Synchronicity (Book One of the Geminae Duology)

By Lynette DeVries

What if you woke up in someone else's life?
Hazel Stone is just an ordinary teenager--or so she thinks. But lately, she's begun mind-hopping into a stranger's dark reality, and she's starting to question everything, including her own sanity. Then she meets Max McCormick, the brilliant new kid in town with an impressive list of phobias. A bizarre series of coincidences brings the two of them together, and their lives take a sharp turn from the mundane to the metaphysical. It's up to them to uncover the truth buried in the Stone family history. The more Hazel sees, the less she understands--and the closer it brings her and Max to mortal danger. Will she harness the extraordinary gift she has inherited to find the answers before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynette DeVries
• Release date: Feb 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005241513

Lynette DeVries

Lynette DeVries spent countless childhood hours at her manual typewriter creating choose-your-own-adventure stories and mysteries inspired by the Nancy Drew series.After college, she began writing scripts for various shows on Americana Television Network, and later she wrote episodes of the nationally syndicated Could It Be a Miracle, hosted by Robert Culp. She also wrote for print news and magazines, radio and advertising, but her first love is fiction. Her published novels include The Geminae Duology (Book One: Synchronicity and Book Two: Salvation), OtherLife, The Scars That Remain, Bygones, Grift, and her newest release, Punchline.

Book preview

1

Well, this was a first.

She crouched with her back against the cool bathroom wall, a rustic arrangement of earth-colored tiles, her mind a shocked blank. She waited for bits of the truth to come to her—who and where she was, for starters—but no luck.

The disjointed strains of a violin and cello, a string quartet warming up in the distance, floated in through the open window. It came back to her—slowly at first, then in a dizzying rush. She said her own name out loud, her voice husky: Hazel. You’re Hazel Stone, you’re near Puget Sound in Olympia, Washington, and your mom is getting married today.

She brought a shaking hand to her hip, where she expected to find a pocket—a cell phone to check the time—but there was no pocket. Of course not; the dress she wore was all tulle and satin, with no secret compartment for phones or lip gloss or the Kleenex she would inevitably need during the ceremony.

She pushed herself up onto trembling legs, barely registering the serpentine hiss of the dress against the tile wall, then worked her jaw to clear her plugged ears. She wiped her hands on the rough material, then recoiled. The dress would face retirement in the back of her closet as soon as this was all over, a gaudy memento of this bleak day. The style was nothing she would have chosen, not in a million years, but that wasn’t the big offender. The color, though? It was hideous. It reminded her—

The bathroom door swished open, and an elderly woman entered, teetering on heels as if the polished floor were a lake frozen over with ice. She gave Hazel a quick once-over as she made her way to a stall.

Hazel went to a sink and ran water over her hands, trying to remember how she’d gotten here. She practiced a smile in the mirror—the closed-mouth version was passable—but she couldn’t do anything about the feral look in her eyes. Her irises looked golden, her pupils reduced to pin-pricks under the mirror lights. She dabbed a wet paper towel under her lower lashes to tend to the smeared mascara.

Had she been crying? Had she—what, fainted?

She leaned in for a closer inspection. The color was returning to her face in scattered splotches, but what was up with her forehead? It felt weird and tight, like a mud mask left on too long. She parted her damp bangs and found the skin there—just above and between her eyebrows—warm to the touch. It was a little pink, too, and tender, the forecast hinting at the mother-of-all-zits. She tapped her bangs back into place, grateful the eruption wasn’t threatening the center of her nose. She could just imagine the wedding photos: Hazel, the Pouting Teen Witch of the Pacific Northwest, her middle-aged mom radiant under the spell of new romance, the kind specially reserved for uninvited love interests. A spell that could turn a six-month relationship into a lifelong commitment—poof!—just like that.

The elderly woman exited the stall and gave Hazel a look of approval in the mirror. Bridesmaid, dear?

Hazel gritted her teeth and nodded. Even better—maid of honor. Seventeen is well beyond the use-by date for flower girls, so I was promoted.

The woman blinked at her, momentarily stunned. A lovely shade of pink.

Hazel balled up her paper towel and tossed it into the wastebasket, and that’s when it came to her—the word she’d been trying to remember, the name of the thick, chalky medicine that matched her dress.

Pepto-Bismol! She hadn’t meant to shout it—the elderly woman looked a little worried by the outburst—but Hazel was relieved to have her brain functioning at full capacity again. Her forehead tingled a little, but the fog had mostly lifted.

The elderly woman offered a little wave. Feel better soon, dear.

Hazel wasn’t sure if the get-well wish had been prompted by the Pepto-Bismol reference or her bizarre behavior, but it didn’t matter. She had a bride to tend to.

She heaved the bathroom door open and nearly collided with a fellow bridesmaid, one of her mom’s fellow teachers. Where the hell have you been? She glared at Hazel and thrust a bouquet of flowers into her hands. The wedding is starting any minute.

She followed the bridesmaid, humbled by the scolding but grateful that she felt ninety-five percent normal—and that she wouldn’t be the only victim immortalized in photos wearing this God-awful dress.

Fifteen minutes later, Hazel stood front-and-center beside her mother, Kate, and her bride-to-be, Dana. The light of the setting sun was a brutal assault on her nervous system. She squinted into the orange glare and tried to concentrate on breathing. The back of her head throbbed with her pulse, and she prayed that her facial expression—flat, cold resignation—might somehow pass for decorum. She resisted the urge to take cover behind her bouquet.

How had she even gotten here? She remembered when the wedding day had been a hypothetical scribbling on the calendar, the way Christmas feels to a child when summer is in full swing. This was happening, ready or not.

Hazel forced herself to focus on the Unitarian Universalist pastor, a tiny woman with a flower crown over her pixie cut. She was going on and on about synchronicity in a voice that was difficult to hear over the raucous cries of the gulls wheeling overhead. Hazel lifted her eyes to the sky and contemplated the likelihood of one of those gulls dropping a liquid bomb on her—a sulking, pink target—and decided it really wouldn’t make things much worse.

The pastor droned on. As you set off on this new path together, Kate and Dana, keep your hearts open to guidance. Allow that path to be lit by love. Perhaps the Dalai Lama said it best: ‘I am open to the guidance of synchronicity, and I do not let expectations hinder my path.’

She risked a sideways glance at Kate, whose off-white lace gown was a dramatic departure from the tie-dye she usually favored, her wild hair contained in an elaborate twist. In that moment, Hazel hardly recognized her mom.

It had been almost twenty years since Kate had last worn a bridal gown. Hazel tried to imagine what her dad had been feeling that day, when his bride had first walked down the aisle toward him. At the thought of him, she felt a stab of longing in the pit of her stomach. What would he think of Hazel if he could see her now, so close to adulthood? Would he hate the color of her dress as much as she did? Would he find this pastor’s rambling mind-numbing, too? She would give anything for a glimpse of her dad—the living, breathing version—but she would have to settle for the memories that had been hand-selected and filtered by Kate. Those details—the legend of Tom Stone—had bound Hazel and her mom like an invisible force for the last seventeen years. Would those memories hold, now that Dana was in the mix? If they faded, what would become of Hazel?

The truth hit her, all at once. This was no ordinary wedding—this was a surgical procedure. Tom had already been extracted, and now Hazel was being cut out, a teenaged tumor, to make room for Dana.

She blinked back tears while they exchanged their vows, and it wasn’t until she tasted the metallic tang of blood that she realized she was biting her cheek.

Millions of tiny white lights adorned the trees and clung to the poles and ceiling of the white tent, which was situated on the sprawling lawn of the Puget Sound Inn.

There was no rain in the forecast for a change, a fact that should have delighted Hazel but instead felt like a betrayal. The smiling guests, Mother Nature, the Universe—they were all co-conspirators, celebrating Hazel’s demotion from trusty sidekick to excess baggage. She surveyed the cloudless sky as it darkened into dusk, and sighed.

Beyond the tent, the brackish water had been transformed into a luminous mirror, its surface punctuated by jutting piers. Dozens of round tables were set up beneath the tent, a flickering candle in the center of each one.

Hazel made her way toward the tent, still holding her bouquet of Pepto-pink roses. They had wilted in the summer heat, and she empathized with them. She didn’t need a mirror to confirm that the carefully made-up girl from the ceremony—winner of Best Supporting Role!—had been hijacked by an imposter with a sweat moustache.

She hesitated near the tent entrance, trying to decide what to do. The head table was still empty, but she wasn’t sure she could muster another smile, let alone the energy to mingle.

Kate had ducked into the inn to trade her gown for a summer dress, and Hazel felt a twinge of envy when she emerged, looking refreshed and ready to greet her guests. The veil was gone, her hair freed from its bobby-pinned masterpiece. Hazel fantasized about ditching her pink tulle for a pair of faded denim shorts, then shook it off. This was Kate’s big day. Hazel’s comfort ranked low on the priority list.

The makeshift bar was supervised by a bored-looking man in his twenties, his polo shirt bearing the same heron logo from the inn’s sign. He snapped to attention as Hazel approached.

He smiled. Daughter of the bride?

She blinked at the bartender. Is it that obvious?

He dropped his eyes and chuckled. The dress gave it away.

She searched for a snarky response—something about wishing she could give the dress away—but the bartender cleared his throat and clapped his hands.

Champagne is on the house for the wedding party.

She managed a feeble smile, tempted by his offer. One glass of champagne wouldn’t hurt—and God knows she deserved it. Then she remembered those woozy, lost moments before the wedding. Just water for me, thanks.

Sparkling?

Hazel’s eyes settled on the bottle of Perrier in his hand. Oh. Sure. She looked at the limp bouquet in her hand, and she considered asking the bartender to stick them in some water of the non-sparkly variety. Perhaps they were too far gone.

He poured the sparkling water oh-so-slowly, and Hazel watched it fizz and crackle around the ice cubes.

He smiled again. Lemon? Lime?

She was contemplating this latest speed bump when someone behind her spoke. "Well, this is refreshing."

She turned, and the boy standing there regarded her with eyes so blue she almost scoffed. A word, commandeered from her artistic mom’s vocabulary, popped into her mind: cerulean. She’d never used it before, but sheesh—it was right on the mark.

She accepted her drink from the bartender and took a sip, resisting the urge to guzzle. Sweet nectar of the gods.

Cerulean Boy stood there, watching her. He seemed to be waiting for a response, his mouth hinting at a smile.

Hazel reluctantly lowered her glass. Sorry?

He chuckled and thrust his hands into his pockets. I was referring to your choice of beverage. You clearly don’t buy into the hype. It’s refreshing.

Hype? She was chock-full of monosyllabic responses tonight.

Sparkling water. The boy nodded at her glass, his eyes never leaving her face. We’ve all heard the brouhaha about how it leaches calcium from bones, how it dehydrates, how it erodes tooth enamel . . . but you’ve obviously done your research.

If you say so. Hazel wasn’t sure what was more distracting—those freakishly blue eyes, or his odd wording. Brouhaha? Was he from another century? She, for one, had never given the health risks of sparkling water a moment of thought.

The boy approached the bar to make his own beverage request, and Hazel took the opportunity to study his yellow button-down shirt. His blue tie had a pattern on it, but she hadn’t been able to pinpoint the tiny white figures before he’d turned away. He left the bar with his drink—sparkling water, she noted—and his face lit up with a smile when he saw she was still standing there.

With a quick glance, Hazel took in as many details as she could: dark hair, not altogether straight or curly. Tall, but not towering. A nose that was oh-so-slightly canted to the right. (She’d always had a weakness for asymmetry).

The boy lifted his glass as if he might propose a toast. Beautiful ceremony.

It was. Hazel sipped again. All things considered.

He gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. Anyone who saw them chatting might assume they were old friends instead of strangers discussing the pros and cons of sparkling water.

Hazel felt her pulse quickening and looked around, helpless. She knew she wasn’t winning any gold medals for small talk. She couldn’t decide if she was irritated that this boy was still trying to engage her in conversation, or if she was grateful for the distraction. If she was being honest, he was a little peculiar, and she was spent. The wedding had drained all of her energy and had taken her sense of humor with it.

The boy leaned in closer. Family or friend? When Hazel raised her eyebrows, he clarified. Of the brides?

Oh! She blushed. The bride—one of them, Kate—is my mother. She looked for signs of surprise on his face but saw none.

Cool. He nodded and sipped. Dana is a friend of the family. She’s pretty great once you get through her tough exterior.

Hazel considered asking the boy what he meant by that, but she knew. Dana had managed to remain stoic through her own wedding ceremony, even while Kate sniffled through her vows.

It took me a while to see that, she admitted. But yeah . . . she’s actually okay.

They walked for a moment in silence, their destination unclear to Hazel, until the boy stopped in his tracks. Where are my manners? He stuck his hand out. I’m Max McCormick.

She shook his hand and let her eyes drop to his tie. Birds. The patterns on his tie were tiny white birds, their wings spread in flight. She couldn’t decide if she was put off or pleased by that detail—or why it mattered at all.

Hazel Stone.

Max hadn’t released her hand yet, but he wasn’t shaking it either. She could feel his eyes on her face, which was probably pink-deepening-to-red.

Hazel. He nodded. How apropos.

The remark struck her as so odd—first brouhaha, now apropos?—that she dropped her hand and met his eyes. She held his gaze just long enough to find that there was a swirl of gold and green mixing with the blue in his irises. She wondered what those eyes would look like in better lighting.

That’s our cue. Max gave a crooked half-smile. Someone was tapping a knife on crystal, and Hazel looked around, shocked to find that the tables under the tent were almost filled. Voices and laughter swelled around them. At the center of the head table, her mom was seated beside Dana. She met Hazel’s eyes, then waved her over with an exasperated smile.

Nice to meet you, Hazel said, backing away from Max.

To be continued. Max gave a strange little bow.

She started to say something snide—how could we possibly top our carbonation conversation?—but stopped herself. Her nerves were raw, but she didn’t need to take her frustration out on this well-meaning stranger. She found her way to the head table and sat down, her mind made up: she would power through the rest of the reception, swallow it like a bitter pill, and she would do so alone.

Kate leaned in to whisper. Who’s your cute friend?

Hazel shrugged and forced a laugh. I don’t even know the guy.

Her mom arched an eyebrow at her and raised her champagne glass to her lips. Hazel saw Kate’s hand tremble as she sipped—it was enough to spill a few drops—and she frowned.

You okay, Mom?

Kate looked at Hazel, her eyes wide and dazed. It was a moment or two before she blinked. Fine.

She put a hand on her mom’s arm—she didn’t look fine—but then someone else was tapping, and others joined in, and Dana pulled her mom in for another obligatory kiss. Kate grinned and gave a queen-like wave as the room erupted in whistles and applause.

Hazel smiled and turned her attention to the other side of the tent. She slowly scanned the reception tables, her chin resting in her hand. She combed left with her eyes, then right again, before she began to wonder if Max McCormick had been nothing more than a hallucination brought on by electrolyte imbalance and sun exposure. Then she saw him, seated directly across the tent, flanked by two middle-aged women. She watched as he slipped something into his shirt pocket and vigorously rubbed his hands together. Hand sanitizer. She watched with amusement as he picked up his fork and began polishing it with his tie.

It was a moment or two before she realized Max was meeting her gaze, smiling that crooked half-smile. She felt a zing in the pit of her stomach, a momentary sensation of falling. He gave her a little salute, and she dropped her eyes to her table setting. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed a lot of encouragement, and she wasn’t sure she was up for another round of witty banter.

There were two toasts before dinner. The first was delivered by Dana’s younger brother; based on his slurred, rambling speech, Hazel deduced he was either a total lightweight or had started the party well before dinner. The other was given by Dana’s father, who abandoned his folded cheat sheet to speak from his heart in a quivering voice.

The opening strains of Eternal Flame by The Bangles sent Kate and Dana gliding toward the floor for their first dance. Hazel watched them, arms crossed, with a confusing mixture of pride and envy. They seemed completely oblivious to the eyes on them, as if they were dancing alone in their living room instead of a tent packed with onlookers.

The evening progressed: cake cutting, dancing, photos, then more dancing. Hazel ditched her pale pink shoes when Dana’s brother dragged her into the conga line, which was growing exponentially to the tune of Hot! Hot! Hot! It wasn’t until she had endured an entire chicken dance with her mom and Dana that she stumbled toward the sidelines with a singular thought: escape!

Her next thought was of Max McCormick. Yes, he was awkward, but he hadn’t been entirely unpleasant company. Besides, conversation with him sounded better than being trapped on the dance floor. Maybe he was the lesser of two evils.

She casually circled the tent, intercepting hugs and air-kisses from relatives along the way, but came up empty. She returned to the bar, as if it might be a magic portal from which Max might materialize. She even ordered another sparkling water, but there was no sign of him.

It wasn’t until after the reception was winding down and the die-hard guests began to wander off—many of them to rooms they had rented at the Puget Sound Inn—that Hazel spotted him. The yellow shirt was unmistakable, even from a distance. He sat at the end of a wooden pier that jutted out over the Sound, his back to her. Hazel’s knee-jerk reaction was to turn and make a beeline for the safety of the Inn—she no longer needed him to ward off drunken relatives. Still, she didn’t want to be rude and disappear without the simple courtesy of a goodbye.

What’s it going to be, Hazel? Stay—or ghost?

Max turned and spotted her. He ducked his head and raised his hand in a half-wave. Hazelnut!

She walked the length of the pier—it might as well have been a mile long—until she reached him. She saw that the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, the bird tie folded neatly beside him. He patted the wooden boards lightly, an invitation to sit.

Did you really just call me Hazelnut? The last time she’d heard the nickname was in fourth grade, and she couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or amused by his audacity.

It was that or Bubbles. When she cocked her head, he cleared his throat and shrugged. Homage to Perrier.

Maybe we should stick to first names for now, Hazel said.

She sat down beside him, taking care to arrange her dress around her. She pried off her pink shoes and set them on the pier with a sigh. God, that’s so much better.

They sat there listening to the