Wander and Roam (Wander #1)

  formatted by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

  Other Books by Anna Kyss

  PARANORMAL ROMANCE

  Wings of Shadow (The Underground Trilogy, Book 1)

  Wings of Memory (The Underground Trilogy, Book 2)

  DYSTOPIA

  Cerulean

  WHEN MY cell phone rings, I ignore it and pull the covers over my head. If Robbie were still around, I would jump to answer my phone. Now, I prefer to burrow under my comforter and block everyone out.

  The ding of a voicemail competes against the pounding at my door. I can’t imagine who would be bothering me. My friends haven’t come around in weeks.

  “Abby, I know you’re inside,” Nicole, the residence advisor for our floor, calls. “We need to talk.”

  Great, what does she want? It can’t be good news.

  I stumble out of bed and open the door. Nicole scrutinizes me from head to toe. Her gaze lingers on my mussed hair and wrinkled pajamas before shifting to the growing pile of soiled clothes on the floor.

  “How long has it been since you left your room?” she asks.

  I sigh. “Why does it matter?”

  “You haven’t even collected your mail.” She deposits a pile of letters and pamphlets into my hands. After I set them down, she hands me an official-looking envelope. “This one must be opened immediately. Dean’s orders.”

  The Dean. Oh no. I thought if I hid away up here, I could escape everyone’s notice, but that theory didn’t work. I slowly tear open the envelope.

  Notice of Academic Dismissal. The large, bolded words are impossible to ignore. I quickly scan the letter. Poor attendance. Missing assignments in all classes. Unexcused absences during mid-term testing. Low grade point average.

  I can’t think of grades and assignments when Robbie’s gone. Most days, I don’t want to function without him.

  The final line catches my attention. Must vacate premises within the month. “Nicole, what does this mean?”

  She presses her lips together before glancing around my messy room. “You’ve been kicked out.”

  I breathe in once, twice, three times, before asking, “Isn’t there any kind of appeal? I can’t move home.”

  Nicole holds out her hands, exasperated. “If you had responded to the first three letters that were sent, you could have appealed. It’s too late, Abby.”

  Too late. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard those two words. They, like nearly everything else, remind me of Robbie.

  She heads out the door. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Good luck finding new housing.”

  I lock the door and crumple to the floor. How am I possibly going to explain this to my parents? My father’s already been hounding me for weeks. When I check the missed call, it lists Home. Reluctantly, I listen to the message.

  “Abigail, it’s your father. Since you never seem to pick up your phone anymore, I’ll have to communicate my concerns via voicemail. I’m still waiting for you to forward your midterm grades to me. I can’t emphasize the importance of keeping your GPA as high as possible this year. Graduate schools consider all four years and if you slip up, well… we’ve had this conversation before. Call your mother. She misses hearing your voice. I hope this lack of communication is due to diligent studying, rather than stewing about that boy.”

  That boy. I delete the rest of his message and throw down my phone. How could he possibly refer to Robbie as “that boy?” After everything I’ve been through.

  My tidy desk stands out against the backdrop of dirty laundry, old food, and trash. Its wooden surface contains only four things: notebook paper, a supply of pens, and two neat stacks of purple envelopes.

  I settle at the desk, take out a fresh piece of paper, and place my pen to the page.

  Dear Robbie, I need you more than ever.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I pour out my agitation, worries, and fears on the page. With each new sentence, my body calms. When I’ve leaked every last drop of emotion onto the paper, I seal it into one of the purple envelopes. I kiss the envelope and place it atop the stack of other sealed ones. Even if I never send them, the orderly purple pile brings me comfort.

  I can’t return home. I would never survive the lectures and the shaming. I’m barely enduring already.

  I slide back into bed but send the pile of mail soaring across my comforter. A pamphlet lands near my pillow, and the letters catch my eye. WWOOF.

  Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. The pamphlet describes how the organization is recruiting volunteers for small, organic farms around the world. Lodging and meals are complimentary. More importantly, they have immediate openings.

  Perfect.

  After doing some research online, I settle on the most remote farm I can find. Australia. I have a passport, so that’s not an issue. When I check my spending account balance, it has barely moved this semester, not surprising since I never go out. One of the benefits of self-isolation, I suppose. I have enough money for a round-trip ticket and a little extra for spending expenses.

  Maybe flying halfway round the world is exactly what I need. I can isolate to my heart’s desire, and no one will ask me about my past. If I run far enough, maybe I can outdistance the things that haunt me.

  AS I stand at the motorboat’s bow, briny water covers me in a light mist. Salty droplets crystallize on my nose and cheeks in the hot summer sun. Even my denim shorts and sunshine yellow tank don’t take away the incongruity of summer in December. I should be bundled up in sweaters, a scarf, and mittens, rather than letting my body soak in the delicious warmth. December is the time to gather with family, build snowmen with my herd of nieces and nephews, cozy under a blanket for a movie with…

  Which is exactly why I’m here and not back home in Ohio; too many memories. I can’t bear to watch my family laugh and love when my happiness is gone. December is the month of memories, and all I want is to escape the destruction of mine.

  The blurred shore comes into focus, and I study each detail. A single trail leads from the dock up the wooded hillside. Lush vegetation, rather than houses or buildings, covers the land, which is exactly how I want it. Isolation sounds lovely.

  Then I spot a guy resting upon the dock. His bronzed skin stands out from the pale winter flesh I just left behind.

  Looking at the muscles swelling beneath that golden skin, I try to guess his age. He appears more mature than the boys in my dorm do, but there’s something youthful about him, too. Maybe it’s the way he sits along the edge of the dock, a smile on his face and his feet in the water.

  His bare feet make little ripples as they splash around in the bay. His rolled-up jeans dip daringly close to the water but remain dry. He raises one foot out of the water, points it in my direction, and waves.

  I lift my gaze past his jeans, past his bare chest, to his face. His smile widens and he waves again, using his hand this time. I slide to the bottom of the boat then slump against the side so it hides my entire body. I cannot believe he caught me staring—no, ogling, him.

  What’s even harder to believe is that I was looking, and I actually enjoyed what I saw. The guilt serves as a cool pail of water dumped over my flaming cheeks. It damps the fires of embarrassment.

  More waves threaten to come unless I find my notebook. Frantically, I search my backpack for it. My trusty pen is woven in the metal looping. I place it against the fresh page and sigh as the words pour out:

  I never imagined I would be here, halfway across the world, without you. It doesn’t feel fair I have the freedom to explore, while you are…

  Why couldn’t we travel through Australia hand-in-hand? Of course, if we could be together, I wouldn’t be here to begin with. Funny thing I’m learning, though.
No matter how far you run, you can’t outdistance your problems.

  I miss you, Robbie.

  Abby

  I carefully tear out my letter before folding it and placing it into a small purple envelope. As the envelope joins the others, my heart slows, my muscles calm, and my mind relaxes. Finally in control, I slip on my backpack and stand up, only to find myself staring in the eyes of Mr. Bronze.

  “You must be the new volunteer.” He doesn’t speak with any of the exotic Australian dialects I was expecting.

  “You’re American?” I carefully make my way off the boat and onto the wooden dock.

  A dimple appears as he smiles. “Most people call me Sage, but I’ll go by ‘American’ if you want.”

  I peg him as a Midwesterner, just like me. “I’m Abby.”

  Sage lifts my big suitcase out of the water taxi. “Do you have all your things?”

  “It’s just the suitcase and backpack.”

  He rests the suitcase on the grass then returns to the water taxi. “Susan wanted me to thank you for giving our new volunteer a ride. We’ll see you next Tuesday?”

  The driver nods before revving away.

  Tiny waves lap along the shore. After finding a sunny spot, I plop to the ground and stare out over the water. While this isn’t an ocean, the bay is one of the largest bodies of water I’ve ever seen. Well, except for Lake Erie, but the grossness factor of that pollution-ridden lake rules it out.

  Sage sits next to me on the grass. “How did you find your way to such a remote Australian farm?”

  His question reminds me why I started avoiding my friends and teachers at the university. People ask too many darn questions.

  My silence doesn’t stop him. He asks, “Are you exploring, growing, or running?”

  I stare at him. How has he figured me out so quickly?

  “Interesting, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a runner. The big question is what are you running from?” His eyes—brown, speckled with gold—meet mine.

  “I don’t talk about my past.” I need to send our talk in a different direction quickly. I haven’t had a real conversation in so long, I’m rusty and out of practice. After a long pause, I decide to ask about the one thing we probably have in common, volunteering on this farm. “How did you end up WWOOFing?”

  “I’m an explorer and a grower. The timing seemed right to live in a different country, learn how to farm, and practice.”

  “Practice?” Practice what? My mind flutters from sports activities to musical instruments, but none seems to fit.

  “I could talk for hours about practicing.” Sage shakes his longish curls, also brown streaked with gold. “I don’t want to bore you on your first day, though.”

  “You mentioned Susan. How do you like working at her farm?” I have no idea what to expect while farming. Despite the number of farms in the Midwest, most of us, me included, live in the suburbs.

  “I arrived two weeks ago. And I love every moment of farming.”

  “So are you hoping to leave a better-rounded, worldlier person? Or will this just look good on some job application or graduate school resume?” I can’t believe how long we’ve been talking. This may be the longest conversation I’ve had in the past six months.

  Sage takes a turn at the silent game. He stares down at the ground for a long moment before muttering, “I don’t want to talk about my future.”

  I’m all too familiar with his reaction. We could make a good team. Me running from my past and him avoiding his future.

  “Let’s make a deal. I promise to not ask about your past, if you don’t talk about my future.”

  “What’s left?” I imagine an entire month of no conversations. While I’m not super outgoing, zero talking might be a bit extreme.

  “The ‘now.’ We live in the ‘now.’” He watches me until I nod my approval.

  Raising my water bottle, I toast, “To the present.”

  “To the present,” he toasts back with a water bottle of his own.

  “OH GOOD, you arrived safely.” The petite woman wears the biggest sunhat I have ever seen. Her black hair is twisted into two thick braids hanging past her waistline. “I’m Susan, your host.”

  “Abby.” I hold out my hand. When she turns to greet me, I spot the baby tied to her back.

  “And this cute little guy is Zachary.” Sage tickles one of the baby’s bare feet, and Zachary giggles in response.

  The land flattens into a grassy plateau with trails leading up, down, and to the sides. In the distance, I spot a small house. Susan’s home, probably. The wild vegetation tames into cultivated garden beds to my far right.

  “You must be exhausted after your trip. I’ll show you to your room.” Susan leads me to the uppermost trail. “You brought a suitcase?”

  I grab its handle. The wheels are battered from the mile-long, rock-strewn trail. “Yeah, I didn’t pay close enough attention to that part of your email.”

  “Thankfully, I sent Sage down to collect you.” Susan eyes the large suitcase.

  ‘Thankfully’ was the right word. Sage and I had taken turns pulling my monster of a bag up the rugged trail. As an Ohio girl, I’m used to the carefully sculpted and sometimes even paved trails forming the wilds of the suburbs, the metro parks. One Australian hike demonstrated just how manufactured nature was back home.

  I glance down the steep slope leading back to the dock. The thick tree cover nearly blocks the view of the bay, with only brief glances of the blue water visible between the branches. Still exhausted from that climb, I’m not sure if I’m up for another.

  “Ready?” Susan asks. “I can’t wait to show off where you’ll sleep.”

  “Sounds good.” I can’t wait to finally have some privacy after my nearly twenty-four hour journey.

  “There’s even a working bathroom up here. It took me the longest time to figure out how to manage that, but my contractor suggested connecting to our well system for water and installing a composting toilet.” She smiles and adds. “It’s all green.”

  From her look of pride, that must be a fact that many organic farm volunteers care about. I’m here for a completely different reason. Escape.

  For the next few minutes, we hike in silence. I can’t tug my giant suitcase, go uphill, and talk at the same time. Every few feet, I lower my bag to the ground and catch my breath. Finally, the trail levels off, and we’re able to make quicker progress.

  She steps onto an even smaller footpath. The narrow path winds its way through exotic-looking shrubs and unusual flowers. “The guest cottage sits right off this trail.”

  “Cottage” is definitely a euphemism. A wooden platform holds an enormous, round, tent-like structure. The wooden door stands out against the canvas material covering the sides. Small details, like the potted flowers upon the wooden deck, make it homey.

  “I’m going to be living in a tent?” I slowly walk up the steps to the deck.

  Susan laughs, and little Zachary mimics her peals. “Well, technically, it’s a yurt.”

  How is that different from a tent? I bite back my retort, though, not wanting to be rude.

  She opens the door. “No need for a key. One of the benefits of living in nowhere.”

  Sunlight streams through the plastic windows and the skylight, turning the hardwood floor golden. Two wooden futons sit on opposite sides of the room. Their vibrant orange slipcovers accentuate the yurt’s golden theme. Neatly folded sheets and blankets rest on the corner of one, while the other’s bedding is haphazardly thrown in a bunch.

  “Men.” Susan sighs. “I asked Sage to make the guest yurt presentable.”

  “Sage?” She couldn’t possibly mean…

  “Both volunteers share the guest cottage. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “Um…” Not a word. I would have remembered that. I made a terrible assumption, though, thinking free accommodations equaled private accommodations.

  “No worries.” She waves her hand in the messy futon’s direction. “Sage
is as easy-going as can be. He’ll make a great bunkmate.”

  His personality hasn’t even crossed my mind. My worries center on how one look at Sage already triggered a letter-writing episode. If a short glance drives me to grab my pen, I can’t imagine what cohabitating will do. Probably lead to the world’s most epic writer’s cramp.

  My purple envelopes aren’t limitless, after all.

  Twenty minutes later, a knock sounds at the yurt door, followed by Sage’s voice. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” I reach for the doorknob just as Sage peeks his head through. For a moment, we’re only a hand’s reach from one another. I step back so quickly, I nearly trip over my bag.

  He props the door open with his body and holds up a bag of food. “I brought lunch. Thought you might be hungry after your long trip.”

  “Thanks.” I glance around the yurt, but the room is too small to hold a table.

  He points in the opposite direction of the bay. “I wouldn’t mind sharing my super-secret picnic spot with you.”

  I’m so afraid of spending time with him—no, with anybody. Growing close to others only leads to pain in the long run.

  “If you’re too tired, I can take a rain check.” He starts to separate the food.

  Isolation has its downfalls, though. It led to being booted from school after I abandoned my classes. It led to my flight across the world so I could avoid the questions and concern of friends and family. Even Down Under, I’m unable to truly escape.

  “Wait.” I wave away the food. “Being outside sounds nice after all those hours on the plane.”

  Sage smiles. If he looked cute when he was serious, he’s even more adorable when he grins. “You won’t regret this,” he says.

  I already do.

  Sage backtracks down the hill then leads us along a winding path until we reach the orchards. We pass through rows of bushes, dotted with still-green blueberries and plump, pink raspberries. At the far end, a grove of trees is planted in neat, equidistant rows.