A NineStar Press Publication

A NineStar Press Publication

Heartbeat

ISBN: 978-1-64890-580-3

© 2022 Nicholas Brown

Cover Art © 2022 Jaycee DeLorenzo

Edited by Elizabetta McKay

Published in November 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].

Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-581-0

CONTENT WARNING:

This book contains sexual content, which is fade-to-black.

Strong warnings for: the discussion of attempted suicide and suicide ideation; depression and medication for depression; therapy sessions; the depiction of drug and underage alcohol use, smoking; grieving for the death of a family member (by a POV character); trauma recovery; language; and reference to a past teen abortion.

Heartbeat

Heartbeat

Nicholas Brown

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dedication

For O.

I’ll make you up until I meet you.

Chapter One

Chapter One

Waking Up

I didn’t remember much about what had happened. I remembered how it felt, waking up. How I’d had all these wires and tubes coming out of my chest and arms and how, as I looked around the room, there was no one there. I also recalled being tied to the bed—that I remembered quite well; I dozed off shortly after noticing it. Dr. Foster stood next to me, watching as she waited for me to come to. We talked for a bit. You know how it goes, if your brain is deprived of oxygen for an x amount of time things have a tendency of getting…messy. So we went through the usual questions. I told her my name, my age, where I lived, and who my parents were—stuff like that. Then she asked if I remembered how I’d gotten there.

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t know, which I didn’t, but rather because I knew she’d tell me eventually, which she did. We’d both done this before, so I knew she must’ve had a good reason for not smiling like she usually did whenever we found ourselves in this particular situation. It was then that she told me Noah was the one who’d found me. It was also then that I began feeling like complete and utter shit and started sweating profusely.

Who lets their kid brother witness something like that?

I knew I didn’t. I fucking wouldn’t. He was supposed to be out. There was a party or a birthday or whatever it was that made him all but beg our dad to let him spend the night at Joe’s. He was supposed to be out.

Dr. Foster handed me her scarf, which I readily took, even though I had no idea what she was trying to do. It was pretty—black and blood-red with this sort of English pattern printed on it. She untied my left hand and touched her face, as if showing me something. I mimicked her. Turned out I wasn’t sweating. I’d started to cry, and the fact that I didn’t even recognize it immediately should have been enough to illustrate just how fucked up a person I really was.

I stopped talking after that. I didn’t say another word, except for when I told Dr. Foster I wasn’t going to repeat my behavior anytime soon. She looked pleased with the words that floated from my mouth, most of which were actual truths this time. One of Dr. Foster’s biggest talents had always been how good she was at discerning between truths, half-truths, and lies; one of my biggest talents had always been knowing just how much information to supply to keep our relationship well balanced. Basically, I knew when to shut up.

My name is Thomas Hart. I’m seventeen years old, and I live in New York City, NY. My parents are Jane and Lucius Hart, and I have a kid brother called Noah.

This was my second suicide attempt in as many years, and it earned me a six-month stay in the psych ward of St. Yve’s Hospital. It was also my last one—at least for the foreseeable future. I didn’t want to break anyone’s heart. I didn’t want my brother or anyone else to suffer too much. So, I’d wait. At least until I could be sure Noah would be okay.

I’d wait.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Crazy Ones

Dr. Foster split her professional time between the hospital, her practice downtown, and her home. The latter being where she saw a few select patients I always referred to as The Crazy Ones. Not out of judgment. I was the last person who would ever do that. Besides, I’ve always kind of admired Dr. Foster for her ethics toward her patients and how much time she dedicated to making sure they got the help they needed. I, for one, had directly benefited from such work ethics. I’d also recently moved on from having our sessions in her office downtown and had become the newest member of The Crazy Ones, ever since my last episode.

For the first two weeks immediately following my discharge from St. Yve’s, I saw Dr. Foster on a daily basis. As of week number three, we gradually began reverting to our usual schedule, with appointments every Monday and Thursday at 5:00 p.m. There was a coffee shop just around the corner from her house where I used to wait until it was time to go in for my appointment. I did that whenever I was early, which was basically every time since I was never late for one of my sessions. I didn’t particularly enjoy waiting rooms, but that was only one of the reasons why I preferred waiting in the coffee shop.

Truth was, it was almost always quiet, cozy enough; there was always Bowie playing in the background, and the coffee was just the way I liked it, every time. Also, as of the last week, whenever I went to the coffee shop and ordered my usual white chocolate mocha, I noticed the only other customer was this one guy who always had his head down and kept extremely focused on whatever it was he was doing on his laptop. The first couple of times, I didn’t much pay attention to him, not really. But then I started noticing how he did the same thing, always.

There was a bottle of Evian next to his mug, along with a small plate that had a different kind of muffin on it every time—and it was always untouched. The time it took for me to have my coffee was usually long enough for the guy to remove chunks from the top of his muffin of the day and nibble on them without taking his eyes away from his computer screen. There were only two occasions when he’d look up: whenever the door opened up and the tiny silver bell attached to it sounded off, or when his phone started vibrating on the pink marble tabletop next to his unopened copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Those were the only times I got to properly see his face. He had shaggy, short brown hair, a thin nose, and full lips, and his eyebrows were almost white, they were so light. He also had a cleft chin and a tendency of moving his lips along with whatever song he was listening to—or as he read something on his computer.

*

So there I was, sitting across from Dr. Foster in the living room of her brownstone. It was extremely clean, tastefully decorated, and rather inviting. During our sessions, she had this habit. She would close the double doors that led to the living room and put some relaxing background music on—never too loud so as to become a distraction but just enough to provide a warm and comfortable environment designed to make someone feel safe.

“How are things at home?” Dr. Foster asked with her head down while looking at me above the frame of her red glasses.

“Fine,” I said, not too keen on being there in the first place, let alone going over just how bad I felt.

Dr. Foster was good though. She remained quiet, staring back at me until I finally caved.

“Everything’s fine,” I assured her. “We all pretend. We’re used to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents keep pretending not to be fighting. My brother pretends he’s not mad at me, and I pretend not to notice how the conversation always seems to stop whenever I enter a room, or how they keep staring at me when they think I’m not looking.”

“And you think that’s fine?” she asked, scribbling something on her pad.

“I don’t mind,” I truthfully said. “No one really wants to talk about what happened, and that works for me. So, yeah, it’s fine.”

She gave me one of those undefined smiles she was so good at. They weren’t friendly, not exactly; they weren’t hostile either. “Are you excited about the new school?”

“What do you mean?”

I knew what she meant, of course. It was just such a shit question.

“You’re starting a new school in the middle of your senior year. Are you having any anxiety or apprehension because of it?”

“Not really, no,” I told her.

She raised a single brow at me.

“I don’t feel stressed,” I assured her. “I’m pretty emotionally absent, to be honest, which is a good thing—”

“How is that a good thing?”

“Well, that’s my biggest problem, isn’t it? Feeling too much? So it’s good that I don’t at the moment. It’s a nice change.”

“It’s a common reaction to the drugs you’re taking.”

“Well, who said drugs were bad?” I smirked.

“As your body adjusts to the new dosage, this feeling—or lack thereof—will most likely subside.”

I didn’t say anything. It was clear she wasn’t enjoying the fact that numbness was something I actually welcomed.

“Can I ask something of you?” She tilted her head and took a deep breath before continuing. “Try making friends.”

“I’m not really good at that.”

“I’m just saying, if the possibility arises, don’t push people away. You’re good at that.” She was spot-on as usual.

“I have enough friends.”

“No one has enough friends,” she said, to which I rolled my eyes. “Be open to the new, Thomas.”

I scoffed. “‘The new’?”

“What have you got to lose?”

“Time? Effort? Patience?”

She had no answer for that.

*

My first day at Grant Academy went pretty much as I had expected. The school was smaller than I was used to. Either that or I kept running into the same people—at least that was what it felt like. They seemed nice enough, I guessed. Overall. Though within three minutes of sitting down at the last desk of first-period English lit, I got a text.

Are you the psycho kid?

You bet! Wanna see me snap? I answered.

I didn’t know if it was because I’d readily replied or because of what the reply said, but that was the first and last unknown text I got while attending Grant Academy. What was even more pathetic was I was able to identify the culprit almost the very second I wrote back.

It was from a jock (of course). Some red-haired, six-foot, muscular dude sat a few rows to my left, by the window, casually chatting with an equally tall, brown-haired guy with blue eyes I was certain I’d seen somewhere before. He turned to me as soon as his phone went off, looking rather puzzled.

“Don’t mind Dean,” someone softly said.

I turned to my right and found a black-haired girl with red lipstick and blue eyes smiling back at me.

“Sorry?”

“Dean,” she said. “He’s harmless. Sure, he can be a prick when he wants to, but he’s not a bad guy.”

“Yeah, I doubt that,” I said. “But thanks.”

“I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Wilkins.”

“Thomas,” I replied. “Thomas Hart.”

“Are you new? In town, I mean.”

“No, not really. Just…new.”

“Where did you go before?”

“Magnolia.”

“No way!” She widened her eyes. “They’re, like, Grant’s nemesis.”

“Nemesis?”

“I know; it’s so pathetic,” she said, almost enjoying it. “Their swim team is the only one we can’t beat.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Wait until Dean finds out. He’ll either ask you to join the Vikings or make your life a living hell for being a Seal.”

“He’s on the team? Of course, he’s on the team,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“He’s the captain. But Ethan is the better swimmer,” she said, looking over my shoulder in their direction. “They’re best friends.”

Unlike Dean, this Ethan guy didn’t seem to be a shit person. I didn’t know why I thought that though. I’d only looked for about a second.

For the remainder of the class, Sam explained Grant Academy to me. Who everyone was, who they hung out with, the gossip, the scandals, ideal places to smoke—things like that. By the time the bell rang, two things had happened: I’d made a friend, which was kind of nice, and I was pretty certain I fucking hated Grant Academy.

Sam and I had lunch together, and that’s when I met Blake and Adam. Blake was Sam’s best friend and also Adam’s girlfriend. They’d all known one another their whole lives and couldn’t wait to graduate. They also shared a special resentment concerning the swimming team, which was interesting once Sam mentioned I used to go to Magnolia.

“Shit, I’m sorry, dude.” Adam said, embarrassed.

“Why?” I asked.

“Here we are talking about how lame the team is, and all the while, you—”

“—I don’t,” I said, cutting him off. “I wasn’t on the team or anything.”

I figured I was starting a new school, so there was no need for anyone to know I used to compete. That seemed like a lifetime ago anyway.

“You weren’t?” Sam asked, looking me up and down.

I shook my head.

It wasn’t even a lie, not really; I hadn’t been a part of the team in years.

“Oh,” she said.

“What?” I asked, intrigued.

“You just look like a swimmer,” Blake said.

“Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know,” she said, squinting.

We all laughed.

*

I ditched last period and went to the library instead. Grant had a huge library, way bigger—and better—than Magnolia’s. Took me ages to find the book I wanted to.

“Sartre?” I heard someone softly say.

I looked up at the guy Dean was talking to, Ethan, standing in front of me. He had his head tilted to the side as he read the cover, and it was then I realized he was the same guy from the coffee shop.

“Uh, yeah,” I said slowly.

“Cool.” He straightened his back. “I like Sartre.”

We stood there for a few seconds in a silence that wasn’t awkward, exactly. We were in a library, after all.

“Is it any good?” he finally asked.

“Yeah. I lost my copy, and it’s extremely hard to find a decent second edition, so…”

“I’m glad you found it. How are you liking Grant?” he then added, leaning on the bookcase as he did.

“Right now? I’m loving it,” I stupidly blurted out.

He instantly smirked.

I guess the number of minutes someone’s brain can go without oxygen was actually less than I’d originally thought.

“’Cause of the book, of course,” I quickly said, trying desperately not to sound too weird and failing miserably. “It’s a very good book.”

Ethan simply raised both eyebrows as though impressed.

“It won the Nobel Prize,” I continued, as if it fucking mattered.

“The book?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, he won the Nobel prize because of it. Although, technically, he refused it… But they wanted to give him the award anyway.”

I just wanted to vanish.

“Cool,” he said, smiling and ignoring how close I was to hyperventilating.

I had absolutely no idea where to look, which was fucking pathetic. And he noticed it; I was sure he did.

“Since you’re new,” he said, sort of cryptically, “you probably haven’t heard about the party.”

“The one at The Den?”

Blake had mentioned something about how every Tuesday they all went to the club Adam’s band had recently started playing at. That was another thing I failed to mention to them—that I was pretty familiar with that particular club.

“Nah, that’s no party,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s a pre-party.”

“A pre-party?” I repeated like a moron.

He just nodded.

“What’s a pre-party?” I couldn’t help but ask.

At that precise moment, I felt like Rain Man.

“Well—”

“I get that it probably precedes something. I’m just not sure exactly what it is that it…precedes.”

And I was also repeating myself, apparently.

“The tournament,” Ethan said, smiling. “The first round of the National Swimming Competition happens this weekend. We always have a party before it.”

“Oh. I remember people talking about that back in my old school.”

“Yeah? Where did you go to before?”

“Magnolia.” I fully expected some sort of comment about “nemesis” again.

“They’re pretty great” was all he said.

I was wrong again, of course.

“Yeah, I’m not really into it,” I admitted.

“But you are into parties?”

“Have been known to go to a few, yes.”

“Great,” he said happily. “Tradition dictates the captain of the team usually hosts the first party of the season. That’s Dean.”

“Oh,”

“You’ve met him?”

“Not really. Not officially, at least.”

“You will. He’s an acquired taste, but he’s cool. So, it’s this Friday at his house—”

“Yeah, I don’t know that I’ll be able to make it, but I’ll try,” I lied.

No way in hell was I going to go to that asshole’s house.

“Why not?” He seemed somewhat disappointed.

“It’s still Tuesday. A lot can happen until Friday,” I said, giving out the worst excuse in history.

“Oh. But you are going to The Den tonight?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“Too short notice?”

“I just don’t know that many people yet.”

“You know me,” he said.

Fuck me, that smile.

“And whoever invited you in the first place. I’m sure they’re nice too.”

“Too?”

“Oh, I’m nice. I’m super nice,” he said, grinning.

“I believe you.” I couldn’t help but bite my lip.

He smiled again. “I need to go back to class. See you tonight? Maybe?”

“Maybe.”

He gazed at me for a second. “I’m Ethan, by the way.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m Thomas.”

“I know,” he said, smiling.

Then, I stared as he left, which was fitting because I seemed to have been developing all kinds of new habits lately, such as watching strangers walk away or doing and saying things that just popped into my head without really noticing them.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The Ghost

When I got back home, I was exhausted. I’d forgotten how tiring it was to socialize, how draining it could be engaging in conversation and smiling all the time. I went straight up to my room, falling onto the bed almost the very instant I closed the door. I didn’t want to think about anything, just wanted my mind to go blank for a few hours, allowing me some time to take in everything, to recover.

I needed it to slow down; I needed it to cooperate and shut the fuck up for a second, which, of course, wasn’t something I was able to control on the best of days, let alone then. So instead of hoping for quiet I knew I was never going to get, I tried guiding my thoughts toward subjects that were safe to think about. I allowed myself to go over what had happened in the library for a quick minute because it was the only part of my day I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.

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