The Weight of Destiny
"
The Weight of Destiny
unfolds like a storm. It is dark and electric and incredibly romantic. I lost and found myself. The characters are so vivid, so alive, you'll forget anything but them exists."
~ David James author of Between the Stars and Sky
"Whenever I read Nyrae Dawn, I am reminded that words are her art, and she wields her paintbrush with all the skill of Rembrandt. The tender romance of Ryder and Virginia is palpable on the page, and the story sings with all the complexities of the interwoven plot. I read late into the night to finish this one, and once again, Nyrae has managed a masterpiece. LOVED."
~ USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author Courtney Cole
"
The Weight of Destiny
is art at its best, Ryder and Virginia canvasses on which the good and bad of life and love unfold in brilliant, true color."
~ Author Jamie Manning
"
The Weight of Destiny
is YA at its absolute finest. Nyrae Dawn flawlessly brought two seemingly broken characters to life and showed everyone deserves a second chance at love and life. This breathtaking storytelling will blow you away."
~ USA Today Bestselling Author Tiffany King
"Nyrae Dawn has once again given us characters that are so real we can’t help but root for them. It’s not just the growing romance between Ryder and Virginia, which is sweet and tender but also their complex relationships with family and friends that gives this story depth."
~ Heather Young-Nichols author of Up for Grabs
THE WEIGHT OF DESTINY
A MISFITS NOVEL
BY
NYRAE DAWN
Copyright © 2014 by Nyrae Dawn
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.
Published by
Nyrae Dawn
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design by X-Potion Designs
Edited by Sirena Van Schaik
Formatted by Angel’s Indie Formatting
Dedication:
To Julie Prestsater. You are the kind of friend who has the ability to make me do things I never thought I would do. You remind me that it’s okay to be silly and have fun. You make sure I reach my laugh quota every time we’re together. Thank you for luring me out of my shell every once in a while. I’m blessed to call you my friend.
Table of Content
PROLOGUE
~Ryder~
I touch the two wires together and see the spark. The car stutters but doesn’t start so I do it again. Second time’s a fucking charm. The engine purrs to life.
Clutch in. First gear. And then I’m out of here. My heart goes a million miles an hour as the car flies down the street. It’s not fear shooting through my veins.
It’s pride.
I think I hotwired that car even faster than Dad used to. He’ll be stoked when I find him and tell him. Fourteen years old, and I’m better than the old man is.
I hardly slow down as I take a quick left.
Adrenaline still pumps through me. Dad used to tell me about the rush he’d get from taking shit. Tell me how it was the best feeling in the world, though I never got it—not until I started doing it myself.
My gloved thumbs drum on the steering wheel as I drive. My eyes don’t stop darting left, right, forward, backward; whatever direction they can, hoping I don’t see flashing blue and red lights. Hell, I don’t want to see
any
headlights. Not until I can get as far away from this place as possible.
When I hit another intersection, I go right, heading straight for the freeway, still trying to figure out what direction I want to go in. I doubt Dad would have stayed in California. Not after all the shit he’s gotten into here. He’s from back East. Chicago. He’s got a brother out there, and I wonder if he would have gone to see him?
Quickly, I scratch that idea. He wouldn’t go to a family member’s house. Not when he’s got a warrant out for his arrest. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go to Chicago. He always told me how much he missed it out there. It also doesn’t mean my uncle won’t know where to find him.
It’s my best bet, and sure as hell better than staying here with my older brother, who wants nothing to do with me. Not that I want anything to do with him, either. It’s been that way since Dad left us boys to fend for ourselves.
I glance down at the gas gauge. There’s about half a tank, which isn’t too bad. Once I put enough distance between myself and home, I’ll find a car to syphon from.
Never pay for anything if you don’t have to.
That was one of Dad’s first lessons.
There’s a shit ton of food in the backseat, hoses for gas, and I know I’ll have no problem getting whatever else I need.
I drum my thumbs faster, rock a little as I go, trying to calm the excitement blowing up my insides.
I’m good at this. I love being good at it.
For about an hour, I’m flying. Living. Hopeful. I’m going to get out of this place. Going to find Dad, and do the things we do best. I’m going to
live.
When the car swerves to the right, I can hardly keep control of it. Jerking the wheel, I try and compensate for the momentum of the blown tire only I pull too far. It doesn’t matter when I attempt to go the opposite direction. There’s not enough time, and the front of the car slams into the guardrail.
The airbag explodes in my face, shooting pain through my nose. Smoke billows out of the hood. “Shit!” Over and over, I slam my hands into the steering wheel. The pain in my face doesn’t matter. I screwed up. My chance at finding Dad has been blown, and if I don’t get out of here, I’ll get arrested for the second time since he’s been gone.
Again, I’m stuck here.
Shoving the door open, I stumble out of the car, grab my shit, and get the hell out of dodge.
CHAPTER ONE
~Virginia~
There once was a girl named Perfect with hair made of honey and a life made of dreams. No one knew it was all a lie. Perfect wasn’t perfect. Her life wasn’t either, but as long as everyone believed, she made herself think she could too.
~*~
Ernest Hemingway suffered from depression. He ended his own life by shooting himself.
Sylvia Plath was severely depressed as well. She stuck her head in the oven and poisoned herself with carbon monoxide.
Annette Klinger committed suicide, too. Most people don’t know who she is, but she was also a writer. She was my grandmother. When Mom was thirteen, Annette left her. Three years later, Mom found out Annette hung herself a year and a half after leaving.
Mom’s a writer too.
When I was five, Mom told me Virginia Woolf was one of her favorite authors. She couldn’t wait until I was old enough to read about Mrs. Dalloway.
I thought it was so cool that she named me after Virginia Woolf. Mom was this bright light: fun and exciting. Sometimes, it was as though she was a kid just like me. I couldn’t believe she named
me
after someone who was her favorite. It made me feel fun and exciting like her.
When I went to bed the night, she tucked me in, pushed my hair out of my face, and then asked if I wanted to know more about Virginia Woolf. Before I could reply, she told me Virginia was sad. She’d been so sad that one day she stuffed her pockets full of rocks to weigh herself down and stepped into a river.
It wasn't the kind of bedtime story I'd been looking for.
That’s when I knew, as alive as Mom was, she was different as well. It’s when I first started to fear I would grow up to be different like her. No, Mom wasn’t typically depressed as so many of those greats were, but she’s always had her own demons.
When I got older, I made a conscious decision not to let that happen to me.
That brings me to today as I watch Mom’s arms flail while she excitedly screams at my principal so sharply it makes my head ring. All I can think is that I have a writer mom who’s never been stable. A mom who is wild, and reckless, and has other people who live inside her head. How she had a writer mom who was also wild and reckless. And how Mom chose to name me after an author who drowned herself.
Is it just me or does that seem a little like tempting fate?
No, not me. I will not be like this.
“Mrs. Nichols, I’m going to need you to lower your voice,” Principal Toms tells her.
“
Ms.
It’s Ms. My husband and I are separated, and I’m not yelling. Am I yelling? I just have this really great idea and I want Virginia to help me with it.”
My face burns as whispers start behind me and people from my school witness Freak Out 101, Charity Nichols-style—
the
Charity Nichols, because everyone knows who she is. New York Times and USA Today bestselling author and all.
I’ve done so well keeping the wild part of my life a secret. It’s not like Mom is this way all the time. She hasn’t been like this in years. But then it hits me…what if she’s not my mom right now?