Synchronicity, p.1
Synchronicity, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Synchronicity Copyright © 2023 by S.L. Astor
All rights reserved. No AI has been used in the creation of any part of this book. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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First edition October 2023
Kindle ASIN: B0CHJC5PRW
Paperback ISBN: 9788989197408
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CONTENTS
Prologue
I. 1991
1. Chelsea
2. Chelsea
3. Chelsea
II. 2001
4. Chelsea
5. Seth
6. Chelsea
7. Chelsea
8. Seth
9. Chelsea
10. Chelsea
III. 2011
11. Seth
12. Seth
13. Chelsea
14. Seth
15. Chelsea
16. Chelsea
17. Chelsea
18. Seth
19. Chelsea
20. Seth
21. Chelsea
22. Seth
23. Chelsea
24. Chelsea
25. Chelsea
26. Chelsea
27. Seth
28. Chelsea
29. Chelsea
30. Chelsea
31. Seth
32. Chelsea
IV. 2011
33. Seth
34. Chelsea
35. Chelsea
V. 2021
36. Chelsea
37. Chelsea
38. Seth
39. Chelsea
40. Seth
41. Chelsea
42. Chelsea
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
Book Club Questions
The Hope Of You
CONTENT WARNING
Please be advised that this is a work of fiction. It contains explicit language and content and explores sensitive subjects surrounding mental health, attempted suicide off-page, neurodiversity, and parental abandonment. It may be triggering for some readers and is intended for audiences 18 years and older.
To Kim—a guiding light.
Thank you for pointing me true north,
and cheering the whole way.
&
To the caregivers, the caretakers, and the helpers.
&
To the stars in the sky with beautiful minds—
never let the harshness of the world extinguish
your gifts and glow. Keep shining bright.
“Timeless souls need soulmates.”
— Amy Harmon
PROLOGUE
SAN FRANCISCO, 2021
The porcelain cup rattled as he placed it on the café table. The memory was old, from a time when the woman sitting across from him wasn’t a stranger at all. They had the scars on their hearts to prove it. His eyes had aged, reflecting a hollowness she couldn’t recall. She wondered what had put it there—what had become of the boy she once borrowed time with. But some things hadn’t changed. The pull between them was the same, strong and magnetic, like a stifled spark that finally caught enough air to go up in flames.
PART I
1991
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
‘I don't believe in magic.’
The young boy said.
The old man smiled.
‘You will when you see her.’
— Atticus
1
CHELSEA
Chelsea Bell knew exactly what to do. By eleven years old, she’d handled her fair share of bloody knees. The first lick always landed the same, sweet and metallic, like Nan’s cherry cough drops that came in a tin. She kept a drawer full of them and when Chelsea would visit, Nan made sure to send her home with a red tongue and a five-dollar bill.
What had Mom been thinking? She blew a quick breath over the sting.
“They’re the most popular books for your age,” she had said in her most melodic pitch. “And the font is just the right size. Your teacher recommended them in preparation for the academic skills camp you’ll be attending this summer. It’ll be great. A month away from your parents, fresh air. Tutors at your disposal and to be around other kids like you who need . . .” she trailed off, or Chelsea had stopped listening—she wasn’t sure.
Chelsea couldn’t make sense of what was happening, how they’d gone from happy birthday to a horror show in a matter of seconds. She wanted to beg them to reconsider, but in her house, arguing was useless. All it took was one sharp pin in the balloon—once a decision was made, it was final.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. “If you enjoy the stories, it might encourage you to try harder.”
That’s all Chelsea had ever done. Tried and tried and failed.
She stood up, brushed street dust from the back of her legs, and pressed forward.
Spending the entire summer in a strange place with musty cabins and tutors was punishment enough, but being sent away—hidden like a problem too big for her parents—was too much for her to bear. The truth lodged in her throat, absorbed by every open pore—Chelsea was different. She knew it. Her parents knew it. And different wasn’t a part of anyone’s plan.
Her parents were embarrassed, and a wave of disappointment shuddered through Chelsea’s unsteady body.
She didn’t remember how it happened, but the room had blurred somewhere between her mom’s news and discovering the contents of her present: a plain black helmet and protective pads, and beneath it, a set of books. Each cover image displayed a group of girls, their smiling faces laughing at Chelsea.
That moment, under the watchful gaze of her parents and their “fix it” attitude—an oppressive reality she couldn’t accept—was the equivalent of staring into a kaleidoscope of fractured glass. She’d lost complete focus, and the only thing she could do to restore her vision was to escape.
Somehow. Some way.
She grabbed her boring helmet and blades and sailed from the house as fast as she could—speeding across the congested intersection at Sunset Boulevard—not even halfway to the other side when the flashing numbers suddenly appeared. Chelsea pushed past four rows of traffic in both directions, not once looking back.
The bulky knee pads were making it impossible for her to get away as fast as she wanted, so she did something she never did—she ignored the rules. She ripped open the velcro, her thighs and calves on fire, the red hand telling her to stop.
Engines on every side of her roared to life, and a silver Porsche with its top down laid on its horn, jumpstarting Chelsea’s heart. Her heel brake caught the lip of the curb, sending her body onto the hard sidewalk, her palms skidding two feet in front of her.
She had some sense to lock her elbows, breaking her fall, motivated by the imagined voice of her mom in her ears. Not the face. It would be the end of the world and the obligatory birthday photo if Chelsea came home with more than a pair of skinned knees.
By the time Chelsea made it to the playground, she was ready to burst. She chucked her helmet to the ground, hoping it would split in half, and let out her knotted blond hair. She stared at the deserted blacktop in front of her with every swing up for grabs—the adjacent field lay undisturbed with patches of daisies.
Most kids spent their school breaks at the beach. Not Chelsea. Concrete at her feet, her spring break existed sandwiched between the caramel stucco duplexes of the Los Angeles neighborhood she called home. And now, her summer would be spent trapped in the Santa Monica Mountains with people she didn’t know, doing the one thing she hated most.
From infancy, Chelsea’s parents had rolled her in bubble wrap, making every decision for her. And not even the poppable kind of packing material that her mom’s costume jewelry arrived in. It was boring bubble wrap, just like her helmet and pads and life.
Boring, boring, boring.
Fevered laughter gave way to fresh tears as she remembered the unhelpful, overly eager sales lady pointing out to her mom that the “safety” helmet line would protect three sides of the brain, not two, then promptly asking for her autograph after making the sale.
For Chelsea, there was a true discrepancy between her mom—the actress—painted in purple and teal eyeshadow, rocking a leather skirt and off-the-shoulder sequined top, and giving her daughter the most basic helmet available, despite knowing which one Chelsea had desperately wanted.
But for Summer Bell, everything came down to safety and education and, Chelsea now realized, keeping up with appearances, too.
It wasn’t her fault that she was born to remarkable parents. She couldn’t control that fact or rescue the sinking ship in the pit of her stomach.
As she looked at her scuffed up knees, she knew her mom would have something—so many things—to say about the agreement they’d gone over when using rollerblades. But that was a problem for future Chelsea.
She shook free from the impending lecture and her wrist guards, yanking her sweaty feet from the tight casing of the blades. Chelsea chose the swing at the far right, closest to the field. She leaned her body back, pulling on the chains and closing her eyes to the warm sun radiating behind a set of heavy clouds. The mid-afternoon overcast sky tempered the heat hanging off the Santa Ana winds. It had been unusually hot for this time of year.
Chelsea flung her feet forward, tugging hard in an effort to lift higher.
The repetitive back-and-forth motion of her legs expelled in quick bursts. It was like manually pumping air into a tire as fast as possible. As her speed increased, Chelsea’s heart once again inflated. She convinced herself that this is what it must feel like to fly.
Moving was the only time the voices quieted down. The faster, the better. And she giggled like someone her age. Like a kid on spring break with their toes in the sand.
Today was still going to be special. She just needed some time alone. She held tight to a huddle of hushed wishes—eleven to be exact—and planned to set them free. She wanted to see which ones would return to her.
A rush of cool air broke through, tickling Chelsea’s lips, peppering her eyelashes and along her arms. Her eyes snapped open to a sheet of rain. Delicious, necessary, soothing rain. Chelsea squealed in delight, halting her swing to catch drops on her tongue.
Rain fell in soft shapes, heavier than a mist but not quite a downpour yet. She followed their path from the sky overhead to the—
Her gaze stopped mid-sweep, body stilled, unable to blink or breathe as warm water melted from her skin, evaporating before hitting the steaming asphalt.
The sight of a boy crystallized before her, a dusting of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose like he’d just got done rolling down a hill and didn’t bother washing up.
“Hi there. I’m Seth Hansen,” he said.
She caught her puzzled expression in his eyes, barely visible beneath a head of strawberry-blond hair sticking out in every direction from his royal blue hat.
Her hands gripped the chains closer, her chest squeezing into a fist. She didn’t know why, but at that precise moment, when he smiled, crooked and soft, she crossed one wish off her list.
2
CHELSEA
“What are you listening to?” Chelsea’s exterior remained calm while her eyes ran laps around this boy, waiting for the rest of the magic trick. What would happen next? A bunny under his ball cap? A severed torso? “How long have you been standing here?”
“I’m sitting.” And he was. On the ground, his arms resting over his knees. “What’s your name?”
“Oh,” she replied, momentarily forgetting herself. “I’m Chelsea.”
“Wanna hear, Chelsea?” He popped up and glided over to her, and it took a disorienting minute for Chelsea to realize the rain had stopped and Seth was on rollerblades, too. They were all black like hers, laced up with frayed neon green and yellow thread. His blades had seen some life. Scuff marks scratched the reflective coat beyond its original shine—pieces of warped plastic protruded from the sides. Chelsea dragged her lower lip between her teeth and chewed on her indecision.
Seth settled in the swing next to her, and from this distance, Chelsea confirmed they were definitely freckles and not dirt. And his lashes were thick and his eyes were like honey, the dark kind in the jar that Nan kept away from sunlight and sticky fingers.
He offered Chelsea his headphones, placing them directly between their noses. Curious, she took them from his soil-packed nails into her cautious grasp. When she placed the cushioned speakers over her ears, she remained all eyes on Seth. On his sun-kissed cheeks and wild, yarn-like hair. On his beat-up Los Angeles Dodgers hat.
Seth’s head nodded along to the rhythm of the guitar and drums while she listened as a striking male voice poured through the speaker. Chelsea fixated on Seth’s mouth as his lips silently followed the lyrics. He had committed them to memory, like she was trying to do now even with the clashing in her ears.
“Is this your band?”
“I wish.” His eyes widened. “It’s Sting.”
When Chelsea’s expression remained unchanged, he added, “The Police?” and opened the tape deck, pulling out a cassette.
“Who?” She examined the clear plastic and white letters. There were so many and they appeared out of order. She couldn’t read the album title, didn’t know the band, and was hesitant to admit it. Try harder, Chelsea. Sound it out. Before her frustration could turn into something sour, she returned the tape, wiping her slick palm along her lime green shorts.
“See, here?” He pointed to the cassette again, and Chelsea nodded, mirroring his movement, like she could read exactly what he was talking about—like she was supposed to at her age. “The band broke up, but the lead singer’s a legend. My mom’s got these cool vinyls and tapes. I listen to them when she’s working.”
Seth quickly reached over, removing the headphones from her head. He secured them around his neck and latched the walkman onto one of his pockets. “Their music is awesome, isn’t it?”
“I kinda hate it.” She laughed, mainly from the discomfort of saying what she felt.
Seth’s jaw dropped. “What?! Are you kidding?”
Chelsea didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but it was exhilarating to be honest. “It’s loud—melting my brain loud. Are those drums or garbage can lids they’re banging on?”
“It’s well before its time. The music breaks all the rules. Give them a second chance. Here,” he insisted, popping the tape deck again, handing over the cassette to Chelsea. “Keep it.”
“Isn’t it your mom’s?”
“Music’s meant to be shared. Maybe it will grow on you.”
She smiled at the tape, accepting the gift—another present she didn’t ask for. She seemed to be collecting those today. “Thank you.” She tucked the tape into her back pocket.
“Nice wheels and gear,” Seth commented, noticing her discarded blades, switching subjects faster than Chelsea could keep up with.
Set back from the street, the playground was as insulated as it got for the city. Suddenly aware of the silence, aside from Seth’s rollerblades scraping over asphalt, Chelsea replied, “Thanks. They’re new. I got the helmet for my birthday today.” She peeked up from the ground to see his reaction.
“No way!” he shouted, both their swings slowing to a stop. “My birthday’s this week too. On Saturday.”
She drew her head back. “You’re making that up.”
“Cross my heart.” Seth traced an X over the center of his chest. “Can’t wait to be eleven.”
His mellow laugh had her stomach tying in knots. She blamed it on one too many pancakes that morning.
Not only were their birthdays close, they were also the same age.
“You sure you’re about to turn eleven? You don’t sound like anyone in my class,” Chelsea observed.
“What does an eleven year-old sound like?”
“Not you.” She wiggled her toes.
“Well, you don’t sound eleven, either.” Seth smirked. “What time of day were you born?” he asked, wide-eyed, as if her response came with a prize.
“Who knows that stuff?” She shielded her eyes from the sky. It was bright behind the clouds.
“I was born at five o’clock in the morning. Rise and shine. My mom says I was up before the sun and all of civilization.”
