A Gift to Forget by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes memories are best forgotten.

***

(Source)

The parcel sat on her table, next to the previous day’s one. Small, wrapped in faded paper, she hadn’t had the heart to unwrap them. She remembered clearly the last time someone had given her any kind of parcel: it had been at work, and White Elephant gifts didn’t exactly fall into the same category. Plus, that had been years ago, long before she’d moved.

Heat curled around her shoulders, warding off the chill that still seemed to seep into her toes. The wind battled against her windows and the teacup in her hands only seemed to warm her palms.

“Another foot of snow is expected tonight, promising a white Christmas!” The weatherman was far too cheerful about this prospect. The urge to stick her tongue out at the television set was only curbed by the distraction of her oven timer sounding.

While the weather might have been frightful, her cookies smelled divine. Not that she wanted to eat all two dozen, but seeing as she knew no one in town, she figured it was a small sacrifice for some holiday cheer.

Tea, milk, Love, Actually streaming, and for a few minutes, she forgot about the storm. About the lack of any friendly faces at her new job (walking in on a business where everyone had been together for at least a decade didn’t bode well for the new person). Or about the small parcels on her table.

She really should open them. See what on earth someone had left, so carefully, on her doorstep. But, looking over at them, they made her smile. Maybe tomorrow. At least then there’d be something to look forward to.

Two movies later (A Christmas Story, and Christmas Vacation—both just for laughs), and she had a crick in her neck from the couch. With shambling steps, she made her way to her bed, turned her heating blanket to ‘high’ and fell sound asleep.

Sunlight streaming through the blinds woke her. How was it that no matter how she arranged them, somehow the light always hit her in the eyes? Curtains—she was buying some the next time she remembered.

Laying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, it’s bright white stripped by light. Against the far wall, she’d set a couple paintings her friend had done for her, back before she’d moved. Today, she told herself, today she would hang those finally.

Remembering there were cookies for breakfast, she wrapped a blanket around herself—the sunshine meant another drop in temperatures, though she couldn’t quite figure out how that was possible.

Downstairs, cookies and hot chocolate made for a pleasant breakfast. She stared out the window at the pristine expanse of white that stretched from her front door, across the street, and to the neighbors. The sun caught on the crystals, reflecting a sea of tiny diamonds.

Staring out the window, absently pondering the potential book she’d read later on, she noticed that the expanse of snow wasn’t exactly pristine. A set of footprints marred it, running from the house across the street in her direction.

Moving toward her own front door, she stared out at the tracks, following them across the street to her own door.

Was this the answer to who left the little packages?

Steeling herself against the chill, she opened the door just enough to peek out onto her stoop. Sure enough, another small package sat there, this time with a bright bow adorning the top.

There weren’t cameras, were there? No one in this little town would be so crewel, would they? But the single set of prints didn’t seem to lend itself to that.

Had she seen whoever lived in the little house across the street? The place had been shrouded in shrubbery when she moved to town, but the winter cold now revealed a tiny blue house with bright white shutters tucked back from the street. A wisp of smoke emerged from the the roof and the sunshine reflected off the windows. Had she ever noticed anyone inside?

The bite of the cold seeped through her PJs and she shut the door, peering down at the lumpy little package in her hands. The paper was the same type—vintage and a bit wrinkly, like unsteady hands had applied the tape.

The three of them on her plain wooden table made a cheerful pile, something she hadn’t enjoyed since her parents left, a few years back. Just the sight of it made her grin. A little part of her didn’t want to open them, fearing that by doing so some bit of the magic they held would escape, like the smoke from her neighbor’s chimney.

With a fresh supply of cookies, she settled at her table, her speakers blaring a little Trans-Siberian Orchestra (might as well). The wrapping paper was a lot thicker than what she was used to, making the modern stuff seem like tissue paper. Taking care to not rip anything, she eased the first small gift from its wrapping.

Shaking her head, a thrill ran up her back. The second and third gifts went much the same. Together, on the table, she stared at them for at least an hour.

And she knew what she needed to do. She threw on some warm clothes, and gathered up a few supplies from around the house. It didn’t take more than five minutes to put it all together, and she even found a length of ribbon to tie her makeshift gift together.

It wasn’t hard to follow the gift-giver’s footsteps across the street. A few courageous people had driven past, too, making the street a little easier to navigate. But she still got snow down her boots as she walked across the snowy lawn, up to the front door, hidden behind the bare branches of what had been lilacs.

There was no bell, so she knocked, the wooden door a crisp white she fleetingly hoped she wouldn’t accidentally smudge.

The woman who answered had a face that she’d once heard described as “apple doll”—whatever that meant. Her eyes met hers from behind spectacles, startlingly dark and intense despite the web of wrinkled that surrounded them.

For a moment, she stood there, staring down at the old woman, her mouth opening and closing with unspoken words.

“Did you like them?” The woman asked, her grin dimpling her cheeks.

“I did. Thank you so much. I brought you a few cookies I baked last night. It’s not much of a thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I hope you enjoy them.” She held out her little package, her grin pulled tight in the cold.

The woman pulled the gift against her plump bosom. “I wanted you to know that you’re not completely alone this Christmas.”

“Thanks. That’s good to know. It’s been a bit hard since I moved here.”

With a nod and a shrug, the woman patted her arm and started to scuttle back inside her little blue home. “Thank you for this.”

“No trouble at all!” With a wave and a smile, she carefully made her way back toward the street.

A rush of wind tossed a fine mist of snow into the air, and she looked up to see that storm clouds started to build on the horizon, promising more snow to come.

She hurried back into her house, pulling back on comfortable clothes and settling onto her couch to read and watch the snow start to fall.

It didn’t take more than half an hour for the woman’s tracks, and her own, to be lost to new flakes. And when the ambulance finally arrived across the street, there was no trace that she’d ever visited, except for several half-eaten cookies and three small “gifts” she hid behind her water heater until the ground thawed enough for her to burry them.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Drawer Full of Memories by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes we need to be thankful for our own strength. 

***

Source

Time seemed to shudder to a stop, rocking her back on my heels, as soon as the drawer slid open. The mad scrambled search for scissors forgotten in a heartbeat. Inside the drawer was a scatter of memories, each their own small world of wonder.

Each something she’d tried to forget.

Almost by some outside force, she reached inside. Folded papers that echoed words she’d loved. She’d believed them, too, and their professions of love and apology, faith and trust. Some part of her heart still burned with the embers of what they’d meant, a part she wished she could douse with water. Reading them pooled tears in her eyes, long forgotten memories flaring to life once more. The cinch of pain around her heart tightened down, sure and steady in a way she’d learned to live with over the past year.

The other objects conjured a myriad of other thoughts. The photos were the hardest. Smiling faces and far away places. Echoes from a time when things had been so much easier. But still, it was hard to ignore the pain that each smile covered in the images. The knowledge of what led up to those posed scenes on rooftops in other countries. The harsh words. Those photos hid all of that to the outside world, but today, they rushed back, impossible to mask.

Did she want to mask them? Sometimes it was so much easier to remember the better parts. Pretend the photos captured the truth, and not just the careful façade. But the truth, it always leaked through.

Staring into the drawer, she couldn’t help thinking of the bits she tried to forget. The nights of screaming fights. Of trying to escape so he could cool off, only to be chased down, through the house, doors no obstacle to his anger. Covers ripped back so that 3am fights could be held. Words, only ever words, but the kind that knifed through her, hitting points only an intimate partner knew to target.

Always, always, the truth hung heavy on her tongue during those times. Impossible to say, impossible to acknowledge. The truth only brought down more anger. And with that anger came fear, tears, and a desperate feeling of her heart fighting to beat it’s way out of her ribs—a caged bird that she could never let free.

How had they gotten there? Things had started off so vastly different. Laughter, love, shared tastes and interests. A common base that felt promising to build their lives on. The long walks and talks in the desert that had cemented their relationship into something she’d felt could never break.

Oh, she knew she’d played a role in the downfall. It takes two to tango. Her inability to trust him, the spontaneous anger, took their toll. Lies and silence resulted. The heavy weight of the truth a millstone around her neck. She’d done wrong, been wrong, and hated herself for it all. But how could she have done differently? Even now she couldn’t see how, though surely it existed. The long shadow of anger overcast their marriage, obscuring other paths even now.

It’s stranglehold left hand-shaped bruises on her soul.

The rest of the drawers in her desk carried folders of paperwork for things she should have felt pride in. Success in her job, her creative work, awards and recognitions for things she’d done. These, too, she’d kept to herself. Lied about and covered up. Sharing only when she absolutely had to with the man she’d chosen to spend her life with. Good news was never received well. The announcement of her promotion at work—something she couldn’t contain in her excitement—led to hours of screaming. She shuddered at the memory.

No, not all things had been rosy in the past, no matter how much she tried to peer at them through rose-colored glass.

Two imperfect people. Sometimes it felt like three: the man she loved, and the man he turned into when the anger consumed him. A joke they shared, one she never found terribly funny because it hid the horrible truth: she feared the angry man. She would have done anything to avoid him. Anything. Lie. Bend over backwards. Turn into someone she hardly recognized.

None of it ever, ever helped.

The strength to break away had taken forever to grow. She doubted every move she made. Comments always followed. “Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a good man?” Her grandmother. “Dating is horrible! I just want to spare you that.” Her sister. An uphill battle every step of the way. Times when she knew her family would rather he were there, not her.

And always, always doubt.

Was she doing the right thing? Maybe it was all just a product of her imagination? Did she really want this? Could she be alone forever? Did she want to grow old by herself?

She shut the drawer, closing the memories within it once again. Someday maybe she’d be strong enough to clean it out. For now, the past could stay there. Her strength would eventually return.

For now she’d be thankful for the ability to just walk away.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Spotlight on Paranormal Romance author, Meradeth Houston

Today we are spending a little extra time getting to know Lightning Quick Reads author, Meradeth Houston.

First let’s find out what Meradeth has to say about herself:

I’m not terribly fond of talking about myself, but if you’re really curious, I’m an author and professor of anthropology in Montana. My day job deals with sequencing dead people’s DNA (and sometime’s pig DNA, for my forensics students), and at night I escape to my fictional world.

LQR: If you had to pick only one moment that spurred you to write professionally, what moment is the most defining/inciting?

Meradeth: When I was a kid, I remember loving a particular book (Many Waters by Madeline L’Engle) and being very curious about some of the characters there. I wanted to have more stories about them. And then it hit me—why couldn’t I write them myself? It was my Eureka moment, as silly as that might be, and I’ve loved writing ever since.

LQR: Does the majority of your work focus around or within a single theme?

Meradeth: In some ways the intersection of the fantastical with the mundane, real-world, is part of all of my work. I love testing that boundary and seeing how people (well, characters, but they’re real people to me) react to having the boundary tested or removed. I have no idea why I enjoy that concept so much, other than I kind of wish it would happen to me!

LQR: Tell us about your newest release.

Meradeth: My most recent release was TRAVELERS, a time-travel mystery/romance. I’ve always loved time-travel as a concept (which is probably why I love studying the past in my day-job, too), and I had a blast writing this book (though time travel has a way of getting tricky far too fast!).

LQR: What is one of your favorite authorial moments from your career so far?

Meradeth: Seeing and holding my first novel in print. That was pretty spectacular!

LQR: Share with us a five year and ten year goal for your writing career.

Meradeth: For both, I really hope to just still be writing. Some days, I don’t know if that’ll happen. But if so, I really hope I’m agented and have someone else helping me out with marketing at that point!

LQR: Do you write what you read? Watch? What are your favorite television shows and movies?

Meradeth: I do particularly like to read (and watch) what I write. A good paranormal book, with a dash of romance, is always a treat. Though I do try to catch a wide breadth of things, too!

LQR: If you had one week away from any and all responsibility what would you want to spend your time doing?

Meradeth: Probably sleep a whole lot, and go to the beach (even if that meant flying the hours it takes to get to a decent one!). Then, I’d just read, sip something cool, and watch the waves. That sounds like heaven to me!

LQR: Where can readers find you online?

Find Meradeth Houston online at: www.MeradethHouston.com

Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Love and Guarantees by Meradeth Houston

(Okay, a quick disclaimer on this story: I sat down to write something "scary" for the monthly theme, and I started thinking about things that I find terrifying, one of which is the concept of soul-mates--really, I know that sounds weird, but think about it: one person you're meant to be with, but have no guarantee you'll meet? Or be the same age? Or have anything in common with? There are so many freakish things about the concept! Don't believe me? Read this! (I adore XKCD!) Anyhow, somehow, this is what came from that line of thinking. Blame my muse, she's apparently having a bad day.)

Sometimes love is the scariest thing of all...

***

Source

We all know they are out there. That one person. Guy, girl, someone meant just for us. We’ve seen

our parents, watched them in their relationships—the kind that click and work out. Ever since the scientists figured out how to do the iris mapping and comparisons, it’s been possible to meet and find that person. It’s supposed to be beautiful. Magical, even.

I’ve heard tales of what it was like, before, before. When people didn’t know how to find their other half that made them whole. You could spend your whole life looking, staring people in the eye as you walked down the street, every single day, hoping, praying, to feel that click. You’d see it happen, sometimes, I’ve heard: friends would get lucky. The one-in-ten-billion shot that they found that person.

“That gave everyone hope,” my History teacher told us. “When the world needed it.”

“And before that?” I’d asked, ever the ridiculously curious twelve year old. My teacher had smiled, benevolent, as she twisted her wedding band on her finger.

“Before that, just how far before?”

“Before they knew there were matches? What did people do then?” I asked.

Her tight smile and quick glance out the window told me more than her words. “Before that, they didn’t think matches existed. It’s a marvel our species survived.”

A marvel we survived. Those words stuck with me. As I rode the train, rocking with the sway of the soundless magnets. Around me, cheerful couples laughed, small children cooed, and music tinkled from someone’s ear buds.

But people had to find love, back in those ages, right? Love had existed, certainly. Different from what we knew now, but in those old novels I’d found from the war-times, there had been matches. Love. Some security.

Not like now, though. Not now that anyone could be your match. Killing off your child’s match half a world away couldn’t be on any parent’s conscious. Funny how that had changed things.

My History teacher spoke as if it had been inevitable. Of course humanity had found a way to perfect Love. To end war. To direct our attentions to more productive matters. The first five matches moving to Mars had been proof of that, surely.

Surely.

And now, now we were all registered at birth. The scan was quick, painless, easier than a camera flash. The database, officially run by the UN, was guarded closer than any bank vault.

Some people were luckier than others. They learned their match at a young age. Meeting on the playground, anyone could see their connection. Getting their official readings was just a formality at twenty. A piece of paper that told them what they already knew: that they were perfect for one another.

For the rest of us, the trek to pick up this information was enough to leave me vomiting in my bathroom.

What if he lived in the middle of nowhere? Another country? What if he was older? That didn’t happen much, but every once in a while a match came up where the people had a huge disparity in ages. That could be just gross.

My best friend had patted my shoulder and handed me a glass of juice.

“You don’t have to act on it. It’s not against the law to just ignore what you find out.” Her smile didn’t sit right: we both knew that would be dumb. Her match, who had arrived two months ago, was not what either of us had expected. She’d never considered that her other half would also be female. Of course that happened, but most people went in to get their papers knowing that ahead of time.

She’d decided not to do anything. It wasn’t what she wanted. Or so she’d thought.

But her match, a breathtakingly beautiful woman from New Seattle showed up on our doorstep two days after the paperwork had been released to my roommate.

I’d watched first hand as the two of them met. Scientists had it down to the exact chemicals, the chain of pheromones and reactions in the brain that explained what happened. They’d had plenty of people willing to be tested, of course. But it had still whispered of magic to me.

So, now, here I stood, waiting to get my papers. The train whispered to a stop and I stepped off, careful to avoid the crowds of people. Adds for everything from trips to the moon (“relive that honeymoon…on the moon!”), to the latest in nip-tucks (“keep them remembering the face they fell in love with at first sight”) plastered the walls. I ducked my head and rode the escalator up to the street.

A wall kept people away from the traffic—for safety’s sake. The barriers had been a recent addition, a way to ensure no one lost their match. The thought was inconceivable to those who had them.

As I approached the tall building that housed the Matching Office, a flutter of excitement tickled inside. I’d know. In just a little while, I’d know who my other person was. In a couple of hours, I could be even speaking with them.

It both pressed on my shoulders and lightened my step, making the trip inside and up to the twelfth floor an odd, hunched affair. The young woman in the elevator gave me a sympathetic look and a small smile as she exited.

The reception area was all white. Everything. Other than a few shadows, it seemed the whole place had been cleared of any color. While I think the designer had been going for official and scientific, it came off as frightening, and made me hope that I had avoided any puddles on the sidewalk.

The kiosk accepted my identification cards and told me to take a seat.

A bank of white, molded plastic chairs didn’t look inviting. My foot tapped a nervous rhythm as I settled onto the very edge of the seat.

Two minutes later, an honest-to-goodness real person came out to collect me. She was short, plump, and smiled too wide. It had been ages since I’d been greeted by anyone other than an automaton in an office, with the exception of my doctor’s office when theirs had come down with a virus.

Whatever the woman said while escorting me toward a meeting room at the back of the building was lost on me. She could have told me I’d been selected to colonize Neptune and I would have just nodded and smiled.

In just a few hours, I could be sharing parts of myself I never opened up about. About how much I had hated school. About how jealous I was of my roommate. About what I wanted to accomplish with my new art exhibit. And they might actually understand that. The thought made my plastered-on grin turn real.

The small room we entered held a desk, a chair, and a small screen and data center off to one side.

“Take a seat, my dear, and let me get things set up.” The woman’s voice finally penetrated my thoughts.

This seat, at least, was cushioned and comfortable as I settled into it.

The woman approached me with the scanner—a rod and tiny LED at the tip, that she held in front of my face. I obliged and held my eyes wide. Two flashes and the woman grinned at me.

“Well, you’re who you say are, Kati!” She said after tapping on the screen.

“Has anyone ever not been?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me, laughing a little. “Well, yes, sometimes.  People get nervous. And then there are those who don’t want to meet their match.” She shrugged.

Don’t want to meet them? The press of nerves from the morning made that not seem unreasonable.

“Well, are you ready for this?” the woman asked, tapping away on the screen again.

Science class had told me what she was doing. Every iris had a specific pattern that had originally thought to be unique, like a fingerprint. But once millions of people started being scanned, it was soon surmised that these patterns were not random. In fact, often, there were exact matches. And when these matches met, well, something funny seemed to happen.

A funny fluke of science, my History teacher had called it. I didn’t agree.

A rude beep came from the machine a moment later and we both jumped. “Well, that’s strange. Hold up a moment, deary.” The woman patted my shoulder and bustled from the room.

The screen at the data station just read “ERROR” in large red letters. I sighed. Some computer glitch with perfect timing.

I stared out the window, watching raindrops trickle down the glass, making patterns against the backdrop of the grid of windows across the street.

The door opened and two people entered, my original helper along with a younger woman. The younger woman busied herself with typing into the screen.

I watched them, my hands gripping my knees to keep myself still. Any moment now, I’d know a name. A place. My future. I could barely keep my breath even, and my heart rate was so high my bracelet was buzzing to alert me.

Then, another beep. A sigh of relief from both women. Then they both turned to look at one another.

“Run it again.” The tone my helper used made a chill creep across my scalp.

“You do it. I’ll check from the mainframe.” The younger woman kept her eyes trained on the white carpet as she raced from the room.

Neither of them would look at me, and my throat was far too dry to try and ask a question.

Another bing from the station and my helper let out a long sigh.

The younger woman poked her head back into the room, her eyes so wide she looked like something off a cartoon I’d seen in old history books. She just shook her head, her gaze skittering to me for the first time.

Her expression made my gut sink.

“I’ve never…” my helper said, her voice shaking.

“Me either.” The door clicked shut and my helper slumped onto the edge of the desk.

“This almost never happens,” she whispered. Her eyes met mine and I saw her glossy swim of tears.

I opened and closed my mouth several times and finally looked over at the screen, where more red words slashed through my confusion.

“Match deceased.”

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Group Work by Meradeth Houston

Source

Some homework will push you over the edge.

***

Classes began three days ago. There was already homework. And not just the “read chapters 2-8” in your textbook kind. Not here. Some of the students seemed excited about this. It wasn’t as if the assignments were boring. Far from it. But it was also difficult. Tedious. And left him feeling drained.

Hah. Drained. He’d have to remember that.

Tonight’s work involved something that made him distinctly uncomfortable. His professor, the older one with nose hair that needed trimming, had squawked about “the eternal need to belong, to integrate.” So tonight, they were supposed to do just that. Find a group, and using what they’d learned over the past two lectures, figure out how best to infiltrate the group.

The girl sitting next to him, the one who took copious notes and who wouldn’t even look at him, even when he dropped a pen—on purpose—under her chair, smiled as she made a large note in her planner. That was probable what got their teacher to keep assigning things like this, decade after decade. Girls like her. Who liked this kind of thing.

Weirdo.

He hadn’t been the only one to wonder about the assignment, listening in on other students as they filtered from the classroom. Quite a few were already bemoaning the assignment. Several were attempting to figure out a way to lie and pretend they’d done the work. Not that they’d succeed. Not here.

He’d heard stories of students who’d tried to cheat. Someone said there was a plaque with their ears stapled to it somewhere in the office. Urban legend, for certain.

But now, with evening darkening the windows and every other possible task for the next two days of class completed, there was no other choice but to figure out how to best complete the assignment.

Grabbing his wallet, and ensuring he wasn’t wearing anything that might give him away, he made his way out of the dormitories. Campus was mostly dark between the ivy-coated buildings (“Oh, it’s so nice! Very collegiate,” his mother had said when they’d toured the campus when he’d been dropped off last week. His dad had given him a half-hearted shrug. It was his fault he was here, anyhow.). The gates opened to the street, and after some time exploring the internet, he’d found several coffee shops nearby.

Chances were that most of those had already been staked out by his classmates.

Staked out. Hah. Another one to remember.

He figured he’d head a little further away. Google said it would take fifteen minutes to get there, but after two wrong turns, it took more like a half hour.

The restaurant/bar had advertised live music tonight, with the promise of no cover and a good time. Hopefully enough people would be present to try out his skills. That was all he had to do, right? Try? Or would his grade be based on how well he managed to Infiltrate? Why hadn’t he thought to ask that before?

The front of the little place lit up the sidewalk and posters plastered the glass. The thrum of music sounded from inside. Outside, enough smokers congregated to ensure there would be people inside.

His lungs constricted in the cloud outside the door and he decided against his first thought to try and work them. Nope, no smokers. He couldn’t imagine asking for a cigarette anyhow—it would be such a poser move.

Okay, so this whole exercise was about being a poser. But still. It was different.

Inside, he looked around, sizing up the sea of faces, the band on the small stage on the back left. They were belting out something that at least had a decent beat. The woman singing, well, he’d heard worse.

Infiltrate. Infiltrate. How was he supposed to do this again? The lectures over the past few days had covered finding common ground with someone. Starting a basic conversation.

It had all seemed so simple in principle. Now the detailes felt hazy and the purpose even more ridiculous.

Then his stomach rumbled. A hand over it, almost by instinct. No, not ridiculous. Necessary.

Okay, so, pick a group. He went off to one side and when a perky waitress stopped by his table, he ordered a coke. No way could he do this with alcohol in his system. Not even with the fake ID in his pocket—standard issue from school.

A large group of people around his own age laughed and caroused near the dance floor, too loud and too drunk to be appealing. A couple of tables over, two girls were deep in conversation. Some more people played pool near the door.

And the dance floor itself was occupied by a group weaving to the music.

No one sat alone. If that wasn’t motivation, he didn’t know what was. Once his drink arrived, he drank too much, almost choked on his ice, and felt his ears grow warm.

Maybe he should just go back to him room. Spare himself this embarrassment and take the failed grade. There had to be other ways to do this.

The table next to him, empty, attracted the next group to come through the door. Several girls, two guys. They all knew each other, clearly, which wouldn’t make this easier.

Or would it?

From watching them out of the corner of his eye, it was obvious there were two couples and one third wheel in the group. She was cheerfully chatting with the two couples, the five of them friends. And as they drew nearer, her eyes flickered to him.

And he smiled. The careful, shy smile that didn’t feel fake. The kind that was safe, not weird.

Or so he hoped.

And the girl, she smiled back. Ducking her head a moment, like she couldn’t believe she’d done that.

How to capitalize on that?

Either by luck, or orchestration he hadn’t witnessed, the girl ended up seated near him. She continued her chatter with the group, but even though he bobbed his head to the beat and attempted to look interested in the music, he could see her continue to glance his way.

It took fifteen minutes of this, sweat gathering along the base of his neck, before she walked by, on her way back from the bar.

And then it was so simple.

Not planned, just instinct.

Her purse strap caught on his chair. An “accident” obviously.

And he laughed and freed it. Meeting her eyes, his stomach rumbled, too low to be heard over the music.

“Liking the music?” he asked.

“I love this band!” she gushed. “I come see them here every time they play.”

And with that, it was easy. A few small lies about how much he enjoyed the music. A small compliment on her dress (to be fair, she did look good in it). And a few minutes later, he’d been invited to join their table.

Introductions all around. And he felt the rising wave of elation. He’d done it! Figured out the whole Infiltration thing. Maybe he’d actually pass that impossible class. Impress his dad. Graduate.

The girl, she watched him, laughed with him, and they joked and he couldn’t help wondering if anyone who looked over thought three couples sat at the table.

The singer at the microphone announced a “slow one” to ease them off for the evening. The other couples disappeared onto the dance floor. And the room felt too warm, like the spotlight had eased onto him without his noticing.

He glanced at the girl, while she avoided his gaze. What was the protocol in this sort of situation? They hadn’t gotten this far in lecture.

“Would you like to,” he motioned toward the dancers.

She seemed to size him up for a long moment. Her blue eyes scanned him as surely as an X-ray. But then she smiled. Nodded. Let him take her hand and lead her into the sea of humans slowly circling.

And words failed him. It was all he could manage to keep his hands on her hips, the slow swaying circle, in time to the earthy tones the singer crooned. Would his teacher know if he failed at this step? Would it matter?

He didn’t really care. Because right now, he really did want to know more about her. Curiosity about her life, her school, her lips. Was that the whole point of this assignment?

If it were, that was impressive on the part of the professor.

And, really, he didn’t care. It was enough to enjoy the dance. And when the song finally came to a close, he was almost surprised to see the look on her face, peering up at him.

“Do you think we both get to count this toward our grade?” she asked, a small smirk giving her petite features an impish look.

The implication of what she said took a moment to process, like the cogs and wheels in his brain couldn’t turn fast enough to work out what she meant. And then the gears caught and his mouth dropped open.

“You’re in…” he trailed off, unable to finish that thought. Heat, burning and almost painful, seared up his face and concentrated in his ears.

She leaned in, conspiratorially. “There weren’t any rules against working as a team. And I think we managed pretty well together.”

He let her lead him back to their table, where the others laughed and joked and said their goodbyes. Exchanged numbers to hang out again. And as they stepped out into the night, the fresh air breathing life into him, she grabbed his hand.

“Come on. We’ll work out the details on the walk back to the dorms.”

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

September Theme: Get Schooled

It's that time of year again, at least in most parts, where students are back to the daily grind of classes and homework. For those of us who teach, this means back to classrooms, paperwork, and grading :) While the date for when students start the new year has crept more and more into August, September 1st used to traditionally mark the start of the new term (as well as the day the Hogwarts Express left 9&3/4's). So, for this month, the awesome authors on LQR will be sharing stories about getting schooled.

As I watch the new crop of students this year, I can't help but think back to those days when my life revolved around school (okay, it's still does, but not as a student anymore). It's an interesting time to spend your day in a classroom with your peers, learning (or attempting to), as well as all the social aspects that go along with it and often teach more lessons than a teacher ever could hope to (hello first romances, friendships, and drama galore!). So, stay tuned this month, there's sure to be some amazing reading!

The Rules of Time Travel by Meradeth Houston

Time travel has consequences...especially for love.

Okay, so it's a rare thing when my monthly post here on Lightening Quick Reads lines up exactly with my release day for my next novel, TRAVELERS. So I'm sharing a little excerpt today, of summertime on the beach, despite the fact that my cute little puppy is curled up next to me :)

***

With three books open and spread out around me, a sheet full of notes, and my phone locked in my bathroom to keep myself focused, I vowed to get my homework done. As I struggled to work through another math problem, my eyes drifted to the photo framed on my desk. The one I couldn’t quite bring myself to remove, even if seeing it made my throat tighten.

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and dotted my paper with little puckered wet drops. In the picture, Henry, Joan, and I were laughing, our heads tipped back, wrapped in a three-person hug in the brilliant sunshine. Henry’s amazing body—the product of the swim team—stood out in the photo like something off the cover of one of the magazines they hid at the back of our local bookstore, the kind Joan and I used to sneak back and dare each other to peek at.

Friends since birth, the twins and I did everything together. It only seemed natural that Henry and I would end up together, and Joan hung out with us more often than not—at least when she wasn’t busy with some extracurricular activity or her obsession with environmental activism.

When Henry came over to help my study, my parents strangely didn’t have problem with the two of us spending many late nights working together. And kissing. Lots of kissing. I liked to think my parents never caught on to how he helped me study that.

While I would have given up every painting I’d ever completed for the chance to kiss Henry again, that wasn’t what I missed the most. I missed sitting on my bed with him—talking, laughing, and watching movies. We used to catch old horror flicks, the kind that were so awful they were funny. We’d watch them with the sound off and supply the voices and storyline ourselves. I would laugh so hard I’d almost pee at the way Henry made himself sound like a sour old guy. Then we’d curl up, tangle our arms and legs, and let the world beyond my room just disappear. I’d fallen asleep like that countless times, so comfortable and so confident in how we felt about each other. In those moments, nothing else mattered.

I missed that most. Every time I thought about him, my heart ached.

As I studied his unflinching gaze, his eyes captivated me. I saw now what I couldn’t see then—the sadness creeping in. The knowledge that he’d never spend another afternoon with us at the beach. Even as a Traveler, especially as a Traveler, his clock ticked down so fast. Too fast.

I often thought about trying to Travel back to a time before his death to talk and visit with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d said my goodbyes, and for now, I needed to keep moving forward.

Even if I sometimes wondered how I could possibly manage life without him.

The test answers rested under my notebook, and I pulled them out. Maybe things would turn around now. If Joan managed to get back to semi-normal, maybe we could help each other. Maybe I could keep myself together.

But for now, I kissed my fingertip and pressed it to Henry’s face in the photo. I whispered a soft “love you” and tried to return to my homework.

Sienna Crenshaw knows the rules: 1) no time traveling beyond your natural lifetime, 2) no screwing with death, and 3) no changing the past. Ever. Sienna doesn’t love being stuck in the present, but she’s not the type to to break the rules. That is, she wasn’t the type until her best friend broke every one of those rules to keep Henry, her twin brother and Sienna’s ex-boyfriend, alive.

Suddenly, Sienna is caught in an unfamiliar reality. The upside? Henry is still alive. The downside? Sienna’s old life, including the people in it, has been erased. Now, Sienna and Henry must untangle the giant knot in time, or her parents and all the rest of the Travelers, will be lost forever. One problem: the only way to be successful is for Henry to die... (Goodreads)

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!