Zero Chance by Linda Kage

Excerpt

Chapter One

Loads of suicide, death, and depression ahead. But also laughter, hope, love, and healing. You’ve been warned.

Here’s a secret to keep in mind about the depressed: We don’t really want to die.

I mean, I didn’t, anyway.

I definitely thought I did at times. I convinced myself it was absolutely true. I would get stuck so deep in my own head that I just wanted it all to end. Everything felt hopeless. I was stupid and small and insignificant. I was a worthless drag on the world who couldn’t do or say anything right, and everyone would’ve been better off if I was just...gone.

I mean, who’d even care if I ended it all? It wasn’t as if I was important or particularly good at anything.

But those thoughts—even if they did feel absolutely true—were just the pit talking. The pit I fell into and couldn’t climb out of. But the pit was evil. It lied and manipulated, only reminding me of all the bad inside me.

The pit swallowed souls whole.

What I really wanted was to stop hurting. I wanted to stop being useless and sluggish. I wanted out of the cycle of self-blame and guilt for not being perfect. I wanted to care again. Care about anything. I wanted to connect—honestly connect—with another person and feel accepted by them with all my guts and ugly parts on full display. I wanted people to care about me in return. And I wanted to stop messing up everything I did.

But mostly, I just wanted to live.

Except dying was the most alive thing I could think to do to accomplish that. So that’s the direction my thoughts tended to turn.

I had considered all the different ways I could die.

When I was nine, my babysitter—my best friend on the planet—cut his wrists in my kitchen and bled out on the tiles. I woke up and went downstairs to get a drink and found him there, already gone.

Up to that point, I think that was the most alive I’d ever felt. The most terrified, the most confused, the most shocked, the most hurt and abandoned. But also the most alive. My blood had pumped through my veins with a speed that defied logic. My head buzzed. Heck, my entire body just...vibrated with the awful fear of death swirling inside me.

It was the first, up-close-and-personal experience I’d ever had with dying. And from that point on, I’d been hooked.

It made me wonder if that was why so many people participated in death-defying feats like skydiving, BASE jumping, wall climbing, stunt work, bull riding. The closer to death they crept, the more alive they felt.

My problem with those things was I wasn’t brave like those people. I couldn’t do any truly death-defying feats.

But my mind still wondered about them. And wished...

After Zane’s funeral, when the reality set in that he was honestly gone and I’d never get to see him again—when the dragging sadness swept over me—that was my first stint with depression.

At nine years old.

I was lethargic yet anxious. I wanted to be with him, to follow him to wherever he’d gone.

The only thing that made my blood pump with that thrilling fear of life was to think about death. His death. My death. Any death.

I was fifteen before I actually tried to kill myself. Except I used pills, not a knife like Zane had. I thought it’d be less painful. I just wanted peace and quiet from my own tormented thoughts. From the embarrassment of being me. From the guilt and humiliation of everything I’d never done right.

My blood had pumped hard with fear and anxiety when I’d palmed those tablets; it was the very hit of life and vitality I hadn’t known I’d been seeking.

Until afterward, when my savior had found me, rushed me to the hospital, and I’d gotten my stomach pumped, then witnessed my parents fall apart over what I’d done. I knew I couldn’t do the suicide route again because I guess my family hadn’t wanted me to actually die either.

I still thought about death though. I wished for it in different ways, ways that wouldn’t traumatize my parents quite as much as ending my own life.

I hoped maybe I could catch cancer. Except slow suffering didn’t sound fun. A car accident, then? Quick and painless.

Except with my luck, I’d probably survive and become an invalid, and I’d be worse off than I’d been before.

There were other options. Sudden brain hemorrhage that dropped me flat where I was standing. Getting struck by lightning. Hit by a train. Have a piano fall on me.

But honestly, there was no preferable way to die. Because I really didn’t want to.

I still hoped for it, though, even when my deepest wish was the very opposite. Because I wanted out of this existence. I wanted—

“Hey! Frankie!”

Jumping at the call, I tore my attention from the cart of books I was sorting into Dewey Decimal order so I could reshelve them more easily, and I turned to peer over the checkout counter at the gorgeous blonde who waved at me as she entered the university library with loose, graceful strides.

Forgetting my morbid thoughts for the time being, I sent her a sickened smile.

“Oh. Hi,” I said, and I did a pretty lousy job of keeping the wince from my face as my features fell.

I shared an Early American Lit class with Xander Union, and for some reason, she’d taken a liking to me. I had no idea why. It definitely wasn’t because of my sparkling personality, that was for sure. Because I didn’t have one.

Maybe it was some kind of Winnie-the-Pooh syndrome; every Tigger needed its Eeyore.

Either way, as soon as she’d learned I was Library Girl, as her roommates had taken to calling me, she’d started sitting next to me during every class, dragging me to lunch with her, and now apparently, she was seeking me out where I worked.

I really wished she’d stop, though. If she got too close, she was just going to learn what an utter disappointment I was. And she’d leave.

Trust me, I saw the irony in that: wishing she’d leave so she wouldn’t...leave. But it was one thing for people to leave you when they didn’t know you; it was quite another when they did.

Zane had known me. Better than anyone. And when he’d left—

Well, apparently I was still trying to recover.

“We need to talk,” Xander broke into my thoughts as she strode to the counter with a short frown.

She was first cousins with the campus’s football god, Foster Union, and had been born and raised in Victoria, Texas, which was only about an hour and a half from Westport. She was supposed to be a sophomore, like me, but she’d taken a gap year so she could attend HaveU with her boyfriend, Liam, who was a year younger than her.

Except, according to her, Asshole Liam—her term—had accepted a scholarship to study abroad in Europe, and so he’d dumped her to go screw French whores instead—also her terminology.

I guess she and the French-whore-screwing asshole had already made a down payment on a rental in Westport when he’d up and left her with all the bills.

Xander hadn’t been able to afford the apartment by herself after that, so her cousin Foster had gotten her an “in” with a handful of his friends. Now, she roomed with them at what she referred to as Archer House.

Xander had volunteered a hundred percent of this information to me—because I certainly hadn’t asked for any of it—during our literature lectures while the professor had droned on about James Fenimore Cooper and Stephen Crane.

I wanted to be annoyed with her for taking me away from whatever I was supposed to be learning. I mean, The Red Badge of Courage was totally about the fear of dying, which was right up my alley. But Dr. Gleek’s voice was as dull as dust, and it was impossible to focus on what he was saying, even when someone wasn’t gossiping in my ear.

Besides, Xander’s stories were just so fascinating; I couldn’t ignore her if I tried. She seemed to love life. That intrigued me because... Why? What was so special about life to actually love it?

Maybe it was because she was everything perfect and beautiful and smart, which I kind of hated about her.

Five-foot-ten, double-D breasts—at the very least—twenty-seven-inch waist—I’m sure—brilliant blue eyes, a butt that made guys whistle and gawk, and her hair—sweet mercy, don’t even get me started on the hair. No one should have luscious, flowing, cornsilk locks like Xander did. It just wasn’t fair to the rest of humanity.

What was worse, she was super nice too, plus insightful, sweet, funny, and considerate. She was always offering me food from her tray at lunch. She asked me about myself and actually listened to my answers. And she’d given me a cutesy nickname.

I mean, Frankie? Really?

How adorable was that?

The problem was, I didn’t do adorable. I didn’t do nice, or friendly, or anything she did. And when I’d told Xander as much, she just laughed this really awesome laugh that probably made sprites and fairies jealous, and she’d hooked her arm through mine to rest her temple on my hair, where she sighed as if utterly refreshed before claiming she liked my honesty. If I were a lesbian, I’m sure I’d be flat-out in love with her. She was exactly the kind of person I could never even hope to be.

But perfection like her drew attention. Lots of attention.

As I glanced around the library, I noticed pretty much every eye in the place following her to the front counter, and I sank a little lower in my chair because, yep, here it came. Now they were looking my way and no doubt wondering why someone as flawless as her would even want to communicate with someone as unremarkable as me.

“I finally finished that book you recommended,” she announced as she slapped said book down on the counter in front of me and arched her eyebrows in reprimand. “And you totally failed to mention that basically everyone in it freaking dies.”

I shrugged as I slipped the tome closer so I could scan it with my barcode reader and check it back in for her. “I told you it was written from the point of view of Death.” What did she expect was going to happen?

“But even Rudy?” she insisted, pressing an impassioned hand to her chest. “I was sure he and Liesel were going to end up happily ever after together.”

I lifted one eyebrow in confusion. “Really?” At no point had I gotten the sense that the World War II story, which took place in Nazi Germany and began with the death of the main character’s brother and abandonment of her mother, would end in any kind of sunshine or rainbows.

“I mean, he didn’t even get the kiss he’d been begging for throughout the entire book.”

“Yes, he did,” I countered, blinking in surprise and beginning to wonder if she’d actually read any of it at all.

She had no idea a trio of guys had paused to check her out or that they scattered when she wailed, “Yeah, after he was dead! Oh my God, Frankie. Just tear my heart to shreds, why don’t you? This shit was sad as fuck.” Actual tears began to swim in her eyes, and they sparkled like crystals. I kid you not. She even looked pretty when she was on the verge of crying.

“I can’t believe you recommended something like this to me.”

I set my hand on the hardback and slid it protectively closer. “I’m sorry you didn’t like it.” I tried to ignore the sting of rejection as she dared to bash one of my favorite books.

“Oh, I loved it,” she assured. “The story was freaking amazing. It just broke my soul, that’s all. Now you have to recommend something a little more lighthearted with an upbeat ending that could patch me back together.”

I winced. “I don’t really read feel-good, happy books.”

“Well, you should try one,” Xander told me before brightening. “Ooh. Start with Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts. You won’t regret it.”

I doubted that. Happy, pretty, everything-ends-well books usually only left me feeling more depressed and worthless.

I mean, all the characters just seemed to have their lives so...put together. They instinctively knew what to say and do and how to make friends. They didn’t just survive in their little fictional universes; they freaking thrived. And there were always, like, two or three different guys completely in love with the main girl.

I could relate to none of that crap. Not a single guy on this campus fancied me.

Death, however, was simple and familiar. It made your heart pound.

It was all the junk before dying—all the living business—I had never managed to grasp with much success.

“So anyway...” Xander tapped all ten of her fingers against the countertop and grinned excitedly, obviously already over her irritation with me for recommending an amazing book. “Are you coming to the big party tonight?” It took everything I had to keep from snorting in her face. But seriously, why would she think I would even know about any party that happened in this town, much less attend it? People didn’t invite me to parties.

But she was watching me for an answer as if she thought I was normal. So I said, “Which party?”

“Oh! Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry.” She laughed and fluttered out a hand as if apologizing for her forgetfulness. “Has no one told you about it yet? Well, I’m officially inviting you now. We’re throwing this big bash tonight at Archer House to celebrate Foster’s win. Everyone’s coming.” Rolling her eyes, she started off on one of her tangents. “We were going to have it last weekend, but Oaklynn thought more people would make it if we waited until after the semester started, so now I bet the place is going to be flooded. I’m going to have to stand guard at the door to my bedroom so no one tries to use it as their own personal baby-making haven.”

“Or you could just lock your door.”

Xander blinked then pointed at me. “Or I could just lock my door. See. This is why I need you there. Someone clearly needs to produce rational thoughts for me.” Smiling encouragingly, she waggled her eyebrows. “So what do you say? Will you come?”

“Uh.” I cringed. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

Her encouraging eyebrows deflated into a furrow. “What? Why not?”

“I’m not really a party kind of person.”

Head tilting, she hedged, “Because you’ve actually been to some and didn’t enjoy them? Or because you’re just too hesitant to even try one?”

She was going to make an issue of this, I could tell.

But I already knew with all certainty I didn’t need to try a single party to know I wouldn’t like them. Parties meant people, mingling, socializing, crowds, and just basically everything that made me panic and perspire.

“Look, you know where Archer House is, right?” Xander asked, not giving up on the topic.

I wrinkled my nose. “No.” Why would I know where Archer House was?

“Well, I’m going to text you the address,” she announced. “And if you decide to give it a try, you’ll know where to go. Okay?”

I sighed, wondering why I’d agreed to give her my number last month when she’d asked for it. Maybe because I’d never thought she’d actually use it. Except she did. Constantly.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, just as someone called Xander’s name in greeting.

She and I both turned to see two guys approaching. One was super tall with luscious, dark, curly hair and vivid blue eyes, while the other was still tall, but normally so. He also had dark hair, but it wasn’t at all curly and pretty. And his eyes were in no way a beautiful sparkling blue; they were more of a muddy, mossy, green-brown color, like bog water.

But he walked with a swagger and confidence that made him stand out more than his tall, pretty-haired, beautiful-eyed counterpart.

And the mere sight of him made my eyes narrow. My lips instinctively curled into an ominous snarl, and my blood pressure skyrocketed because he was also, unfortunately, the reason why I knew without a shadow of a doubt I preferred guys over girls.

It irritated me to no end how much I was attracted to this...being.

And right on cue, he smiled—at Xander, of course, not at me—making everything inside me freaking flutter.

I was not the fluttering type. I wasn’t the girl who grew crushes. I didn’t blush in the presence of pretty boys. I didn’t even care about them at all. So it really just grated on my nerves that this guy, of all people, forced me to quake with some kind of hungry need every freaking time he came around.

It might not have been so bad if he was actually a decent person. But he was just so...so him. He was an outgoing, loud, obnoxious whirlwind of a flirt who thrived on attention and didn’t know when to shut up. He was the very antithesis of me.

And the draw he had on me was annoying. It was unwanted, unwelcome, and I really, really—well, I pretty much loathed him for it.

I hated him for his vivacious, ego-puffed, skirt-chasing vitality. I hated how much he made my hands want to map every inch of his flesh. I hated the control his presence had over my betraying body. I hated the way he looked at me as if he actually saw me. I hated his snarky sense of humor when he teased me. I hated how much he visited the library and loved books, which made my own book-loving heart sigh with giddy pleasure. I hated basically everything about him. Because I hated that I had absolutely zero chance of ever being with him.

Because being with him was all I’d ever dreamed of.

He made my blood pump through my veins, my heart buzz, and my entire body vibrate. He made me feel more alive than I did when I thought about death. And I probably resented him for that most of all.

I mean, what kind of jerk dared to take away my will to die?

He did. That was who.

Which was why Keene Dugger was the bane of my entire existence.

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