

I felt like I was back in Ohio when I stepped into the Newport location of Briarman’s Books for the first time. The nautical decor and smell of freshly printed pages was reminiscent of the old place, but the space was unfamiliar and new. I found it funny that my dad thought he needed to set a condition for me to work here. Didn’t he know I’d hang out here for free?

Briarman’s Books had been my dad’s pride and joy for the last four years since he’d finally taken the plunge and leased a storefront in Ohio. He had worked in publishing ever since graduating college but always dreamt of slowing down and opening up a small bookshop where he could call the shots. The place in Painesville had been a safe haven for me in high school. I’d spent hours after school curled up in the corner reading any dystopian romance novel I could get my hands on.

It felt sort of peaceful being surrounded by the books I’d poured myself into over the years, almost like catching up with old friends. Unlike the main characters from my favorite genre, I hadn’t had much luck with romance in real life. I loved to use the excuse that I was born in the wrong time period—preferring stolen glances in ballrooms to hook-ups in the backseat of a car—but in fairness, I hadn’t let anyone get close enough to have an opinion on the subject.

Since I’d already read most of them, my dad put me in charge of organizing the young adult books on the back wall of the store. After careful consideration of whether to display Twilight or The Hunger Games on the most prominent shelf, I emptied the rest of the YA boxes and settled into the seat behind the register.

My station was in the very back corner of the store, far away from possible interruptions and providing the perfect place to get some reading done during a shift. I reached into my bag for my planner to double-check my schedule for the week and drew a slash through the current date: May 28th. All but three squares were blank for the entire month ahead—my only commitments being my bookstore shifts and a dinner with my dad to celebrate my homecoming. Maybe once I got a second job, my schedule would look a bit less pathetic.

I returned to Emma in an effort to pass the time, and since I only had a few chapters left, I’d already grabbed Northanger Abbey from the classics section and set it aside. It was next on the list. As I opened the page where I’d left off, a slip of paper fell into my lap, the tab from the poster advertising horseback riding.

My overactive imagination took over for a moment as I envisioned an idyllic summer at a horse barn by the ocean, dune grass swaying in the breeze, me laughing as I raced down the beach on some handsome man’s horse…it sounded like something I would read about. Only in reality, I was definitely afraid of putting my life in the hands of an animal and there were no handsome men in my orbit to speak of.

Then it hit me. Barns are busy places with lots of people riding and working. I thought back to every western romance I’d read about the poor stable hand finding love in between schlepping bales of hay and mucking stalls. I could be a stable hand, right? I spontaneously decided it couldn’t hurt to call and find out. Before I had time to change my mind, I dialed the number from my makeshift bookmark and shuffled into the supply closet for some privacy.

Hello, Seahorse Stables. What can I do for you?

Hi, my name is Charlotte…Briarman. I didn’t know why I kept introducing myself with that name. I cleared my throat and continued, I saw your poster in the Coastal Toast Cafe about trail rides?

Yes, great. We’re so happy to see that the advertisement seems to be bringing in some new people this year. What level were you thinking? We have private and group trail rides…

Oh…I’m a novice, I said, not trying to give any false expectations, regardless of how desperate I was, but I’m actually calling about something else.

Oh?

I just moved here a few days ago for the summer, and I’m looking for a job. Are you hiring by any chance? I held my breath.

Oh. Well, I’m not really the person to talk to about that. Could you hold on for just a minute? I’ll go ask our barn manager. Her hand muffled the receiver as she shouted, Ebony!

A few moments later, a new voice came through the phone. Hello? Are you still there?

Still here, I said, twisting a piece of my ponytail between my fingers.

Hi, Charlotte. So, I’m told you’re looking for work here at Seahorse.

I began aimlessly pacing in the closet. Yes, I was wondering if you have any positions available for the summer.

What is your experience with horses like?

None as of yet—but I’m a fast learner, I said.

Hmm. We’re fully staffed at the moment with stable hands, and I’m not sure what else we could have you do with such limited experience.

My heart sank as the equestrian daydream started to dissolve in my mind.

Oh, was all I could muster in response. After a moment, I continued, "Sorry to bother you then…I thought you guys might