Cummins Paper World

1. Auflage 2026
ISBN: 979-8-31783743-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 196 Seiten

Reihe: Paper World

A perfect life in shambles. A memory buried in uncertainty. All because she opened that book. Harrowing and unpredictable, 'Paper World' by Maureen Cummins is the story of a girl lost down a rabbit hole, trying to retrace her steps and find her way back to the surface. Will she climb and catch her breath again? Or will her paper world rip to shreds beneath her feet?

Maureen Cummins lives in Georgina, Ontario. She lives on Lake Simcoe with her husband, Kyle, their son, Myles, and their three cats. Although she currently lives in Canada, she is originally American born and bred. Maureen was born in Orlando, Florida and lived there most of her life. She went to Florida State University and studied English Literature, with an emphasis in Shakespeare. She is a certified English teacher and is working on a career in publishing. This is her debut novel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cummins, Maureen

Leseproben

Chapter 1

My twenty-sixth year started out like every other was meant to after the twenty-first: entirely uneventful. I had a cake. My parents sang me “Happy Birthday” at a nice restaurant. I opened presents. One truly signified a mid-twenties birthday: fun socks. Flamingos drinking margaritas. Why had I been getting more of these lately? I was at least thankful that I lived in Orlando where I could celebrate with either a fancy dinner near the theme parks or a wild night chugging shitty beer in dank downtown bars. The latter was entirely unappealing to me this year. There is just something about celebrating another trip around the sun that becomes progressively less exciting after the legal drinking one. And, man, after twenty-five? There is really nothing to celebrate. Well, except for a discovery that most liquors now cause massive hangovers and that being able to legally rent a car is a useless milestone.

But, when I thought about it, I actually did have some mature life experiences to celebrate. Landmarks, if you will. Benchmarks. I was engaged to my college sweetheart, and it was right on schedule. Less than a year before, on Valentine’s Day and right before my twenty-fifth birthday, he got down on one knee and promised to love me for the rest of our lives. Well, that might have been what he said. In truth, I was too overwhelmed by the moment that I had been waiting for since birth to ensure I took part in my only part of the process: remembering it. And say yes. Did I even do that?

They say that some of life’s happiest moments, engagement included, are a total blur. A mix of adrenaline and excitement stops the usual firing of neurons. Your brain ceases to absorb the memories. Like it’s so overwhelmed with bliss that it can’t do anything but live in that exact moment. You’re robbed, in a way. Required to constantly be aware of the now. In truth, I guess I never learned to live in the moment. But I like to think that was how we lived our relationship in the beginning, Kurt and me.

Kurt.

Our love story started off in many ways, standard. We went to the same high school in Orlando, though we never officially met there. Different circles. We wound up at the same college, Florida State University. By then, we had friends in common. We started dating. And then, well, we just stayed together. And five years later, Kurt got down on one knee. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what he said. What were his promises to me? There were mornings that I would take out a pen and paper and beg my mind to send me back to that moment and let me relive that happiness. I never got my wish. So, it goes.

After I blew out the big candles labeled ‘two’ and ‘six’ (so no one would forget which birthday we were celebrating), I felt a kiss on my right cheek. Soft, calm. A flash went off. My parents have a camera, I gathered.

“Happy birthday, Brett.”

“Thanks, babe. Hopefully it’s not true what they say, that your looks start to fade after twenty-six.”

I was not exactly a fan of the idea of growing older. What woman is? I knew that it came with its benefits: maturity, wisdom and a grounding sense of self-awareness. You came into your own, no longer relying on what others thought to shape your idea of significance. It also came with its pitfalls: decline in looks and virility, a foreboding sense of death’s knock reaching closer and closer to your own door. A downward spiral, if you will. To add insult to injury, I was a year older than Kurt. That rarely bothered me. It’s not like I ever noticed it when we were together. But I’d read online somewhere that a woman reaches her peak, physically, in her twenty-sixth year. Something about her features all finally working together, like a seamlessly written symphony which has taken decades to perfect.

Blowing out my brightly illuminated candles, I made a pact with the universe. I asked whatever it was in charge of the Earth, be it one merciful God, many critical gods, or the devil himself: let my youth last a bit longer. I wanted to stay twenty-six eternally. Forever young. How Dorian Gray of me. How could that go wrong? And, really, what a selfish wish. Who cared if I was growing older, as long as my life was progressing upward? It was the way existence worked. But I wasn’t ready to start my decline. I would tuck my portrait away, bowels of the closet, and let it rot.

Watching my cake being cut by our server, a gorgeous girl who must have still been in high school, I considered how men aged so gracefully in comparison to women. I looked over at Kurt and realized just how true that was. So striking. He still made me swoon. Even after five years together, I never took for granted how handsome he was.

I remember the night we officially met. A mutual friend introduced us one weeknight. We were at a tea shop that had been a campus staple for over a decade. It had recently made the conversion into a hookah-lounge at night. How very 2010 that transformation was: students could grab a tea on the way to their modern art class and end their studious days with an hour puffing on a shared Middle Eastern tobacco pipe.

I recognized Kurt the moment he walked through that wooden door with its creaky, slanting panels. He was the kid with the perfect, wispy, auburn hair from our high school soccer team. The kind of guy you’d find on an Abercrombie and Fitch shopping bag in the early 2000s. I was such a sucker for that look. I followed him with my eyes until he sat down at our table, across from me but close enough that I could smell his cologne. When he finally smiled at me and introduced himself, I nearly melted. Kind, green eyes that betrayed his every thought. A wide smile that was completely approachable. And, oh, a laugh that was so pure, you couldn’t hear it without feeling lighter. I was in over my head.

“Hey, I know you! We went to the same high school – you ran cross country, right?” he said, pointing a finger in my direction.

Internal scream. He remembered me.

“Yeah, we did! Go Hornets!” Did I really say that? How entirely lame of me. Get it together, I said to myself. “But, um, yeah, I did run, were you on the team? I don’t think I remember you?”

Better.

Play it off like you didn’t stare at him every time he passed you in the halls.

Less creepy this way.

Keep it up, Brett, I told myself with a psychological pat on the back.

“Oh, no I played soccer. But my best friend over here, Jay, was on the team.” He nodded to the guy sitting next to him.

“Yeah, you were fast as hell,” his friend said. I remembered Jay. Short with brown hair and freckles, he was a shy kid. Had a lot of siblings.

“Yeah, he said you’re not bad with a beer bong either,” Kurt added. He broke a smile.

Well, let’s hope he doesn’t know too much. Cross country parties were not where I was at my best, historically speaking. One particular party I wound up streaking. I never was able to turn down a dare.

“Ah, well, my reputation precedes me. One is a little more impressive than the other, I guess? I’m Brett,” I said, taking a sip of my boba tea.

“Kurt. Brett, yeah, I always wondered about your name. I have a cousin, Brett, but he definitely doesn’t look as good in a dress. Is that a family name?” asked Kurt. Jay quietly chuckled next to him.

I smiled with my lips still hovering over my drink. Funny and he paid me a compliment. In that moment, even at twenty years old, I felt like I was still the awkward girl in middle school who couldn’t talk to a cute boy without stumbling over her every word. A flashback to pre-pubescent school dances and sitting alone on the bleachers. I forced myself to make eye contact with him.

“Well, yeah, I mean… it’s from The Sun Also Rises. My parents were big fans of Hemingway. I guess I kind of followed in their footsteps, I’m an English major,” I said, hoping he found me cute and not just a book nerd, which I was.

I have never been without a book in my hands. My parents owned a restaurant that doubled as a bookshop for most of my growing years. I spent every day surrounded by volumes. They were often too busy to entertain me themselves. They left that up to the books. I was fascinated by Shakespeare at the age of eight. I likened myself to Juliet and expected to one day find my Romeo. Clearly, I was too young to understand the theme of that tragedy. All I saw were the beautifully crafted devotional couplets. I wanted a boy to love me that way.

“That’s awesome! I like to write, but I’m no Hemingway. If you’re a big reader, too, maybe I could show you some of my stuff? I’m an Economics major so I’m definitely no grammar whiz,” he said, pushing his long, auburn locks to the side of his lightly freckled face. He wrote, too? Oh man, was I swooning.

And then we talked about books and all things literature for hours. He was a fan of both fantasy and poetry. I was a true devotee of the classics. But we both had immense respect for any writing, really. That was the key. At one point, we were comparing Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. We agreed that an author who could form captivating fictional realms from scratch was just as talented as one who could make a reader see our already existing society in a unique light. I was in love with him by the time we exchanged numbers. After a hug that lingered almost as long as...