Out of Nowhere

By Rebecca Phillips

At eleven years old, Riley Tate witnessed the sudden death of her father. Now, at sixteen, she still can't bring herself to step on "the spot"—the section of kitchen floor on which her father landed after collapsing from a brain aneurysm. For Riley, a borderline hypochondriac with anxiety issues, moving on seems impossible, taking risks is out of the question, and even the simplest things feel loaded with danger.

When she meets Cole Boyer in an ER waiting room, Riley realizes immediately that he's far from the safe, predictable boy she usually goes for. A fearless daredevil with mysterious scars and a thirst for all things dangerous, Cole is like an accident waiting to happen. Still, despite their differences, they forge an unlikely friendship that eventually blossoms into something more.

Dating someone who's so casual about death has its challenges, but as Riley soon learns, not everyone can be—or needs to be—saved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Phillips
• Release date: Aug 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992075316

Rebecca Phillips

Rebecca Phillips lives in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada, with her husband, two teenagers, and one spoiled-rotten cat. She’s the author of The Girl You Thought I Was, These Things I’ve Done, the Just You series, Out of Nowhere, Faking Perfect, and Any Other Girl. Visit Rebecca on her website, www.rebeccawritesya.com, and on Twitter @RebeccaWritesYA.

Book preview

For Jason, the sweetest long-haired guy I’ve ever known.

Praise for Out of Nowhere, 2012 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Finalist

Riley's story is thoughtful and grounded, showing the impact of a traumatic event years after the event occurred...Even supporting characters are well-rounded, and the relationships ring true. – Publishers Weekly

Riley's story is one that garners empathy, and readers will smile as she overcomes the psychological stumbling blocks on her path. – Andrea Cremer, NYT Bestselling Author of the Nightshade Series

...an easy, readable style; many appealing characters; and genuinely touching moments...An extremely enjoyable read. – Regina Hayes, Editor-at-Large for Viking Children’s Books

Chapter One

I WASN’T SURE WHAT would kill me first—the nagging pain in my head or Dr. Kapur. My money was on the pain, but only because ethics and an exceptional bedside manner prevented Dr. Kapur from acting on any homicidal urges he may have had toward me. The headache, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so restrained.

Maybe I need another CT-scan, I said, and then opened wide for the tongue depressor. Ahhh.

Tilt your head back, please, Dr. Kapur said, tossing the tongue depressor in the trash can. He shined his little light up my nose and I watched his warm brown eyes scrunch up at the corners, the way they did when he was concentrating. You had a CT-scan six months ago, Riley, and it was perfectly normal. His fingers probed my neck. Any tenderness here?

I shook my head, which set off little spasms of pain through my eye sockets. Dr. K moved back to his desk, where he sat down and plucked a pen from the front pocket of his white coat. The plucking of the pen meant one of two things: a prescription, or more scribbled writing in my thick chart. Sometimes both. I’d been going to Dr. K for almost a year now, long enough to grow accustomed to his habits. Fortunately, he’d grown accustomed to mine too. He wasn’t as transparent as most of the other doctors I’d seen, but I could tell I tested his patience sometimes.

Did I mention the fever? I said. I had a temperature of one hundred point one last night.

He slid his prescription pad in front of him and started scratching away on it. Low-grade fever, congestion, headache, nasal discharge, post nasal-drip.... he recited as he wrote. Sounds like a classic sinus infection to me.

Sinus infection? As I repeated this I noticed—as I often did—how much better words sounded when he said them. With his accent, he could even make sinus infection sound exotic. Is this a secondary infection from the cold I had last week?

He glanced up at me, smiling, his teeth bright against his russet skin. Likely. Now I’m going to give you a script for an antibiotic, and I also want you to take a decongestant and an anti-inflammatory pain reliever. He handed me the small slips of paper. Lots of liquids, lots of rest, medication as directed. You know the drill.

I stood up, stuffing the scripts in the front pocket of my backpack. "And if the antibiotic doesn’t make me better?"

Dr. Kapur closed my chart and came over to stand in front of me. Then you call Paula and make another appointment to see me, he said gently. Sound good?

I nodded, and he smiled at me one last time before leaving the room. Oh Dr. Kapur, I thought as I left the office and crossed the waiting room. You have no idea how much better you make me feel, simply by being tolerant with me.

My regular pharmacy was located a few blocks away from the doctor’s office, close enough to walk to. I dropped off my prescription at the counter and spent the next twenty minutes wandering around the drug store, checking out the magazines and shampoo displays while I waited for my meds. By the time I made it back outside, the dark clouds that had been hovering all day finally decided to open up. Fat drops of rain splattered against the pavement. I jogged the few feet to the bus stop and took shelter under the awning of a nearby bookstore.

Music would only aggravate my headache, but I dug out my iPod anyway and popped in my ear buds. Losing myself in a song was better than standing here and watching the homeless guy beg for change on the corner. As a born-and-raised city kid, I was used to street noise and grime and walking or taking the bus everywhere I went, but I’d never gotten the hang of pretending homeless people were invisible, a routine piece of the city’s backdrop along with overflowing garbage cans and graffiti. My mother liked to remind me that I couldn’t rescue everyone. Some people don’t want to be saved, she’d say. In response, I’d always bring up Lucy and Alice, the shelter cats I’d rescued from certain death. They were grateful.

The bus pulled up and I took a seat near the front, trying to picture Mom’s reaction to my bringing a homeless man home to live with us. It wouldn’t be pretty. Cats were one thing...a human being was something else altogether.

The bus merged into rush-hour traffic, passing office buildings and restaurants and upscale clothing stores as we lumbered down Centennial Drive. I pressed my shoulder against the window and tried not to breathe in the damp reek of the person behind me, who obviously had something against deodorant. Even with my clogged nose, I could smell it. Trapped in an enclosed space like this, surrounded by bodies and recycled air, was enough to trigger an anxiety attack even when I wasn’t holding my breath against the assault of BO. I buried my face in my jacket and inhaled just enough oxygen to get me through the next few minutes.

My stop was next. Before the bus had even finished braking, I jolted out of my seat as if I’d been tasered and dove for the door. On the sidewalk, I sucked in a lungful of fresh air and began to walk the short distance to my house.

I’d lived at 3370 Gardner Street since I was four years old. Before that we’d lived at my grandparents’ house across town. The only thing I remembered about living there was the time I broke my wrist while sliding down the banister. Halfway down I’d lost my grip and tilted sideways, landing with a resounding crack on the hardwood floor below. I remembered the clean sound of my bone breaking, like a twig snapping underfoot, and then the white, panicked face of my father as he rushed over to scoop me up. There must have been pain, but my memories of the incident ended there, in the safety of his arms.

Maybe part of the reason my parents chose the Gardner Street house was because it lacked an irresistibly smooth banister. Affordability didn’t hurt either; back then, my father was just starting out as a paramedic and my mother was in school full-time, getting her business degree. But they’d wanted their own place, even if that place happened to be a sixty-year-old bungalow with a postage-stamp-sized yard and ugly kitchen flooring that hadn’t been replaced since the invention of television.

We still had that same old floor—dark brown and beige linoleum, stained and peeling at the corners. Five years ago I was sure my mother would have it torn up, finally, to rid herself (and me) of the most glaring reminder of what had taken place on that surface. But she didn’t, and every time I swept or mopped or simply walked into the kitchen, my mind flashed on the image of my father’s form, white and still, sprawled across that revolting linoleum.

I UNLOCKED THE FRONT door, straining my ears for Tristan’s welcoming squeal. But only the familiar sound of Dr. Phil’s theme music trickled into the entryway. I held my breath for the second time in the past half hour. Not to block out a bad smell, like on the bus earlier, but because I never knew what kind of mess I’d find after my mother spent an entire day stuck in the house with a sick baby.

Good evening, she said when I found her on the couch in the living room, still in her bathrobe. I was just starting to wonder if you’d been kidnapped.

I crouched down to pick up a plastic fire truck, depositing it in the large bin in the corner. It looked like a Toys R Us had exploded in here. I went to the doctor after school.

Of course. She dragged herself off the couch to help me with the mess. What was Dr. Lard’s diagnosis this time?

"Dr. Laird, I said, gathering a herd of plastic farm animals into an orderly pile. And I stopped going to her last year. I see Dr. Kapur now, remember?"

Oh yes, the charming gentleman from India. She cocked an eyebrow at me. So you’ve had the same doctor for the past year? That’s odd. Usually they drop you like a hot tomato once they realize you’re a hypochondriac.

"A hot potato. And for your information, I have a very real sinus infection. I cleared the last of the toys from the floor and reached for my backpack. Where’s Tristan?"

Still napping, can you believe it?

Mom! It’s after five. He’ll be up all night.

She headed for the kitchen, presumably to start dinner. He was up last night with that cold. He needs to sleep.

Sighing, I unearthed the bag o’ meds from my backpack. Antibiotics and decongestants for me, bottle of Baby Tylenol—grape flavor—for Tristan. I’d done everything short of wearing a mask to avoid passing on this cold to my baby brother, but the germs had prevailed. For the past two nights he’d been awake at three in the morning, fussy with fever and a stuffy nose. Waking up in the middle of the night, unable to breathe, had to be scary for a fourteen-month-old.

I popped my first pill and then went down the hallway to Tristan’s room. My brother was wiggling in his crib, fixed in the land between awake and asleep. I crept over and looked down at him, marveling as always at how cute he looked, even with matted hair and ten pounds of snot dripping from his nose.

Hey, bud, I whispered. Tristan opened his eyes and immediately extended his arms toward me. I lifted him up, pressing my lips against his clammy forehead. How about some juice? I asked, and he rubbed his eyes and grunted. He couldn’t talk yet, aside from some gibberish that reminded me of a show I once watched about people speaking in tongues, but I knew what most of his sounds meant.

I changed his diaper and carried him out to the kitchen, where our mother was dicing an onion at the counter. From the back, she didn’t look much older than me. Or much different, for that matter. We were both tall and slender, with long, straight black hair and eyes the color of dark chocolate. People often mistook us for sisters, which wasn’t too much of a stretch since Mom had given birth to me when she was barely eighteen.

I have to go to the store for a few hours this evening, Mom told me as I secured Tristan into his highchair. Payroll catastrophe. Can you watch Tristan, or did you have plans?

I gave her a look that said Do I ever have plans on school nights? No problem.

Good. I swear, I take one day off and the whole place falls apart. She dumped the chopped onion into a frying pan, stirring it with a spatula. The phone did not stop ringing all day. Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk your employees through ten different tasks with a cranky baby screaming in your ear the whole time?

No, I said, placing a handful of Cheerios in front of my brother. Instead of eating them, he picked up his sippy cup and started crushing them into dust, one by one. I don’t have employees.

She laughed. Maybe someday you will.

Maybe, I thought. But not like my mother. She managed a women’s clothing store in the mall, a great job for an ambitious, social fashion plate like her. As for me, I had no interest in organizing work schedules and meeting sales goals. I wanted to be a doctor. No...I would be a doctor, and instead of employees, I’d have patients. Someday.

Mom jerked her head toward the bag of rolls on the counter. Defrost those, will you?

I left Tristan to his Cheerio demolition project and opened the rolls, arranging each frozen globule on a plate with a lot more meticulousness than such a task required. Finally, I turned to face the microwave, which rested on a wooden stand in the corner of the kitchen. In order to reach it, I needed to get around what I liked to refer to as the spot, the section of floor on which my father had landed—and then stayed—after he’d collapsed. I tried to avoid that spot as much as possible. The few times I did cross over the invisible lines, it felt like I was treading on a ghost.

Now, almost unconsciously, my feet shifted neatly around the patch of floor as I headed toward the microwave. I shoved in the rolls and watched them turn, taking care to keep my appendages in the safe zone and my eyes on the glowing numbers, ticking down.

The spinning motion was so entrancing, I didn’t realize my mother was behind me until her manicured index finger jabbed at the stop button. Pay attention, Riley, she said, her voice lightly scolding. She extracted the now-hot rolls and brought them back to the counter, walking across that spot like it was just an ordinary part of the floor.

Chapter Two

A PAIN IN MY ABDOMEN woke me out of a dead sleep the next morning. I grunted and then curled up like a frightened caterpillar, my brain sluggishly working to identify the cause. Appendicitis? Food poisoning? Hernia? I cracked open an eye and glanced down to investigate. Two huge green eyes peered back at me, all innocent. My cat Lucy had a fondness for walking on me—and then sprawling on me—as I slept.

It was time to get up for school. I could hear Tristan’s impatient wails and Mom’s shuffling gait in the hallway, but Lucy’s warm, considerable weight and rumbling purr lulled me back to sleep. Less than five minutes later I was jolted awake again, this time by a pair of small, slimy hands on my face. I grunted again as Lucy suddenly took flight, digging her hind leg into my bladder in farewell.

Why why da gah, said a voice in my ear. Mow mow ga baga.

Good morning, Tristan. I opened my eyes and grinned at him, mentally trying to translate everything he’d just said. I knew why why was his version of Riley, and mow mow meant the cats, but my brain was still too foggy to decode the rest.

He grabbed hold of my bed sheets and pulled, his way of telling me he wanted in. I folded the blankets down and lifted him up, tucking him in beside me. Did you chase Lucy away? I asked, tickling his stomach. He giggled and twisted away from my hand. "Time to get up, Tristan. We’re both feeling better today, so I have to go to school and you have to go to daycare."

He let out an explosive sneeze, guaranteeing my sheets a spin in the washing machine later. Before I could wipe his nose, he slid off the bed and bolted for the door, diaper crinkling as he ran.

I looked down at my orange-cat-hair-and-snot covered sheets and sighed. Typical morning in the Tate household.

In the kitchen, Mom was cutting up a piece of toast for Tristan. How are your sinuses today? she asked me, dumping little squares of bread on his highchair tray. Sinuses? Is that right? Or is it sini?

I made a beeline for the coffee maker. Sinuses is right. And they feel a bit better, thanks.

Tristan’s on the mend too, aren’t you, baby? She leaned over to kiss the baby’s blond head. He didn’t have a lot of hair, but what he did have was coming in light and curly. He resembled his father more and more each day.

When does Jeff get back, again? I asked, now that Tristan’s dad was on my mind.

May fourth. A week from tomorrow.

I found my bottle of antibiotics and swallowed one with a gulp of coffee. Is he staying with us until he has to leave again? I don’t think I can handle that, Mom.

Oh stop. That was two years ago, Riley. His apartment was being renovated and it made no sense for him to stay at a hotel. She lifted Tristan out of his highchair and held him up to sniff his diaper. Satisfied, she set him down on the floor. It wasn’t that bad.

Says you, I muttered. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Jeff. He was a nice guy, and cute too—tall and muscular, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a disarming smile that finally convinced my mother to start dating after two years of lonely widowhood. They’d met via a blind date set up by mutual friends and immediately hit it off. Then, after three months of steady dating, Tristan happened. It was a shock for everyone involved, including me. I was fourteen at the time, and having an unmarried, pregnant mother at that age can be humiliating. Even more humiliating is having your unmarried, pregnant mother move her boyfriend in for a few weeks while his apartment is being renovated. After about a week of pee puddles on the toilet seat, shaving scum in the sink, and disturbing noises seeping from my mother’s bedroom at night, I’d practically moved into my friend Eva’s house for a month. Her parents were normal.

Cut the guy a break, babe, Mom said now. He’s been practically living in nuclear power plants for the past six months. I’m sure he’d like to spend some time with Tristan when he comes home.

I drained my coffee cup and put it in the sink. She had a point. Jeff was only tolerable in small doses but he did love Tristan, and his child support payments were always on time.

Do you miss Daddy, baby? Mom said to my brother in that high baby voice I kept telling her not to use with him because you’re supposed to talk to babies like they’re humans, not dogs. Daddy’s gonna take you to the beach and teach you how to play catch and—

He doesn’t remember his daddy, I said, grabbing my backpack as a horn blasted outside. My ride to school. It’s been six months. Tristan won’t even know him.

Mom’s smile froze in place, then drooped into a frown. I was just...

I know, I said quickly. Who was I to remind her she’d accidentally procreated with a man whose welding career required that he disappear for months at a time?

Tristan was sitting on the floor by the front door, trying to get his shoes on. When Mom went to help him, he shrieked. He had to do it himself. Seeing the single-minded concentration on his little face, I almost envied him for a moment. Not for his determination, but because he was still young enough to forget completely.

EVA FOWLER WAS THE only one of my friends with a car. Most kids in Weldon didn’t drive, but Eva’s parents had issues with the public transportation system—namely, they worried their precious daughter might get raped and/or murdered on the bus. Ironically, Eva was a total menace behind the wheel of her red Honda Civic and the bus was a much safer option for everyone involved.

You look better today, she said when I slid into the passenger seat. How are you feeling?

I’m okay, I told her, even though I still felt guilty about dousing my mother’s Jeff enthusiasm. She wanted Tristan to have his daddy, that was all. Wanted him to have what I no longer did. Where’s Sebastian? I asked, getting my mind off the subject.

The poor darling has a cold. She pulled away from the curb and hit the gas, narrowly missing our neighbor’s garbage cans. He’s home in bed. After school I’m gonna pick up some soup and bring it to him.

I’m not holding it for you. I sympathized with Eva’s boyfriend, but not enough to sustain third degree burns for him.

Two minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of Ridgeway Apartments. Sydney was waiting for us out front.

Good morning, bitches, she called as she walked to the car and climbed in the back seat, ever-present travel mug of coffee in hand. Where’s Sebastian?

Sick, I said, absently scratching an itch on my wrist.

He’s sick too? What did you do to him, Riley? Slip him the tongue?

Most girls would have bristled at that, but Eva just smiled mildly. We were both immune to Sydney’s provocative remarks by now.

Maybe I coughed on him by accident, I said.

Sydney reached over to poke Eva’s shoulder. "How come you’re not sick then? I imagine swapping spit, among other things, would be a surefire way to spread germs."

Eva pulled the car back out onto the street and pointed it toward the high school. I never get sick. I have an excellent diet and no unhealthy habits. She shot a glance