Your Gravity Part One
L.G. CASTILLO
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Your Gravity - Part Two
Also by L.G. CASTILLO
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by L.G Castillo
Your Gravity - Part One
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Image and Cover Design: www.maeidesign.com
Editor: Kristie Stramaski with EKS Edits
Chapter One 2002
“Now that’s what I call a house, Nicole. I love it!”
I set my guitar case on the ground and stood beside my best friend, Greg Miller, gawking at what was supposed to be Aunt Bernadette’s house. The cross-country drive from New York to Texas must’ve fried his brain cells, or maybe it was the blinding neon colored walls.
The house was a rainbow of colors. One side was a bright green with a series of peace symbols painted around each of the windows. What looked like Christmas lights lined the roof and wrapped around every inch of the purple front porch. A mass of wild flowers covered the yard, and to the far right there was a vegetable garden.
“This can’t be it.” I glanced around, searching for a street address.
It was hard to imagine that the person who lived here could be related to my mother. I could hear her now, saying something like, “It’s not befitting of an Ashford to live in a place like this.”
“Oh, look at that. Window air conditioners,” Greg said. “Do you think your pampered classical ass can handle not having central air?”
“Of course I can.” I swallowed, staring at the two tiny metal boxes sticking out of the windows. I’d only been out of my nice air-conditioned car for two minutes and already my clothes were drenched in sweat. I’d heard it was hot in Texas, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this hot!
“And according to my parents, I don’t have an ounce of classical talent in my body,” I said.
The Ashford name was famous in the classical music circles. My parents were concert pianists who traveled the world. When people found out who my parents were, they often looked at me with envy and asked me questions about what it felt like to be their daughter. I’d give them the polite answers like, “It’s great,” or “They’re amazing parents.” They never knew that I roamed the rooms of our empty three-story home, wishing for someone to talk to. They didn’t know that when I crossed the stage at my high school graduation and looked out into the audience, the only familiar face was Greg’s, because my parents had left for Australia for a performance. Only Greg knew that I sat sobbing in my shiny new BMW Z3 fiddling with a first class round trip ticket to London . . . graduation gifts from my parents.
Greg knew because he was the only one there.
That was two years ago, and the thought of it still hurt. If only I hadn’t been such a big disappointment to them. I was average. No talent, well, unless you considered learning to play guitar on my own as a talent. If Aunt Bernadette hadn’t given me the guitar for my graduation present, I probably would’ve thought I had no musical skill whatsoever. Not that my parents would’ve approved. If it wasn’t classical, it wasn’t real music.
“As for my so-called pampered ass, I only have this car and,” I dug into my pocket, “thirty dollars and fifty-two cents to my name.”
I had to admit I was a little scared about my decision to attend college in Texas. After backpacking through Europe for two years, fully supported by my parents because they thought it was a great way for me to be exposed to “culture,” I’d made the decision to go my own way. They had freaked when I’d told them I was going to Texas State instead of Columbia University. It was the most reaction I’d gotten out of them in years. They even cancelled their Zurich performance and flown back to New York to try to stop me. But my mind was made up. I didn’t budge, even when they said they wouldn’t give me a dime of support. I was so proud of myself. I’d stood my ground, despite not having a clue how I was going to pay for college.
I eyed my life’s savings in my hand.
Yeah, I was screwed.
I’d picked Texas State because it was as far away from New York as I could get and Aunt Bernadette lived near campus. I hadn’t seen her in years, and the one picture of her that my mother allowed in the house was a family Christmas photo taken sometime in the early ’80s. Mom hated anything that reminded her of living in Texas. She’d left the moment she’d met my father and never looked back. Thankfully, Aunt Bernadette took pity and welcomed me to stay with her as long as I liked.
“I told you to let me help you out with the cash flow problem,” Greg said.
“No way. I’m doing this on my own.”
“Okay, Ms. Stubborn. Then let’s start unloading and settle in so we can find you a job. Though I’m not sure if the house is big enough for all our stuff.”
“Our stuff?” I scoffed, marched over to the back of the yellow moving van, and unlatched the rear door. It rolled up, revealing a wall of moving boxes with his name on each one of them.
“Don’t you mean your stuff?”
Innocent eyes blinked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Greg!”
“All right. All right. Excuse me for not wanting to dress like I just rolled out of bed.”
“Just because I don’t wear bowtie’s doesn’t mean I’m fashion backwards.”
“Ouch. Hitting below the belt, Ashford?” A subtle color of pink flooded his face. “I can’t believe you brought that up. We made vows, blood oaths, to never speak of my one and only fashion faux pas. It scarred me for life. Literally. See?”
He waggled his finger, the same finger I’d pricked with my father’s letter opener when we were in grade school.
Smiling, I remembered the first time I’d met him. I’d been in the third grade, and he’d been in first. I’d been on my way to my private violin lesson (or what I liked to call my half-hour of driving my music teacher batty by simulating the sound of cats in heat) when I saw a couple of kids picking on the cutest little boy. With his mass of light brown hair, big blue eyes, and a red bowtie, who wouldn’t think he was adorable – apparently not the two boys who were twice his size. That was probably the only time I was grateful my parents had made me take violin lessons. The case had come in handy when I’d used it to whack the bullies over the head. Needless to say, they’d never bothered Greg again. We’d been friends ever since.
Most people thought we were brother and sister. We both had the same hair color and slender build. Though I’d kill for his baby blues instead of my blue green eyes.
“Stop exaggerating. It was just a little poke,” I said.
“Okay, so I don’t have a scar, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that we look like a before and after fashion photo shoot.”