All it Takes

a novel

Sadie Munroe

All it Takes by Sadie Munroe

Copyright ©2015 Sara Eagleson

Cover design by Sara Eagleson

Cover Photo: Mikulas Zacok - Miobi Photography

Editor: Danielle Webster

Typesetting: Christa Seeley

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, organizations and locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictiously.

All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Epub ISBN: 978-09938942-2-0

Kindle ASIN: B00YM1CF42

For my amazing family.

Thank you for always supporting and believing in me.

I won't let you down.

. . . you can all stop reading now. None of you read Romance. So just stop. No, seriously. Stop. Put the book down and just walk away.

I'll know it if you don't

Chapter 1

Star

Like everything bad that has ever happened in my life, it started with a phone call. But sometimes just a simple phone call is all it takes, and that innocent ring that breaks through the smiles and laughter beforehand can interrupt more than your day. It can change your life.

The first call came when I was five. I was playing in the fort I had made out of the old green sofa cushions and every blanket I was able to lay my hands on. I remember the taste of raspberry jam on my lips as I busied myself with pretending to serve lemonade to my stuffed pony. Awkwardly. There was a lot of splashing and a small puddle of lemonade on the rug that I remember hoping my mother wouldn’t notice. My mother was in the kitchen, washing up the dishes from lunch and singing along to an oldies song on the radio. The sound of the phone ringing barely even registered as I trotted my pony up and down the throw-pillow mountain, but the sound of my mother’s scream was enough for my entire world to come screeching to a halt.

The first call was from the police station.

That phone call came when I was five years old, and it meant that my father was dead.

The second phone call was from child services when I was nine years old and it was almost immediately followed by a knock on the door, by my mother yelling and crying as she hurled things at the men who entered. They had found out about my mother’s hoarding. The second phone call meant that they were taking me away. That was ten years ago, and I haven’t been back since, not until now.

Not until the third call.

I had just turned nineteen when the third call came. I’d been laughing with my friends in our dorm’s common room. I hadn’t even paused when my phone rang. I’d just leaned over and scooped it up off the table, cheeks still aching from smiling so much, and had said hello.

I wish I could say that the third call had held better news, but I should have known better.

Because sometimes a single phone call is all it takes.

It’s been over a month, but that third phone call still doesn’t feel real to me.

First my father. Then my mother.

God. Even now it’s almost impossible for me to say it. For me to even think it.

She’s dead.

My mother is dead.

Ash

Goddamn, is it ever good to be home.

I don’t know how, but that five-hour car ride somehow felt even longer than the five years I’ve been away. I don’t think I’ve been so jittery, so freaking excited since I was a little kid. I must have driven Mom nuts the entire drive back, bouncing my leg and fidgeting like a five year old, but I couldn’t help it.

This is it. This is my new shot. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to waste it.

I’m out of the car the second it comes to a stop in the driveway, racing down the path and up the front steps before Dad has even turned the engine off.

“Bruiser!”

I drop my bag on the front porch and wrench open the screen door, but before I’ve even laid my hand on the doorknob, I realize something is wrong. There should be a racket. There should be the sound of barking echoing off the hallway walls. There should be the pounding of feet as they rush down the stairs and toward the front door. But there’s nothing.

There’s silence.

I whirl around, still gripping the edge of the storm door in my hand. The metal is cool in the warm summer air, and I grip it tight, desperate for something to hold on to. My chest is thundering.

Something is wrong.

I stand there as my parents make their way slowly up the path and up the front steps. Mom shakes her head and sighs at the sight of my backpack on the wooden planks of the porch. All of a sudden, I’m five years old again, about to be scolded for tracking mud across the carpet.

Fuck that. I’m twenty-eight.

“Where’s Bruiser?” I ask, but instead of answering, Mom just leans over and picks up my backpack by the strap, shaking her head at it like it’s offending her somehow. Neither she nor Dad is saying a word.

What the hell is going on? I loosen my grip on the storm door, and let it fall shut as I turn around to face them. I lean my back against it, closing it behind me. They can’t ignore me. Not if they want to get in the house.