What's a Soulmate? Read online

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  www.evernightteen.com

  Copyright© 2016 Lindsey Ouimet

  ISBN: 978-1-77339-061-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For Chase. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for supporting me.

  WHAT’S A SOULMATE?

  Lindsey Ouimet

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  There are certain people I can feel in the room long before seeing them. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown used to their presence over time, or they have an energy about them that simply can’t be dimmed.

  “Oh my God. You’ve heard, right?”

  My best friend, Beth? I can usually hear her coming long before she arrives just about anywhere.

  “Ow! Watch it,” I mutter, rubbing the point of impact her purse makes with the back of my head.

  Okay, maybe I lied. I usually feel her before I see her, too.

  She offers a half-hearted ‘sorry’ and continues to squeeze between the back of my chair and the wall. Today I receive bodily injury from no less than four of the five bags she carries. I watch as she performs her daily ritual of spreading herself and all of her belongings over not only the surface of our cafeteria table, but at least three of its chairs as well.

  I yank my magazine out from underneath the corner of bag number two and grumble as I stuff it into my backpack. I guess I can read more on ‘intricate pleats’, ‘princess seams’, and other ‘advanced techniques all seamstresses need to know!’ later.

  “For someone so small, you sure take up a lot of space.”

  She squints an eye in my direction and rifles through the smallest of her bags.

  “Well, for someone so … not small, you shouldn’t leave so much space for me to commandeer.” She waves one hand at me as the other triumphantly lifts a granola bar into the air.

  “Commandeer?” I snort. “What are you, a pirate now? I guess you do wear enough leather. Pirates wore leather, right?”

  “Shut up and eat your fries. Actually, don’t shut up. Answer my question—you’ve heard, right?”

  After an inappropriately long pause I know will drive her insane, during which I start on my fries and take an enormous bite of my burger, I respond. With a mouth full of food and far less enthusiasm than I’m sure she expects. “About?”

  She runs a hand through her pale hair and brings it to rest over one shoulder. An eyebrow, as dark as her hair is light, arches in a manner that completely gives away how eager she really is to share whatever gossip she’s holding onto. Beth bites her lip in an attempt to seem hesitant. I want to tell her how she’s ruining the black lipstick covering her full lips, but I roll my eyes instead.

  “Well, if you haven’t heard already, I’m not really sure it’s my place…” She grins at me and primly lays one hand on top of the other on the table in front of her.

  “All right, attempt at decency noted. Now tell me.”

  “Oh good,” she says, lifting up from her seat to reach across the table. Apparently my hair, having a mind of its own like it often does, is offending her in some way. Once the big, springy, runaway curl is back in its designated place, she settles back down. “You know I’d hate to be considered indecent.”

  “Naturally,” I agree in the most solemn voice I can muster before waving for her to continue.

  “So you know Audrey McMannis, right? Short—well, taller than me, but still short. Dark hair? I’ve got econ with her this semester. I think we all had a class together last year. Maybe bio?”

  I nod, knowing once the story’s begun, it’s best not to interrupt. Besides, I’m pretty sure there’s only one Audrey at our school in the first place.

  “She wasn’t in class last Friday because she and her family had to go out of town for her cousin’s wedding. I don’t think we know the cousin. Apparently she has this super big, super geographically spread-out family. But anyway, she had to go to her cousin’s match ceremony. I guess on the way there, her parents’ car got a flat tire or something, so they didn’t get there in time for the rehearsal dinner the night before.”

  “Okay…” I break my rule of not interrupting. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get enough sleep last night or because I bombed my French quiz earlier, but this story seems pretty boring, and it is likely not to find its way out of Beth anytime soon without a little guidance on my part. “Was she supposed to be a bridesmaid, or something?”

  “No. She just didn’t get to meet anyone from the groom’s side until the day of. Don’t interrupt!”

  I stuff another fry in my mouth.

  “So she shows up to the ceremony the next day, her family is seated on the bride’s side, blah blah blah. I think she was like, playing a game on her cell or something until the music started and they were seating the mothers. The music starts to play, she puts her phone back in her bag, looks up, and it happened. The black, and the white, and the gray … it just faded out and all of this color took its place. It seeped into everything. She nearly fell out of her chair.”

  It’s pretty much impossible to stop myself from glancing around the lunchroom. I’m almost positive Audrey has this lunch period with us, but I don’t spot her anywhere. Unless she’s sitting at a table outside, which is unlikely with the current downpour, she must not be here today.

  “That’s great, though. Right? I mean that her Soulmate was there, out of all places.”

  I’ve never considered myself to be an especially romantic person, but the idea of meeting a Soulmate now? When we’re so young? It’s enough to excite even me a little bit. And Beth, well, Beth is one of the most disgustingly romantic people I’ve ever encountered, so it’s hard for me to believe she’s not swooning over this.

  Instead the look she’s giving me now says maybe she’s not as excited over sharing this story as she was before starting it.

  “It was his match ceremony, too. He was the groom.”

  Oh.

  Chapter Two

  I’ve never really given much thought to the whole Soulmate thing. At least not as it pertains to me. Of course I’ve heard stories. Seemingly countless stories for something that’s really not as common as people make it out to be from what I understand. I think the last time there was any kind of census taken, only somewhere around sixty percent of the people polled had met their match. Sure, that might make it a majority, but I’ve always thought it important to be conscious of the remaining balance. It’s still a big number after all, and there’s a chance I belong to it.

  A forty percent chance apparently.

  The real kicker is even in that sixty percent, there’s still about a ten percent chance the match won’t be a romantic one, or that it just won’t work out. There are exceptions to every rule. Another important thing to remember.

  Anyone could end up like Audrey. A girl could find the one person who literally fills her world with color, and he or she could already have a match. One who obviously, and unfortunately, isn’t her.

  A match could be a platonic one. Having a best friend as a Soulmate isn’t a terrible fate by any means, but what happens when he or she finds that one person, and can’t help falling in love with? What if someone hasn’t met her match and falls so deeply in love with
someone that the thought of coming across her actual Soulmate fills her with nothing but dread? Or someone who has no match at all! And multiple matches! I very vividly remember the story of a woman who was only able to see color in one eye until she met her second match. Okay, so there’s a very distinct possibility that was a plot for a made-for-television movie, but still.

  Then there are stories like my parents’.

  My mother was in her senior year. Sitting in her poly-sci class to be exact—first day of her last semester of college ever, and she said she was feeling more worn down and nervous being so close to the proverbial finish line than excited. She was still trying to dig a pen out of her bag when the teaching assistant began roll call, and she didn’t bother to look up until she heard her name.

  That was the moment she said her life changed. If she told the story, one would be swept away with the grand romanticism of it all. My mother is a storyteller and the story of my parents deserves nothing but the finest of words, but here’s the gist of it.

  She looked up and as soon as she saw my father, the aforementioned assistant, boom! Color. Blacks turned into browns, purples, and dark blues. Whites were then yellows, tans, and pinks. And the grays were everything in between. It’s difficult to follow along with this part of the story if someone has never seen any of these and has no concept of not only color, but the different variations each one is capable of. The way she describes it, though… Well, let’s just say it’s made very clear that something beautiful in black and white? It can be even more breathtaking in color.

  Their eyes met, and she says her breath was absolutely stolen away.

  And then he blinked, returned his eyes to the sheet in his hands, and went on about business as usual.

  Because my father is my mother’s Soulmate, but she is not his.

  He was friendly to her whenever they interacted in the classroom, though. Maybe he lingered a bit after class was over when it took her longer to gather her things. Sometimes she thought she caught him staring at her from the corner of her eye. When the semester was finally over and final grades were in, he asked her out.

  Over coffee, she decided it wasn’t fair to either of them, but mostly to herself, to keep it a secret. With her hands clasped tightly between her knees, a nervous habit that seems to have been passed down to me, she told him he was, in no uncertain terms, her Soulmate. That she knew she wasn’t his because, dear God, if he had felt even a tenth of what she had, there’s no way he could have hidden it without her knowing. She said she wasn’t naïve enough to expect anything from him and he shouldn’t feel bad about the hand she’d been dealt. Nor should he feel any sort of guilt or pressure to see her again.

  She left him sitting at that corner table. My father says ‘with a million thoughts and a gaping jaw’.

  A week later, he showed up at her apartment. He said the only pressure he’d felt had been behind his eyes each time he’d closed them and thought of her. She told him it was a terrible line. They’ve been together ever since.

  It hasn’t always been easy for them, though. While ‘non-traditional’ matches aren’t by any means uncommon, there are people out there who oppose them for reasons that, to me, negate any and all logic. While not as common as they used to be, entire groups of people with what seems like an infinite amount of time on their hands to be angry about something that doesn’t even affect them in the slightest, still exist. They view matches like my parents’, as ‘unnatural’. As a sin. Apparently a ‘pure’ love, in their eyes, only exists between true Soulmates. Some even go as far as saying any children born to those not traditionally matched will end up like their parents. Unmatchable and without a ‘true’ mate.

  Unfortunately my father’s parents can be included among their ranks.

  I would say they never liked my mother, but they never got to know her. It was the mere idea of her that was enough to force their only son out of their lives. Mom’s family welcomed my father with open arms, though. She used to say it made her sad to think she was the reason I’d never have two sets of real grandparents in my life. Honestly, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing worthwhile I’m missing out on.

  Anyone can look at my parents and see they love each other. That they’re in love. What they have, along with countless other nontraditional couples, is pretty beautiful. And anyone who can’t see it? I’m okay with not knowing.

  They dated for two years before my father proposed. My mother argued with him, tried to talk him out of it. She didn’t want to legally attach herself to him in case his true Soulmate decided to make an appearance. He, stubborn and persistent man that he is, didn’t give up.

  So they got married. In a service almost identical to a match ceremony, save for a few signatures on a few official documents that years before would be filed with the tax office, insurance companies, and financial institutions. These days they’re mostly used for census purposes.

  And two years after, when the subject of children came into play, it was the same argument all over again. She tried to point out—still— he would be tied to her in a way that was by no means temporary. There would be no getting rid of her if a child was added to the mix.

  “Silly woman,” he’d told her. “There’s no getting rid of you. You are already in my bloodstream and woven into the marrow of my bones.”

  My mother may be the storyteller of the two, but my father is no stranger to dramatics.

  When she went into labor with me, she was absolutely terrified. She told my father she didn’t care if the doctor who delivered me was the one who knocked color into his world, he better not let go of her hand. There were some other vague, drugged-induced threats about being the one to knock something else into him as well, but she really shouldn’t have worried.

  When they placed me in her arms, she says neither of them could say a word. They sat there for a moment, watching me make my angry baby faces and scrunch my tiny baby nose.

  “Her hair,” she started, running a fingertip over my head. “It’s so…”

  “Red.” My father interrupted her, and she nodded before realizing what it meant. What had just happened. “It’s red, isn’t it? Like yours.”

  She says she had so many tears in her eyes she could barely see when she nodded again and choked back a sob.

  “Like mine.”

  Later she told him it was really no wonder. That of course he was egotistical enough, his Soulmate would have to be made up from parts of himself.

  He looked at her then and smiled as he brushed a hand through each of our hair.

  “She’s half of you too, love.”

  Okay, so even I can acknowledge exactly how stinkin’ cute their story is. The thing is it doesn’t always work out like that. Not everyone gets as lucky as my parents did.

  So I don’t really think about it often. If I’m in the forty percent ‘minority’ then that’s that. Even if I’m not, there’s no set period of time in which I’m supposed to meet my Soulmate. I could be seven or I could be seventy. I’m not one hundred percent positive if my attitude makes me more of a realist or a giant pessimist.

  Seeing the world in black and white isn’t so bad really. It’s not as if I grew up ever knowing anything else. Can’t miss something I never had and all that. It’s what I’ve always told myself anyway.

  ****

  By the end of the week, I’ve mostly managed to put the Audrey situation behind me. It hasn’t been hard since she hasn’t returned to school. By Thursday, Beth said their econ teacher stopped bothering to even call her name during roll. The gossip has died down, and the leagues of idiots trying to romanticize the whole thing have finally realized how futile their efforts really are. There’s nothing romantic about it. I’ve been more than happy not to hear it.

  So of course it seems appropriate how it’s exactly what the girls hovering around the hostess stand at the Bluebird Café want to talk about when I stop by to pick up my order.

  “Isn’t she in your grade, Libby?”

&nbs
p; God, this town is too small.

  And poorly dressed, but that’s another matter entirely. At any rate, I’ll be in a larger city in a matter of months. A city filled with better fashion sense and nobody who wants to stick their nose in my business.

  Not that I have any business for anyone to stick their nose in…

  It’s easy enough to smile and shrug, saying I don’t really know anything they haven’t already heard. Because I haven’t. Audrey and I aren’t friends, and I’m pretty sure Beth is right—we’ve only had the one bio class together. I don’t even think we talked once the whole semester.

  “Sorry, ladies. I’m only here for my dad’s dinner. Oh, and pie. Can you add a couple of slices of the cherry to my order?”

  My dad and I have a standing date for dinner every Friday evening. Since I got my license a couple of years ago, he started calling in an order at the Bluebird Café downtown for me to pick up and deliver to him at work. He’s a correctional officer at The Clarkesville Juvenile Detention Center right outside the city limits. He thinks he’s funny, and likes to call it our ‘weekly debrief’.

  I smile at the guard manning the gate, an older man with an affinity for NPR, and he waves me through with hardly a glance in my direction. He always has one earbud in, listening to whatever program it is he’s so obsessed with this time every Friday afternoon. I grin at the way he covers his free ear with one hand as my older-than-me-and-noisier-than-Beth car rolls past his guard booth.

  Dad’s not at his desk when I enter his office, another guard and one metal detector later, so I take a seat. His seat. It’s a lot more comfortable. I barely have the foam lids off our plates when he lowers himself into the hard metal chair across from me.

  “Comfortable?” he asks, one brow raised and a corner of his mouth lifted.