Share this Manuscript
How the Light Gets In
One year after her sister's death, Callie starts to wonder how gone Chloe really is.see full description
Advance Reader Editions are in!
ON SALE: AUGUST 6, 2019
Since her sister’s tragic death, seventeen-year-old Callie Ryan has basically given up. Her grades have plummeted, she’s quit her swim team, and she barely recognizes the people her parents once were.
When she returns to her aunt’s run-down coastal Victorian one year after Chloe’s death, Callie resigns herself to a summer of guilt and home renovations. She doesn’t expect to be charmed by the tiny coastal town or by Tucker Morgan, a local boy brimming with sunshine.
But even as her days begin to brighten, Callie’s nights are crowded with chilling dreams, unanswered questions, and eerie phenomenon that have her convinced she’s being haunted. Will Callie be able to figure out what her sister is trying to communicate before it’s too late?
I slide off the bed to check my phone—no calls, no texts, as usual—then plug its charger in and leave it to sit on the nightstand, where it’ll likely remain all summer, unused. Sleepily, I change into a t-shirt and sweats. I’m pulling socks over my cold toes when Daisy lifts her head and lets out a menacing moan. I reach out to pet her, to placate her, but she’s not having it. She vaults off the bed and darts out of the room, a gray streak of panic.
She’s just disappeared down the shadowy hallway when a clatter obliterates the house’s silence. I whirl around to find my phone face down on the floor, still tethered to the wall by its charger.
My heart beats hard, thunderous in my ears. Stupid because, holy hell, my phone fell—that’s all. Stewart House is so old its floors probably aren’t level.
Still, I glance around the room, making certain I’m alone.
A chill slithers up my spine as I notice the windows, curtains wide open. I try to remember if I pulled them shut after my smoke, before the night became so dark. I thought I did. But they’ve been open all this time, while I lay on the bed. While I changed clothes.
Stewart House is secluded but I hate the idea of being so exposed. So vulnerable.
I hurry across the room and whip them closed.
I’m still faintly high, but I can’t shake Daisy’s frantic exit or the seemingly spontaneous fall of my phone or the shiver of cold I felt a few moments ago. I consider finding Lucy, if only to share space with another human being, but I talk myself out of that idea. I won’t be chased out of this room I have to spend the summer in.
Throwing my shoulders back, I stride to the bathroom. Standing at the sink, I gather my hair into a ponytail and secure it with an elastic. I dig my toothbrush out of my toiletry bag and brush my teeth ferociously. With a generous squirt of cleanser, I scrub my face into a frothy mask, glowering at my reflection. Bending over, I rinse. I breathe deep, inhaling steam, letting lingering unease rush down the drain with sudsy water.
It’s then, standing at the sink with my face dripping wet, that my ponytail rustles—as if a gust of wind has passed through the small space.
I spin around, clutching my hands to where my heart sits frozen in my chest, water streaming down my face and my neck, soaking the collar of my shirt.
I expect—hope—to find Lucy behind me.
The bathroom is empty.
"Readers will be taken along this journey of grief, loss, and healing. Recommend to fans of realistic romances." —School Library Journal
The Impossibility of Us:
"Tender, romantic and realistic, The Impossibility of Us is the story of a strong girl growing stronger and a boy surrendering to the power of a love that seems impossible... It will linger in your mind and your heart." —Huntley Fitzpatrick, author of My Life Next Door
"A poignant reminder that the world isn't black and white, The Impossibility of Us crackles with chemistry and will fill you with hope." —Gina Ciocca, author of Last Year's Mistake
"A sweet story of tolerance, hope, and love… This is the age old story of star cross'd lovers retold beautifully for the challenging world we live in today." —Caroline Leech, author of Wait For Me