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The Misadventures of Itchy Izzy

By N Y. Dunlap

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Chapter 1
The stars in the sky reached farther than the eye could see. They spoke volumes to Isabelle’s loneliness. Brown wisps of hair stung her cheeks, and tears blinded her as she looked up. Isabelle was an inch away from erasing the void and taking control of her spiraling destiny.
“Life without passion is not worth living” were the words that lay at the heart of every story Isabelle’s mother, Maria, ever told. Maria’s morsels of wisdom echoed in Isabelle’s mind. On another day, in another life, Isabelle held the title of well-composed daughter to a French businessman and Spanish chef. She was equally loved by both. But this chaotic mess of a life was her new normal.
The soles of her highlighter-yellow rain boots lost traction. A gasp lurched from Isabelle’s throat as fragments of rock broke from the ledge of the cliff. Tiny bits fell hundreds of feet, taunting that the end she sought was coming soon.
“Miss.” A voice, masculine and full of concern, reached out to her from behind.
Isabelle’s boots pressed closer to the edge. She peered down. A milky moon illuminated the ice water churning at the basin of the mountain.
“Please, turn around.” The voice drew closer by the second. “I need to talk to you.”
“I doubt that,” she replied. Her gaze flitted away from her version of the end—happy ever after not included—and up into eyes that reflected the stars. A touch so warm that Isabelle could feel it through her thin, silk blouse lingered on her shoulder.
“You should head back into the bar.” The stranger’s voice quivered slightly in hesitation. “Maybe call a friend.”
Had he just mumbled something about stumbling off the side of the mountain? She wasn’t sure. What called to her was the warmth still permeating the spot on her shoulder. She nodded. “Yeah, the bar. I could use another drink.”
“Or coffee,” he suggested.
From his silhouette, the man was a head taller than her with broad shoulders. His huge hand still draped over her shoulder. A swirl of intense emotions churning in Isabelle’s soul smoothed out. Instead of fear or anger at being restrained, the man’s touch calmed her.
“Alright.” Finally dropping his hand, he cocked his head toward the building. “I noticed you walking out of the bar. I don’t want to be a bother, but do you have someone to pick you up?”
Well, thanks, Mr. Concerned Citizen. “Ahem. Just needed to breathe and hard no.”
“I’ll walk you back, then, if you’d like.”
“Alright.” Isabelle focused on the sounds of their shoes crunching over gravel, her mind drifting to her mother. A lot of girls learned about confidence, life, and love through Disney movies. For Isabelle, Maria Chevalier never lacked stories to tell her daughter. None of them began with once upon a time. Nor did her mother’s stories include familial dysfunction or heartbreak like princess movies. Her mother created a world where women were always victorious on their own—no hero needed.
Now, though, Isabelle Chevalier, who didn’t need a man, was being led away like a child. The worst part was the situation was a danger of her own making. She didn’t feel like herself—in control and self-confident. She didn’t look like herself either. A mauve blazer that matched her slacks had disappeared. Black drops from mascara-dried tears sprinkled her white blouse. She’d wiped off the usual perfect makeup when she’d stepped into the bar restroom about an hour ago. While inside, she’d found an old, used ponytail holder to pull her hair back into a loose bun. Even the hot-yellow rain boots were a mystery to her.
Cheap security lights in the distance obscured the man’s face from Isabelle’s sight. They were halfway through the lot when he said, “I have an extra jacket in my truck.”
“I’ll pass. You’re either chivalrous or creepy, and my luck has run out.”
“It’s twenty degrees in the mountains of Pennsylvania. It may snow.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze; peace transferred from his palm. “I’m not creepy. I promise.”
The comfort of his hand subsided as he released hers, opening the door.
Weak light spilled out the door of the bar. Isabelle stared at a man who had a halo of sun-kissed hair. His kind, hazel eyes paired with a jaw chiseled in granite. The man had to be about her age, mid-twenties. A navy-blue flannel shirt cuffed at the elbows displayed sculpted forearms. A vague smile compounded his beauty.
He held out a hand, motioning for her to enter first. Isabelle walked in and paused. She turned, waiting for him, and he followed. For a moment, they stood facing each other. Neither said a word. Isabelle couldn’t tell if he expected her to order water—in a bar—or give him her name.
Well, hers was a name he wouldn’t get from her without prying. She didn’t need him thinking his good deed deserved some kind of reward. In these parts, Chevalier might as well have been a synonym for old money. The history of their lineage had proved a solid legacy for Isabelle’s father. With legacies came responsibilities, and Chevaliers were above mental breakdowns.  
Isabelle’s new companion stalled near the door. She shrugged and swayed past a jukebox that had been out of commission since she’d graduated high school. When the stranger didn’t follow, she placed a hand on her slender hip. “So,” she gestured to him, “you’ve completed your civic duty?”
He nodded his head slowly. “Yeah. But do you have a phone? What am I asking? Everyone has a phone. Just call—”
“Casper the Friendly Ghost? We already established that I have no friends.” Isabelle’s tone was acid-laced. “Or have you decided to abduct me now? You’ll be my forever friend?” Isabelle couldn’t stop the snarky comments. Part of her abhorred her new-found attitude as an aggressive drunk.
He looked ready to slam the bar door in her face and flee. Instead, he calmly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ma’am, you were shivering—”
“First of all, I didn’t shiver.”
“Like a leaf,” he retorted between thinning lips. With a huff, the man took a few more steps into the bar.
Isabelle’s eyes sparked. “Okay, are you volunteering more of your services? Let’s talk. I had my heart snatched out and handed to me today. But thank you for walking me here. What’s the price for escorting a damsel a few meager steps?”
“You were stumbling through the woods and dangling over a cliff, so you’re more than welcome.” His voice had a welcoming bite—the kind reserved for old friends as if he had a right to acknowledge her faults. Only one person had ever been bold enough to correct her. That was ages ago.
A hopeful thought bloomed in Isabelle’s mind. If the stars aligned and her luck hadn’t truly run out, this stranger would be Peter Stephens. Her childhood friend had the same halo of blond hair. It’d driven her insane. He was a radiant angel. She’d wanted to cast Peter as a villain while they played in the woods, but he was always meant to be the hero. That was years ago when they were very young.
There’s no use hoping, Izzy, she scolded herself. The stars weren’t granting wishes tonight. They were mocking Isabelle about how vast, how empty this world was. The stranger was no substitute for Peter, no matter how handsome. Isabelle started past the empty tables, brushing him off. She didn’t need the reminder of old heartbreak. Her heart had already been smashed to pieces today.
Her messy brown bun flopped to one side, half falling out of the elastic, as she leaned over the scuffed wooden counter. Her empty glass sat in the same spot. She lifted it, signaling for another pint of beer.
The stranger looked her over. Shuffling out a sigh, he claimed a stool. “Bad . . . breakup?”
“Heh. Actually, I did see my boyfriend with another woman earlier. Blonde. Big everywhere it counts.” Isabelle eyed the bartender, who chatted with the only other patron at the end of the bar. She gave Isabelle a wink and headed over to the payment system to finish her current order.
“What did you do after seeing them together?” The handsome stranger leaned an elbow on the bar top, granting her all of his attention.
Well, you asked for it, Izzy! Her lashes fluttered upward. “Wow. At first, you seemed charming, but if my misery is your delight—”
“That wasn’t my intention.” The stranger’s shoulders lifted. “Nevertheless, hashing things out can help.”
They stared at each other for a few moments. Isabelle attempted to shove her lips upward to let him know she was grateful. What a futile endeavor? The kind stranger shifted in his seat as if to leave, though he stayed put. His thumb roamed around his index finger. Isabelle guessed that her pity party made him uncomfortable. Peter. The name manifested itself again. Why? Isabelle stared at the stranger, trying to figure it out. It had to be his warm eyes that made Isabelle contemplate her old childhood friend. She mumbled, “Nothing. I didn’t do anything when I saw Conrad with the blonde.”
Throat constricted, she worked at releasing every syllable. “Didn’t care much. My mom . . . She had nonalcoholic cirrhosis. Received a new liver last month.”
“Sounds like things were looking up.” Though he still had an uneasy demeanor, his compassion captivated Isabelle.
Sighing, Isabelle replied, “Yup. Things were coming along peachy up until the surgery. Then, ‘Due to complications with the heart during the procedure, the new liver was damaged and unable to be recovered.’ That’s verbatim what the doctor said. He offered a textbook lecture about a body—her body—like an obsolete robot. My mom couldn’t bear another transplant attempt. She died this afternoon. Two thirty-five to be precise.” Isabelle never found his gaze during her spiel.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The tenderness in his voice touched her tortured heart.
There, I did it. I told someone about the most significant loss of my life without breaking down.
“Mom was the best person in the world,” Isabelle mumbled, picking up her glass again. The automatic response was for nothing since it was still empty.
“Be there in a second, Jane,” the bartender called. Jane was an inside joke between the two women. When they were seniors in high school, Isabelle was an infamous playwright. Her rendition of Tarzan and Jane caused an uproar at the school that still followed her years later. Back in high school, Isabelle had breathed passion, same as her mother, Maria Chevalier.
Isabelle had wait-listed that firecracker world she’d created for herself. To gain her father’s inheritance, Isabelle had to fulfill his requirements, which meant that her mother also had to wait. Maria’s philosophy stalled. All mother-daughter banter was on hiatus. Talks about romance and marriage and children were at a standstill. Isabelle waited to breathe the fresh air of creativity once she had completed her father’s few requirements.
And fulfill them she did. The problem was Isabelle became accustomed to autopilot. Now, her mother was dead, and it was too late to come alive again.

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