That Day, A Gritty Mental Health Teen Romance

By Skye Turner

One day can truly change everything.

 

Harlee is lost. At seventeen, the constant highs and lows of dealing with her mental illness alone have taken their toll. She feels like she can't go on. In one final act of desperation, with the lure of an escape from the pain, she makes a choice.

 

Cohen deals with issues of his own though his music allows him a slight reprieve. While playing on the banks of the river, he meets Harlee in her lowest moments.

 

A chance meeting at exactly the right moment offers a glimmer of hope for two wounded souls.

 

When you've only ever felt invisible, what happens when you're finally seen?

 

*Readers should be aware that this book is meant for those 13 and above. MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES, and real life issues young adults and teens face, like: suicidal thoughts, mental illness, and desperation and despair are present within the pages. Those with triggers or aversions to those topics should proceed with caution. Graphic language is also present.

 

*If you, or someone you love, is experiencing suicidal thoughts or just needs someone to talk to in a dark moment, please call 988. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It's FREE and CONFIDENTIAL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skye Turner
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215764756

Skye Turner

Skye Turner is an avid reader and an editor turned International Bestselling Author of Sexy Adult Romance across the board! (See her book list for her abundance of titles!)She has recently expanded her writing capabilities and is writing Paranormal Adult Romance as Sloane Nicole. Her Bewitching Bayou PNR Series is called L’Amour Bayou with the first book being Antoinette’s Fall.She attended Southeastern Louisiana University and Louisiana State University where she majored in Mass Communications, centering her studies in Journalism. Unfortunately, life intervened and she never finished her studies.She lives in small town Louisiana with her husband, two children, and far too many rescued fur babies.When she's not chained to her laptop pounding out sexy stories she can usually be found playing ‘Supermom’, reading, gardening (playing in the dirt), listening to music and dancing like a fool, cooking, baking, crafting, or spending time with those most important to her.She loves to incorporate pieces of her home state of Louisiana into her writing.

Book preview

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With one final glance around my bedroom, my eyes lock on the sealed white envelope sitting atop the faded comforter on the scuffed-up, secondhand bed. Sighing, I turn toward the door. The brass knob feels cold beneath my hand as I open it and step out onto the worn shag rug in the small hallway of my foster home. The wooden floor beneath the rug is old but polished so that it gleams regardless of the scuffs and scratches. Even the shine can’t hide the wear and tear from the years of kids moving through here, some for a day, some a few weeks, and some a few months. This place isn’t the worst I’ve ever been in. They’re actually kind to me, or as kind as they can be without showing any real affection. For a foster family though, they’re pretty decent.

The hall light flickers above me, another sign of the age of this still somewhat beautiful home. It’s old, but the family takes great pride in it, and it shows.

I’m actually going to miss this place.

My footsteps seem to echo as I walk down the tight hallway to the steep stairwell. The stairs creak beneath my feet as I step onto them, almost as if in protest. It doesn’t make me stop though. I can hear the sounds from the kitchen wafting up the stairs. Pots and pans are clanking around in there, mingling with the music from the radio, as dinner is prepared.

The muted sound of the television and the voices of the other kids as they watch whatever is on while doing homework, or playing in the living room, also drifts towards me. But as always, I ignore it and continue on my way down.

What’s the point? No one would care if I went in there or even pay attention to me.

In the room full of foster kids, it would be like I was all alone.

None of them talk to me. I have no friends. I’ve been here a few weeks, and no one has shown the slightest interest in getting to know me. Not that it’s unusual.

I also have no friends, or even acquaintances, at school.

Everyone gives me wary or pitying looks and steers clear of me.

I suppose I frighten them. Or at the very least, I make them hella uncomfortable.

My mind starts to wander as I slowly take the stairs down, one by one, placing both feet on each step before moving down to the next. My palm closes over the wood of the banister. It’s mostly smooth, but I can feel the dips and grooves from the years of use.

As I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see the large, heavy wooden front door. It’s propped open with a piece of wood shoved between the bottom of the door and the flooring. The glass door is allowing the fading sunlight into the room, slowly bleaching the stain from the floors. The noise from the neighborhood, and the street just outside, can be heard coming through the handprint smudged glass door of the home. Looking at the cracked sidewalk stretching from in front of the house and down past the corner, I see the small row of mailboxes for the homes on this block of the street. Out of habit, I scan my eyes over them.

Not that it matters.

I never get mail. The only mail pertaining to me comes in the therapist letters and the statements after my welfare check from the state is direct deposited into whichever foster or group home I’m currently in’s bank account.

Wherever I am, I check the mail every single day when I get home from school on the off chance that today will be the day that I receive actual correspondence from someone… anyone. But I didn’t check it earlier. And I don’t feel the need to check it now either. There’s never anything worthwhile. At least not pertaining to me.

Shrugging to myself, and laughing humorlessly, just once, I push the glass door open and step outside into the steamy evening. As my feet touch the porch and I start down the peeling painted concrete steps, the stifling heat practically slaps me in the face. It’s so aggressive it literally feels like being hit.

It’s August… in Louisiana. So, it’s hot. It’s always hot. August here is akin to the bowels of Hell. The oppressive heat and insane humidity literally steal your breath the second you leave the blessed coolness of artificial air in any building. Your skin is immediately sticky, and even if you’re freshly showered, you just feel… gross.

Something one of my teachers from last year, Ms. Paulsen, used to chuckle, and say, when we’d complain about the heat pops into my head. Females don’t sweat. We glisten.

I liked Ms. Paulsen. She was kind to me. She would always check on me and ask me how I was doing after her class.

But her sentiments about sweat…

Yeah, no.

That’s a load of absolute bullshit.

In Louisiana, you sweat.

Dead ass.

Girls, boys, or whatever people are identifying as these days… we sweat.

We all sweat. It’s hot as hell, and when it’s hot, you sweat.

As if in agreement with me, I feel the beads of moisture form across my upper lip, in my hairline, on the back of my neck, and under my boobs, drenching my cheap cotton bra. Places that shouldn’t even have sweat glands are already damp and itchy.

So, glisten my ass, Ms. Paulsen.

It’s as hot as the teenage guys in gym class’s sweaty balls and I feel just about as nasty.

Other thoughts about the heat and what happens to things because of it enters my head, but I immediately shake them off.

That won’t be my problem.

There’s no point in even thinking about it.

It doesn’t matter. At least, not to me.

A guy dancing down the sidewalk as he listens to loud ass rap on his AirPods bumps right into me, practically knocking me over, as though he doesn’t even see me. To really drive home the point, he simply keeps walking. No, Excuse me. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Not even a Watch where you’re going.

Just nothing.

A wry laugh escapes me, and I shake my head before continuing on my trek to my destination. The river is only five blocks away from the house. It won’t take me long to reach it.

Looking up at the sky, the colors of the setting sun catch my eye. Stopping for a moment, I just watch as the last of the blue from the day starts to fade, being swallowed by the lavenders, pinks, and bright oranges spreading upwards of the horizon. Beneath the beautiful colors, I can see the incoming darkness shifting, curling like smoke. The black of night seemingly dances along the horizon, biding it’s time so it can consume the sky, shrouding everything underneath it in shadows.