Normal—this was a word I once thought I was. Normal was the word I used to describe me. It described my look, my intelligence, my family, my friends, even my little town.

My life was normal. It was simple. Uncomplicated. Boring, but in a normal way. I was okay with being normal.

I grew up in a town of exactly 496 people. This was the type of place if you were lucky enough to leave, you were able to cross your number off the "Welcome to Luxberg" sign on your way out. It's a town where everyone knows everyone and their business (and not in the Gilmore Girls living in Stars Hollow sort of way). If you so much as cut down your own tree, everyone in town knew, and they had an opinion about it. You'd bitch about other people knowing your business, but if they cut down their own tree, you needed to know everything and form your own opinion of the tree-killer. Petty gossiping was practically a lesson learned in school by grade eight and exactly what Luxberg thrived on. Luxberg-lifers, as we liked to call the people who refused to leave after graduation, run this tiny town in the heart of Iowa.

It's been seven years since I've stepped foot in my hometown. Now, as I pack my car with suitcases and boxes of decorations for the biggest party of my life, the simple thought of driving past that very welcome sign makes my stomach ache. Twice in the night I awoke with nightmares of the place I once thought I would call home for the rest of my life. Twice I threw up the contents of my stomach and talked myself out of my inevitable return. Seven years ago, I promised myself I would never drive through the lone, blinking yellow stoplight on the four corners of Main Street. I told myself I would never see the school where I spent all K-12 grades with my best friends, Morgan, Cole, Tyler, Kane and my siblings, Felix and Sydney.

That never would I lay eyes on Lake Lux...

My cold sweat returns as I toss a box of lavender-colored linens into what little free space my Ford Fiesta still has left. I swipe the dampness from my forehead away, swallowing the third sick of the day down. The night's dreams of thrashing through trees in the dark and screams fill my ears and quickly end with the sound of a lawnmower revving to life. My eyes press shut, mentally thanking whoever started it.

My phone rings out once from my purse, and then immediately returns to silent. My own fault; I've ignored enough calls the last few days my iPhone now understands my wish to become a recluse. One of two people was on the other end of the call, and out of the odds of it being my best friend Morgan or my mother, the odds fall heavily on the latter. Confirmation of this notion comes with the ding of a voicemail notification, the fourth one today. It's a friendly reminder of things I may have forgotten while packing—in her words. It's really a call to gauge my sanity.

"I'm coming," I mutter to my purse, glancing down to the watch on my wrist. I take a deep breath, telling myself I just spoke the truth. I am leaving Minneapolis today. I have no choice. Too late to back out now.

Another deep breath. I slam the passenger door shut without hearing it latch. It bounces back a little before I use my hip to force it shut, not caring if I broke some decoration in the process. I lean against the little red car and draw back one of the rubber bands from my wrist, releasing it to feel the bite of it colliding with my skin—a nervous habit I've had since the age of ten. This week has been no exception, with the skin of my wrist completely raw from the act.

Focusing on the good has been my only sense of relief lately. I get to see my childhood home—a large, pale-yellow Victorian on the edge of town. Engulfed by a white, wraparound porch, the thought of creaking floors, screeching old doors with glass doorknobs, and an obnoxious amount of uniquely shaped windows, has been the only thing keeping me in the sane state everyone is hoping for. It's wandering away from that home which sets my anxiety on overdrive. Across the lane from our stunning porch is a similar porch attached to a blue Victorian—one I know I can never bring myself to look at again. And on the other side of the woods that meet our property line is the lake.

Forcing my feet to move, I make my way back towards my apartment building, trying to evade the memories of swimming and boating on the large body of water beside my home. Fishing with my grandpa from the bed of an old truck, the sound of school parties heard through the waving trees, reading from a dock on the brink of falling apart at any moment.

The dock does it.

I stop at the stairs, catching a stray tear with my hand. "I can do this," I whisper. "I can go back for two weeks."

Those may be normal memories for any other teen. Back then, I was. Now, every single memory of Lake Lux rips me to shreds. The heart of our town broke mine. It broke up my friends, my family, and most of all, me. Graduation year was supposed to be the best one yet. I was normal. Until then, my life consisted of band t-shirts, old books, and broken-in Converse chucks. Senior year is when you should live your best life. I should have been enjoying nights with the few friends I had, evading the town police officer (who happened to be my dad). I should have been preparing for college with the help of my mom, the school secretary.

It didn't work out that way.

Now, as I work my way back to the apartment that has been my safe-place for the last seven years, I'm forced to relive every single event which led me here.

I'm not sure of the exact date when everything changed—when my life went from normal to completely fucked up. I know for a fact it was not until after the Luxberg welcome sign changed its population number to 500.

That was when I met Jax.