Chasing Crazy

by Kelly Siskind

Genres: Coming of Age; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

"With an endearingly awkward female protagonist, a swoon-worthy male love interest, and Siskind's superb storytelling, this is one of the best New Adult contemporary romances I've read to date." -- USA Today bestselling author K.A. Tucker Dear Mom & Dad, I dropped out of school. I'm going backpacking. Sorry. Love you both. At nineteen, Nina has endured two lifetimes' worth of humiliation. Tired of waiting for it to get better, she decides to get going-across the globe to New Zealand. There she soon faces what she most fears: a super sexy guy ready to be Nina's next mistake. Once Sam's life was all about having fun. That was before the accident. Now his friends have bailed and his world is broken. But when a gorgeous girl on his flight looks at him with passion instead of pity, Sam feels his old self coming back to life. Now traveling together, Nina and Sam know this isn't just a fling. They're falling fast, hard, and deep. More than anything, Sam wants Nina to forget her fears. But to help her do that he must reveal his own painful secret-and risk Nina never seeing him the same way again.

Release date: January 12, 2016

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 322

Sample

One

After much deliberation, I’ve determined there are three official have-to-pee stages.

Stage one: Acknowledgment in the brain that liquid has been consumed and hours have passed since the bladder was relieved, but the matter isn’t urgent.

Stage one happens at the terminal when I break my cardinal flying rule: Always pee before boarding. Otherwise, I’ll have to use that tiny bathroom, banging into the walls when turbulence hits while trying not to sit on the toilet seat barely protected by the paper cover. Then there’s the awful sucking sound.

I always pee before boarding.

Unless, of course, I’m distracted by the ridiculously hot guy sitting opposite me at the boarding gate, his long legs stretched in front of him owning those dark jeans. He lounges on his faux-leather chair as he thumbs his iPhone, oblivious to the surrounding chaos. Two seats to my left some kid whines incessantly, distracting me from Hot Guy’s excessive hotness.

The young boy slams his back into his seat. “But, mu-uum, you said I could use the DS after Lisa. She’s had it for, like, ten minutes. This is so not fair.”

His mom’s exasperated voice drifts over, and I can’t help but smile. I’ve been on enough trips with my five younger siblings to know that tone all too well. Exasperated Mom is almost as dangerous as I-had-a-bad-sleep Mom, but not quite as rough as I-burned-dinner-again Mom.

Mom. Tinged with sudden guilt, I pull my phone from my purse. Still no messages. When she sees the note I left, things could go one of two ways: effusive gushing over my independence and bold decision, or they could go south fast. I worry my lip and grip my phone, expecting the thing to come to life, filling the terminal with high-pitched crying and screaming. Maybe I should have written something longer, more poignant. Something Mom and Dad could really get behind. Instead, I wrote:

I dropped out of U of T. I’m going backpacking. When I get wherever I decide to go, I’ll message you. Sorry. Don’t forget to pick Mercedes up from ballet. There are a couple of casseroles in the freezer.

Love you both.

P

My thumbs hover above my phone. Should I tell Mom I’m going to the other side of the world? To New Zealand? If she freaks out, I’ll likely trudge home and go back to university—the promising fresh start that pulled a Titanic first thing this morning. It took all of one minute for people to realize who I was and what I did in high school. The culprit? None other than Becca, formerly known as my best (and only) friend, who thought the share would push her up the social ladder. Like the mother of airborne viruses, my Public Speaking Incident replayed in triplicate on every cell across campus.

That’s when I snapped.

Home. Pack. Note. Leave.

When I arrived at the airport an hour ago, still high from my decision to take off, the shiny green letters spelling out New Zealand on the departure board called to me. They shone like a beacon. A lifeline. A place as far as possible from Toronto and my past. Silently thanking Gran for the generous gift she left me in her will, I bought a ticket.

Mom can wait until I land.

I stuff my phone back into my purse and rearrange the bags on either side of me, fortifying my barrier against any potential friendly people thinking they should take a seat. My gaze returns to Hot Guy.

He’s busy texting while I’m busy drooling (and, unfortunately, not peeing), as I soak in the brown curls that brush his forehead and skim his ears and a jaw Channing Tatum would covet. His thin white T-shirt settles on what appears to be a well-defined chest. Well de-fined. Hot Guy probably works out. I bet he goes to the gym and lifts weights and works out in his tank top or—oh…maybe topless, sweat dripping down the length of his neck and over his muscles.

I pluck the water from my bag and take a generous gulp.

Hot Guy laughs at his phone and looks up to catch me gawking. He smiles suggestively, curling his lip like he knows exactly what I’m picturing. My cheeks flame. With my pale skin, they’re likely the same shade of scarlet as the overused carpet I’m now studying with the intensity of a hawk. I chug more water.

Several heartbeats later, I chance a second glance. Deep brown eyes are trained on me. I contemplate diving under my seat and praying Hot Guy goes away, but that would draw attention to me. The only thing worse than being stared at by Hot Guy is being stared at by the hundreds of people milling around the terminal.

At nineteen, I’ve endured two lifetimes’ worth of humiliation.

The pointing. The laughing. The endless jokes.

Not happening.

I finish my water and hunch into my seat, sinking as low as possible without landing on the floor. I stick my book in front of my nose. But I keep sneaking glances. This is how it’s been lately. Like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy hitting puberty. I picture guys naked or in various states of undress—how they’d taste, how they’d feel, and how they’d touch me. (Apparently I’m a gay thirteen-year-old boy with the bow-chicka wow-wow porno instrumental as the soundtrack to my life.) I play it safe, though, and stick to unattainable guys. Too risky to be seen with that girl who did that thing; popular guys avoid me. So I fantasize. No danger. No unwanted incidents. In my mind I’m always fearless, never making a fool of myself. I rule my fantasies like a sex goddess.

In real life, not so much.

Unfortunately, these daydreams inhibit normal brain function. So when a static-filled voice announces the final boarding call for flight 744 to New Zealand, I stop picturing Hot Guy soaping himself in the shower, and I hurry to the gate instead of the bathroom.

*  *  *

Stage two of the have-to-pee stages: A gentle pressure on the abdomen indicates the bladder is full. With a few key position shifts, the feeling subsides.

Stage two occurs about half an hour into the flight, in the narrow seat where I can’t build a barrier against the prying neighbor sandwiched to my right. Even though I’m angled toward the window with my book firmly in my face, the nice lady beside me is not deterred. “Sure will be a long flight,” she says, a slight hum in her voice. “I haven’t seen my daughter in, well, a long while. A long, long while. And you, dear? Off to visit family?”

I glance over to make sure she’s talking to me and not the large, sweaty guy in the aisle seat. A hopeful face beams back, eyes crinkled behind her reading glasses. “No,” I mumble and smile shyly.

“Vacation then?” she pushes.

I fight the urge to turn away and stick in my earbuds. That’s what the old me would do. Too terrified to say or do the wrong thing and effectively embarrass myself in the myriad of ways it seems possible, I’ve lived the life of a self-proclaimed hermit. Not any more. I’m heading to New Zealand. This girl is fearless. This girl talks to the way-too-nice lady on the plane.

Empowered, I turn and say, “I’m going backpacking.”

Three whole words of fearless.

The nice lady lifts her reading glasses and sets them atop her gray wooly curls. The lines in her dark skin sink deeper as she smiles knowingly. “Going to find yourself, are you?”

My harsh laugh blurts out. “Yeah, no. More like reinvent.” I reach above me to stop the nozzle from blasting recycled air in my face, but the thing is broken. No matter which way I twist it, a thick stream hits my cheek. My personal TV is defunct, too, and my seat won’t recline. If I could handle a confrontation, this girl would be getting a free meal.

Big, huge, fat if.

The nice lady bundles her hands on her lap and tilts her shoulders toward me. “Now, I may be overstepping, but my granddaughter, my Jasmine, she’s about your age. And let me tell you, Jasmine had it rough in high school. Did she ever.” The lady shakes her head with a tsk, tsk, tsk. “But I will share with you the words of the great Martin Luther King, Jr. The words I’d repeat to my Jasmine: ‘Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle. And so we must straighten our backs and work for our freedom. A man can’t ride you unless your back is bent.’” The lady squeezes my shoulder affectionately. She repositions the reading glasses on her head, tucks away her in-flight magazine, and closes her eyes.

When I’m able to stop picturing Hot Guy from the terminal riding me, I return to my perch at the window, the endless landscape of blue on blue stretching to infinity. The air above blows flyaway hairs across my face. Sighing, I brush them away.

As nice as the sentiment is, Dr. King didn’t have the pleasure of growing up in the age of YouTube where the world’s most mortifying moments are immortalized. Especially when a particular incident occurs your first week of high school, gets more than four million hits, and defines your existence. That, and King’s parents didn’t brand him with five ridiculous syllables. In ink. On a birth certificate. Forever.

I hunch lower in my seat, and a sharp pain stabs my bladder. I can’t believe I downed that water bottle at the gate and didn’t pee before boarding. Frickin’ Hot Guy. I lean forward and look right. The nice lady’s head jerks as she falls asleep, and the sweaty aisle guy is snoring. At the same moment, the drink trolley begins its creaky journey toward our row. I tuck my skirt under my knees and shift a few times until the pain passes. No need to make a scene crawling over bodies to get to the aisle and use the gross bathroom. Then I’d have to wait for the flight attendants to finish their leisurely stroll hawking drinks before I even make it back. For sure I can make it to our refueling in Alaska. For sure.

*  *  *

Stage three of the have-to-pee stages: Your bladder is full. It is close to bursting. The pain builds to the point where the slightest move could cause urine to leak down your leg.

Stage three began forty-five minutes ago, and it’s still an hour before we refuel. The nice lady and the sweaty guy are totally comatose, and I’m squirming in my seat, wringing my book, desperate to find any position that is maybe, slightly, possibly a little bit less painful. But, holy God, I can’t wait another second. I flip off my seat belt, stand, and shake out my skirt, all while pressing my knees together.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Why did I let it go so long? Why didn’t I get up and use the stupid bathroom at the start of the flight when stage two hit? Why do I always make the worst decisions known to mankind? With my body still clenched, I open my eyes and do my best to maneuver past the nice lady, but the effort is wasted. She jerks awake, and the sweaty guy on the end jams his knees into the seat in front of him.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I squash my body between the lady’s legs and her tray stowed in its upright position. It’s then I realize I’m still hugging my book. Now that I’m halfway out of my row, no way am I going back to put it down. The sweaty guy scowls at me as he gets up to let me pass, his thinning hair standing on end from sleeping. “Sorry. I’m so sorry,” I squeak again.

He merely grumbles.

With my first step down the aisle, I suck in a breath and pause until I’m sure I won’t pee right here, right now, in front of the entire plane. Most folks are sleeping or watching their personal TVs, which, unlike mine, are working. Back in control, I set my sights on the four metal doors at the rear of the cabin. Twenty-five rows to go. I clutch my book tighter. Quick, short steps are the key. No jarring movements.

With twelve rows left, we hit a patch of turbulence.

The plane drops minutely. Not enough to alarm anyone—any normal person, that is, who didn’t hold in their pee to the point of having a full-on freak attack. The potential scene unfolds in my mind: the fatal wrong step, urine pooling at my feet. I tense from toes to ears, one hand gripping my book, the other clamped on an aisle seat. Several seconds pass, but I get it together. This will not turn into one of those moments. This will not be another “incident.”

The red Occupied sign flips to green. Vacant.

My bladder constricts in anticipation.

Another big, sweaty guy squeezes from the door and returns to his seat at the rear of the cabin. With my eyes on the prize, I pick up the pace. My steps get longer. Quicker. I don’t break eye contact with that door. I don’t look down. If I had looked down, I might have seen the large black boot sticking out in the aisle. If I had looked down, I might have stepped over it. But I didn’t.

In one glorious move, my sandaled toe smacks into the black boot…and I tumble. Hard. Fast. Face first. The corner of the book in my hand slams into my full bladder, and my vision from earlier comes to life. Every. Horrifying. Detail. Like a pathetic five-year-old child, I wet myself. I manage to stop the Niagara Falls portion of the flow, but I pee myself nonetheless. Frickin’ perfect.

Lying with my face smashed against the rough airplane carpet, I squeeze my eyes, willing this to be a horrible nightmare, when two hands grip my shoulders. They pick me up effortlessly and place me on my feet. Mortified is not a strong enough word to describe my current state of being. My underwear is sodden, the front of my skirt is damp, and there’s a pretzel bit stuck to my eyebrow. Still, that doesn’t hold a candle to the level of horror I experience when I turn to find Hot Guy in front of my face.

His eyebrows pull together. “You okay?”

An animal sound explodes through my lips, something between a caw and a yelp, as I spin away and dash for the still-green vacant sign. I slam the door and fight with the stupid bar thingy to get it locked, then I whirl around looking for those god-awful paper toilet covers. The bathroom reeks of some sort of foul I can’t describe. The guy before unleashed a whole lot of awful in here. I dance from foot to foot, knees knocking, as I get the cover down. Underwear off, skirt up, and the stream flows before my butt hits the seat.

It keeps flowing. And flowing. And flowing.

I stretch the neck of my fitted white T-shirt and stick my nose inside while the marathon continues. I pick the pretzel bit off my eyebrow and fling it on the floor. There must be something seriously wrong with me. Here I am, trying to start fresh. New me, new life. And I can’t make it a minute without creating havoc. Maybe it’s all the pot my folks smoke. No matter how many times they’ve denied it, I bet Mom smoked boatloads while pregnant with me. Boat. Loads.

When the trickle ends, I stand and stamp my foot on the flush button then step back to avoid being sucked into the atmosphere. Although nose-diving to earth might be preferable to facing Hot Guy Who Saw Me Pee when I leave the bathroom. I could lock myself in this tin can until we land. Unfortunately, it smells like a Taco Bell meal gone wrong.

With no other option, I prepare to exit the lavatory. I remove my underwear and cram it into the trash. Barely. I dampen some paper towels and blot the front of my skirt. Luckily, the blue and purple floral pattern is busy enough to hide the wet splotch stretched across the fabric. I shove two wads of paper under my armpits to soak up my stress sweat. After shaking out my red hair and retying it into a ponytail, I wash my hands a third time. Finally, I shove the latch to Vacant and push the door.

I almost yank it shut.

Hot Guy Who Saw Me Pee is leaning against the side of a seat with his arms crossed. His are eyes locked on the bathroom door…and me. Double shoot.

He straightens and shoves his hands into his pockets. I try to hurry past him, but he steps in my way. Taller than me by a head, he dips down toward my ear. “You should watch where you’re going when you’re running inside an airplane, Ginger.”

What the…? Ginger? Is Hot Guy making fun of my hair? To my face?

This weird, hyper-ticking thing starts in my jaw as I ball my hands into fists. He’s too broad to bolt past, and the longer I stand here, the angrier I get. As if every kid who ever called me names has morphed into this one tall hot guy staring me down.

With my nails biting into my palm, my whisper-yell explodes before I can stop it. “I should watch where I’m going? Maybe you shouldn’t sprawl across the entire aisle, Mister…Man.”

Wow. I just said that. I called Hot Guy Mister Man. I can’t even get angry right.

Mister Man, Hot Guy…whatever, he looks more amused, a suggestive smile on his lips. He leans closer, his brown curls flopping on his forehead. “I was joking, all right? I’m sorry about the tripping thing. Seriously. You sure you’re okay?”

Before I can answer, a girl pokes her head around his shoulder. “Excuse me. Mind if I get by?” She nods toward the bathroom.

Hot Guy slides his arm around my waist and draws me against his chest to let the girl pass. I suck a sharp breath. Hot Guy definitely works out. The hard contours of his pecs are unmistakable through his cotton shirt, the sharp ridges of his muscles firmly against my body. His palm flattens on my lower back, and he pulls me tighter. Oh, God. My fingers itch to touch him. Every chiseled inch. If he didn’t see me wet myself, this would be way better than picturing warm suds dripping down his body. In a shower. My hands trailing between his legs.

Then I flash to the last time I was this close to a guy. Hypnosis couldn’t repress that memory deep enough. Better for me and everyone involved if I stick with fantasies. Placing my hand on his chest, I push back from Hot Guy, a little disappointed to lose the contact.

Two long fingers find my chin and lift my gaze. “Look, Ginger, I’ll let you by when you tell me you’re okay. So are you hurt, or are you cool to make it back to your seat?”

There’s a scar on his chin, long and jagged. I blink to stop staring. “First, don’t call me Ginger. And second, yes. I’m fine. No thanks to your boot. Can I go back to my seat now?” I fiddle with my skirt, sure everyone nearby knows I’m flying commando.

Hot Guy studies me a beat, then raises his hands. “Watch your step on the way back.” But he barely moves, so I’m forced to rub against him (pantyless) to get by.

Holy heck, that chest.

Two steps away, I see my book still on the floor from my fall.

The rest happens in slow motion, an instant replay of pure awful.

I bend down to grab my book, and the airplane jiggles as though it’s bouncing from cloud to cloud. The floor tilts back. I reach to grab the nearest armrest, but a man’s arm is planted there “resting.” Next best option: launch myself forward to grab the back of the man’s chair. This super-smooth move occurs as the plane rights itself. The laws of gravity kick in, and I pitch forward. I don’t do this elegantly. No points for good form. I land on my elbows, and my skirt flies up to my hips.

Yes. My skirt. The skirt that covered my pantyless behind is hitched around my waist. OhGodOhGodOhGod. I flip on my back and tug the flimsy cotton down to my knees. I do it just in time to see Hot Guy close his mouth. His eyes darken ten shades before he slips into the bathroom I recently exited, where he’ll for sure assume it was I who dropped the atomic stink bomb.

Reminder to self: Always pee before boarding an airplane.

Two

I’m one of the last to make it to the customs line. The train of bodies coiling through the man-made maze is shorter than I expected. Pleased, I step toward the entrance, but there, squatting on the ground and rifling through his backpack, is Hot Guy Who Saw My Privates. Perfect. No way am I waiting in line behind him. No frickin’ way.

I bolt toward the bathroom at the back wall. Safely inside, I drop my bags and lean my (still pantyless) butt against the counter. The gray stall doors are all ajar, the whir of a running toilet looping. I used the first bathroom after disembarking, so I tap my foot and massage my hands, my pale skin insanely dry from the airplane. Sifting through my purse, I pull out a tube of moisturizer and apply a thick layer. Then I swivel toward the mirror and retie my ponytail.

Of all my five siblings, I’m the only one with red hair. Mom used to joke that I look a lot like my uncle Tony, Dad’s auburn-haired brother (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), until I tried to dye my hair black at fourteen. It turned zombie green. Of course. The day of my class photos. Mom thought it was hilarious and made me go to school, green hair and all, to take the pictures.

Her favorite is framed in our hallway.

A sudden vision of our kitchen in flames as Mom attempts to cook sets my heart racing. I grab my phone from my purse. As soon as I power it up, I bite my lip, still unsure how my parents took my sudden departure.

Mom: Knock ’em dead, baby girl. Let us know where you are when you land. And you better message us every time you travel to a new town, or your father will turn your room into that ashram he’s always wanted, complete with nude meditation sessions. Let this be your only warning.

I snort and reply: Warning taken. I’ve landed safe and sound…in New Zealand. I’ll message when I leave Auckland. XOX

Relieved my parents took my Houdini act in stride, I gather my bags and leave the bathroom. Another plane should have landed by now, a few hundred passengers safely in the customs line between me and Hot Guy Who Saw My Privates. But luck, as usual, is not on my side. One lonely couple stands behind Hot Guy, his brown curls bobbing along to whatever’s playing on his iPod. Eager to leave the airport and tired of standing in public washrooms, I weave through the roped line and position myself behind the couple. The man and woman keep shifting their feet and checking their watches.

With only two agents staffing booths, the line crawls forward at a snail’s pace, agitating the couple further. When Hot Guy rounds the last corner, I turn and hunch behind the fumin. . .