Blackbird: The Complete Series, page 1
Blackbird
The Complete Series
Lily Foster
Shorefront Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Lily Foster
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First paperback edition March 2024
ISBN: 9798988606215 (eBook)
* * *
Cover: Megan Barker Designs
Contents
When the Night is Over
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Two
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Three
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Your Hand in Mine
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Three
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Four
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Ghost on the Shore
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
All Your Life
Prologue: Audrey Hamilton
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue: Grace Dawson
Have you read this yet?
Also by Lily Foster
Motherhood is the biggest gamble in the world. It is the glorious life force. It’s huge and scary. It’s an act of infinite optimism.
—Gilda Radner
Prologue
You Don’t Know Me Anymore
The scenery whips by in a blur of brown branches and gray asphalt. I’m numb, so I can still think about today from the vantage point of a nameless spectator, as if it wasn’t me watching you. The feelings, they’ll come I guess, but for now it’s better like this. I can dissect every moment, view each and every one of them in still frame.
A chance encounter? No, I can’t call it that. A sighting, that’s all it was. You had no idea I was there—that we were there. I’ve imagined the reunion, conjured up countless fairytale versions of how it would go down. But not one of my daydreams played out like today’s reality: a nonevent.
What was that when you turned her way and smiled? And when she gave you a playful swat on the shoulder, you shook your head and laughed. Were you just giving her something in return, being easygoing and friendly, or is it her? That girl with the golden hair, is she someone to you?
I willed you to look my way. Every muscle in my body coiled tight, teeth clenched and brows narrowed in concentration. I thought my telepathic energy would zip through the air and land on you, that I still had the power to reel you in. When it didn’t work, I was tempted to scream your name, drop the bombshell. But the moment passed. You just kept on walking.
And what if you had turned your head? What would you have seen? What would you have done once you recognized me, a ghost from your past?
I caught my reflection in the lobby window after you passed without a backward glance. Couldn’t help but compare myself to the shiny penny walking beside you. That girl, she is California. She’s tangerine-flavored optimism, animated and bubbling over. And me, the one you left behind? I’m western Pennsylvania in the dead of winter: barren, disillusioned and weary. Not even twenty years old, but I’ve witnessed and experienced more than most do over the course of a lifetime.
“We should get going, Charlotte. Long drive ahead of us.”
I follow, push my precious cargo while weaving around the young, carefree people crowding the narrow sidewalk. The noisy banter and the crowd feel oppressive, suffocating. I want out but I’m moving in slow motion. There’s a weight pushing down on my shoulders and my steps are sluggish.
I knew seeing you again would be painful, but I truly believed I was stronger than this. No, just one look and I’m sixteen again.
I remind myself there are good memories from that time: dizzying laughter, soft touches, words spoken in hushed tones and breaths that were hard to catch. But those are all buried deep in the muck of that riverbed now, and I can’t drag them to the surface for the life of me. When someone you love turns their back on you, it does that. It eclipses everything that was good.
You walked away and never looked back.
I should be used to it by now.
Part One
Romeo, Meet Juliet
Chapter One
Charlotte
“Why him? I don’t get it.”
“Hmm, what?”
“That boy you’re always staring at has a giant stick up his ass. Meanwhile Adam over there, one of the few boys in this school who isn’t a total Neanderthal destined to work in a steel factory, follows you around like a puppy and you ignore him.” Daisy turns my chin, giving me no choice but to abandon the object of my fascination. “Earth to Charlotte Mason.”
“I like to look, that’s all.” Flicking the strap of her backpack off her shoulder, I add, “And for the record, that Neanderthal is in the honors program…No different from you or me or Adam.”
Daisy huffs out a breath, grabbing her bag up off the floor. “Is not.”
“Yes, he is. You’re judging him because of his…I don’t know, his clothes, his attitude—”
“The fact that he never seems to be carrying a book, that he doesn’t appear to own a comb, that he’s twenty-four-seven surrounded by girls who I know for a fact can barely read.”
“He doesn’t need a comb.”
We both turn to check him out. No different from any other day, he’s the center of attention without even trying. Leaning back against the lockers, he offers a lazy smile to some girl. She’s resting her hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to tell him something private.
Daisy’s right, his hair just might be in need of a comb, but the way the longish strands shade his face, leaving just one steel blue eye visible to his adoring fans—it works.
With satisfaction, I note that this girl is vying for his attention but not holding it. Two guys in football jackets cackle while one shows him his phone screen, and he bursts out laughing along with them. The football players seem beefy, like stuffed sausages standing next to him. He matches them in height, but his muscular build is leaner.
And though I’ve never seen him barreling over an opponent wearing school colors, I know he’s powerful and strong. I’ve seen the boy unload truckloads of merchandise at the hardware store—enormous bags of feed or fertilizer or whatever—tossing them as if they weigh no more than a feather. I’ve open-mouth stared from across the street, eyes glued to the muscles that strain and flex beneath his snug thermal shirts. Most people would be bundled up in a parka, but it has to drop below twenty degrees or so for him to wear even a fleece-lined flannel. He’s tough, impervious to the elements.
He’s smiling now, which makes me smile. Seeing him happy is rare from what I’ve observed, and it’s infectious. So when his eyes lock on mine in a way that punches the air from my lungs, I know I should turn away but I can’t. In that split second his smile drops and his laughing eyes turn stone cold. He makes me feel stripped down and ashamed.
“Let’s go,” Daisy whispers, tugging on my wrist with urgency when the bell rings. “What the hell was that?” she says on an exhale as we rush into our last period class.
I shrug, pretending I have no clue what’s up, when in truth I have a fairly good idea as to why Simon looked at me the way he just did. The name Wade was never spoken in my home without a curse word preceding it. Makes sense to assume he’s grown up on a steady diet of hatred for my family in return.
I was just a kid, so this Hatfield and McCoy idiocy is ancient history as far as I’m concerned. Whatever it is that happened, I wasn’t there, I had nothing to do with it. He has no right to hold some stupid grudge against me, or to look at me the way he does. He’s wrong.
He’s wrong about me.
Simon
I watch her every damn day, and I hate myself for it.
What is she doing here? She lives one town over, the decidedly better of the two that feed into our school district. On top of that, her father owns the only car dealership in Fayette County. She has no business working the ass crack of dawn shift every weekend at the diner.
Probably my imagination, or just my frustration and anger run wild, but it seems like every time I go to unload a delivery, to shovel the sidewalk, or to arrange whatever seasonal goods my boss wants displayed—rock salt at the moment—she picks that exact same time to take a break. She doesn’t smoke, doesn’t check her phone. No, she just steps outside like she’s doing right now, hugging herself and shifting on her feet to keep warm, watching her breath float up as she exhales out into the cold. Not two minutes later, she fixes her gaze back to the ground, smoothes her apron and skirt down over her hips, and heads back inside.
Her mere presence ticks me off. Poor little rich girl. The way she smiles at everyone and makes small talk? It’s fake as shit. I used to grab lunch at the counter during my break, but I don’t anymore.
That’s the kind of place where I belong, not her. The short-tempered cook and those older, world-weary waitresses are my people, but right off the bat she wormed her way in. Not a week later and she was already their little mascot, the one they watched over. I couldn’t stomach it. It’s the same with the customers. Rushing in from the cold, they greet her with a smile. I can see her through the plate glass window of the restaurant, pausing to laugh and joke with the regulars, or stopping to fawn over the babies in their high chairs. When it’s still dark outside, the bright lights in the diner make it easy to see her every move, the expression on her face so clear it’s as if I’m standing right beside her. And I can see their faces too. She thinks she’s special but she’s not. I’ve witnessed middle-aged men smiling at her in a fatherly way, only to ogle her ass like it’s a medium rare porterhouse the second her back is turned.
What burns me most, though, is the little ritual she’s established now that the frigid February weather has settled in. I start my workday early, but not as early as she does. I pull up outside the hardware store at six-thirty, and that’s when I see her, stealing outside with a to-go cup in one hand, a paper bag in the other. Breakfast for Rudy Wallace. The guy looks like he’s pushing a bad version of fifty with his stooped posture, missing teeth and roughened skin, but I know for a fact he’s not even ten years older than me. Nothing but a loser junkie who—because of her—has recently made a habit of trolling this street. I want to knock the last of his remaining teeth down his throat for it, for forging some kind of twisted relationship with her.
Does it make her feel better? To be charitable to people like Wallace, or to work when she clearly doesn’t need to? When she has everything just…handed to her? She’s a puzzle I can’t figure out, and at the same time, even sparing her a second thought makes me want to punch myself in the face. Why do I even give a shit?
