#Extract From Beautiful And Terrible Things By S.M. Stevens

Description of the book: Charley Byrne isn't really living. At age 29, she hunkers down in her apartment above the bookstore she manages, afraid of a 7-year curse. Then quirky activist Xander Wallace lures her out of social exile with the prospect of friendship and romance. Charley joins Xander's circle of friends diverse in their heritage, race, gender and sexual orientation. She thrives, even leaving her comfort zone to join protests in a city struggling with social justice ills.

But the new friendships bring back-to-back betrayals that threaten the bookstore—Charley's haven—and propel her into a dangerous depression. Can her friends save the store? And Charley?

Extract:

Buwan took another plug from a beer bottle encased in a twisted brown bag. "Do you think we look like old winos?"
Through the dimming light of early dusk, Xander studied his friend, the green-slatted park bench on which they lounged, and the block-wide mini-park around them. Car engines revved as the traffic light in the road opposite them changed. Two teenage girls walking the diagonal pathway through the park stared at Xander and giggled.
"Apparently not yet. Give us a few years." He drained his last beer, took Bu's now-empty bottle and put all six beside the trash bin for an enterprising youth or needy adult to return for the deposits.
Bu stood and clapped his hands once. "Liquid dinner complete. Ready to head intown for the protest?"
Xander measured his long strides to match Buwan's shorter paces.
"How's Charley?" Bu asked.
Xander sighed. "Extremely distraught. She called in sick and I passed the bulk of the day with her." He belched and his head spun a touch, making him lament his deteriorating ability to tolerate alcohol. "Can I confess something?"
"Shoot."
Xander ran a hand through his mop of hair. "I realized something today. While I love Charley desperately, I'm not in love with her. I'm sure you think that makes me despicable. I would have to agree. But as with Sunny, I entered the liaison out of a perhaps misguided belief that she needed me." Xander waited for a retort that never came.
Bu appeared to consult his feet for a few strides before speaking. "Xander, there are two kinds of people in the world: Those who seek the love they need, and those who seek people they think need them."
"Hm. Thanks, I think."
Bu continued. "Wanting to help people doesn't make you bad. But don't forget to think about what you need."
Xander stopped, placed his hands in a prayer position and bowed. "I remain in awe of your benevolence and perspicacity, Moon Boy."
The comment, or maybe the three beers they'd each consumed in half an hour, threw them into fits of laughter.
Xander pointed at a hole-in-the-wall liquor store. "We have some time. Let's stop in here."
Bu pulled a silver flask from the side pocket of his army-green cargo pants and grinned, his eyebrows twitching evilly. "No need."
Xander returned the grin. "Whiskey?"
"Tequila. No limes or salt, but it's a good one so that shouldn't matter."
Xander reached for the flask. "Limes and salt are for the weak. Me thinks I'm a little tanked already, but it's not like I'm organizing the protest or anything." He hiccupped.
Bu bounced gently at the knees as if to a dance beat in his head. "Alcohol doesn't affect me. I'll be designated walker." As he spoke, his eyes skittered from Xander to nearby pedestrians to the pewter clouds dotting the evening sky.
Xander drank from the flask, wiped his hand across his mouth, and resumed walking. "You must be fueled by adrenaline, Bu. I relate entirely though. Protests fire me up as well. And tonight's going to be colossal. I feel it."
"Tonight, we are supermen!" Bu yelled, stepping into the street, arms up, making an approaching car honk as it zipped around him. Bu stepped back onto the curb.
Xander laughed nervously. "Whoa, dude, we're not actually invincible."
Bu eyed his friend. "Don't you ever play chicken with cars? It makes you feel totally alive. Try it."
"No thanks. My self-destructive tendencies revolve around romantic liaisons entered for the wrong reasons and a pathological need to represent at every protest or rally within a hundred-mile radius."
"Loser," Bu joked. "Watch."
He eyed the line of traffic headed their way as the light turned green. He darted in front of a maroon SUV and vaulted onto the median strip as the SUV swerved, its front wheel scraping the curb on the right. "Asshole!" yelled the driver, waving his fist out his window.
Xander pocketed the flask and crossed during a lull in traffic, holding his breath against the gray exhaust lingering behind the last car. He grabbed Bu's arm, hiccups gone. "I'm escorting you to the subway station. Stay with, please."

About the author: S.M. Stevens began writing fiction during back-to-back health crises: a shattered pelvis and ovarian cancer. She writes contemporary novels and short stories designed to make readers laugh, cry and think. In addition to her focus on adult fiction, she has published novels for Young Adult and Middle Grade readers. She lives in New Hampshire.

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