 | Loren Smith has been in love with Eliot Devlin almost his entire life. During their turbulent childhood and teen years, Loren didn’t always understand Eliot, and sometimes he could be a challenge, but Eliot was the only one to ever truly ease Loren’s deep loneliness and accept him. When Eliot’s increasingly erratic and self-destructive behavior culminates in a suicide attempt at seventeen, Loren is devastated. Upon meeting again by chance nine years later, Loren is enjoying a successful career as a police officer while Eliot’s life has been a constant struggle for stability. In and out of mental hospitals, with a rap sheet a mile long, he continues to be buffeted by the twin storms of mania and depression. Loren’s love and protectiveness for Eliot are deeply ingrained in him, however, and their feelings for each other are quickly rekindled. |
Loren has issues of his own he’s dealing with, and trying to understand and cope with Eliot’s bipolar disorder isn’t easy. They believe they’re meant to be, and Eliot brings a fulfillment to Loren’s life that no one else will ever match. But as they both come to realize, love by itself can’t cure all.
EXCERPT
“God, you’re so beautiful,” Loren breathed, bringing one hand up to cup Eliot’s cheek. “The face that’s haunted my dreams.” He let his thumb stroke along Eliot’s cheekbone as he looked at him, cataloging the differences nine years had made.
There was surprisingly little, given the passage of time and the things Eliot had gone through: A few lines around his eyes, a small scar at the corner of his mouth. Loren couldn’t resist, leaning in to brush the scar with his lips once, again. Eliot turned his head and kissed him full on—though softly, chastely.
“Did you ever think of trying to find me, Loren?” Eliot asked when he pulled back, and Loren stroked his cheek again.
“I did for a while,” he admitted, “but after a few years, I felt like you were probably better off without me by that point. Like I said, I thought maybe I was the reason you’d tried to—well, when you got hurt, I...”
“You thought I tried to kill myself over you?” Eliot’s voice was soft. Not accusatory, just inquiring.
“Yes. I said some—I said some awful things to you, El. The last thing I said to you nine years ago still haunts me.”
Eliot scooted closer, and Loren wrapped his arm around his waist, settling Eliot against his side. It was Eliot’s turn to offer comfort. “I don’t remember it, Loren,” he said, his tone sincere. “And about all I remember of that night is how good it felt to make little cuts with the razor blade I stole from my dad’s bathroom.”
He held up his arm, and Loren saw for the first time some faint scars, thin, almost invisible, white lines surrounding the thick raised scar tissue of the cut that had almost ended his life.
“The little stinging pain, the blood, pleased me and fascinated me. I just—I just—went deeper,” Eliot said helplessly. “It was just me being crazy, Loren; it wasn’t your fault.”
Loren grasped Eliot’s arm, lifting it to press his open mouth to the scarred skin.
“If I’d known what you were going through all these years, I would have tried to find you, El. I swear I would have. I just...”
Eliot stopped Loren’s anguished words with his lips.
“Well, you’re here now.”
There was surprisingly little, given the passage of time and the things Eliot had gone through: A few lines around his eyes, a small scar at the corner of his mouth. Loren couldn’t resist, leaning in to brush the scar with his lips once, again. Eliot turned his head and kissed him full on—though softly, chastely.
“Did you ever think of trying to find me, Loren?” Eliot asked when he pulled back, and Loren stroked his cheek again.
“I did for a while,” he admitted, “but after a few years, I felt like you were probably better off without me by that point. Like I said, I thought maybe I was the reason you’d tried to—well, when you got hurt, I...”
“You thought I tried to kill myself over you?” Eliot’s voice was soft. Not accusatory, just inquiring.
“Yes. I said some—I said some awful things to you, El. The last thing I said to you nine years ago still haunts me.”
Eliot scooted closer, and Loren wrapped his arm around his waist, settling Eliot against his side. It was Eliot’s turn to offer comfort. “I don’t remember it, Loren,” he said, his tone sincere. “And about all I remember of that night is how good it felt to make little cuts with the razor blade I stole from my dad’s bathroom.”
He held up his arm, and Loren saw for the first time some faint scars, thin, almost invisible, white lines surrounding the thick raised scar tissue of the cut that had almost ended his life.
“The little stinging pain, the blood, pleased me and fascinated me. I just—I just—went deeper,” Eliot said helplessly. “It was just me being crazy, Loren; it wasn’t your fault.”
Loren grasped Eliot’s arm, lifting it to press his open mouth to the scarred skin.
“If I’d known what you were going through all these years, I would have tried to find you, El. I swear I would have. I just...”
Eliot stopped Loren’s anguished words with his lips.
“Well, you’re here now.”
Prize One:
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Prize Two:
To Enter:
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