Review
"Abbie is able to craft such a raw and emotional and beautiful story. I was hooked and entranced the whole way through. A glorious story of love, healing, and punching Life in the face. Such a sweet summery read." -Jenna Terese, author of Ignite duology
"Looking at this cover and the description, you might think 100 Days of Sunlight is a simple, fluffy, contemporary romance. Ha! No, this is a deep book about standing up when life knocks you down, and never giving up even when it seems like there's nothing else to do. This book is amazing. Five shiny stars." -Brooke Riley, author of How We Rise trilogy
"This book is wonderful and necessary and its own ray of sunlight." -Abigayle Claire, author of Martin Hospitality
"I was mindblowingly moved by this debut story and just want to go out and be a ray of sunlight for someone else... This is an excellent contemporary novel that I recommend if you want a fantastic romance, a story of overcoming, and need some sunlight in your life." -Laura Grace, author of Dear Author: Letters from a Bookish Fangirl
"I read this whole book in about four hours, and I can honestly say that it's one of the best indie book I've ever read. ... I found myself both laughing out loud and getting a little teary while I read it. Go support Abbie Emmons because she is amazing, her advice is amazing, her book is amazing. And that's not praise I give lightly." -Millie Florence, author of Honey Butter
"This is a cute YA romance with relatable characters and a setting so vivid, it practically jumped off the page. ... This is a great read for anyone who enjoys John Green or Morgan Matson!" -Olivia Smit, author of Seeing Voices
From the Author
EXCERPT:
WESTON:
"You can go up now," Mrs. Dickinson says when she returns to the kitchen. "But I have to warn you--she's not in a very good mood."
I shrug. "That's understandable."
The way Mrs. Dickinson says it makes me think I should be somewhat afraid of this Tessa girl. Or maybe she just thinks that her granddaughter will bite my head off.
Either way, I'm intrigued.
Mrs. Dickinson leads the way up a flight of stairs (which she seems surprised I have no problem with) and stops at the first door on the left. It's open a crack, and white light spills out onto the floor.
"I'll wait out here," Mrs. Dickinson says, nodding for me to go inside.
I don't hesitate or even prepare a speech. I just open the door and step through.
Tessa's bedroom looks like something from a home decorating magazine. Everything is white and organized: no clothes lying around, no evidence that anything about her life is out of the ordinary.
She's standing at a window, with her back to me. Sweatpants, T-shirt, messy golden hair. She just stands there, silent and still.
Never mind.
I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to do.
This was a stupid idea.
"Hi, Tessa," I start off, sounding just as unsure as I feel. "It's... good to meet you. I'm Weston."
She doesn't speak. She doesn't move.
"Your grandmother was just telling me about the accident and what happened to you." I pause, not because I should, but because I sense that feeling in the air again--even denser in this room. Despair. "It sucks."
Tessa exhales a sharp, sarcastic laugh. That one little sound tells me a lot about her. And then, after a few seconds, she speaks.
"Listen," she begins, still facing the window. "I don't care what my grandmother told you. I don't want help. I don't need help. And I certainly don't need you."
"I know. I know you don't need me. But you need to write."
She shakes her head, rigid and sure of herself.
"Tessa... I know this must be hard for you--"
"You don't know anything!" she explodes, spinning around to face me. "You don't know anything about me!"
For a moment, I'm speechless.
It's the first time in three years anyone has ever met me without that look of pity on their face. The first time anyone has ever looked at me and not seen me. The first time anyone has stood before me--with perfectly normal legs--and complained about their own problem.
The feeling is exhilarating.
"Are you blind, Weston?" Tessa screams. Her eyes are filled with tears, and the tears are spilling down her face.
"I said are you blind?!"
"No," I reply, my voice not much louder than a whisper.
"So you have no idea what this is like, do you?"
She's looking at me. And she can't see me. She can't see This.
"DO YOU?"
I shake my head slowly, feeling like the ability to speak has been knocked out of me by a hurricane called Tessa. "No."
"Then don't you dare tell me you understand." Tessa finally lowers her voice a little, but the tears keep coming. "You understand nothing. Now get out of my house and don't come back. The position is no longer open--it was never even open to begin with. It was impertinent of you to come here."
Impertinent, huh?
So she's stubborn. She's rude. She's a spitfire wallflower who lost her sight and now hates anyone who tries to help her.
Game on.
"With all due respect, miss, this isn't your house. This is your grandparents' house. And as long as they're okay with it, I will come back. Tomorrow."
For a moment she just stands there, gaping and covered in tears. She looks shocked--maybe even horrified.
I wait for another explosion.
And sure enough, it comes.
"How dare you! I refuse to be treated like this. I don't want to see you--" she freezes suddenly, noticing her choice of words "--I don't want to talk to you, I don't want you talking to me. Just leave and don't come back!"
A silence settles between us, much longer than five seconds. We both stand our ground, too stubborn to back down.
After a moment, I decide it's time to leave. We're not getting anywhere.
Not today, at least.
"Goodbye, Tessa."
She doesn't respond. She just stands there, trying to catch her breath.
I leave the room and shut the door behind me.
Mrs. Dickinson is waiting in the upstairs hallway. She, along with the rest of the neighborhood, must have heard our entire conversation. She looks concerned--and maybe a little embarrassed--but doesn't say a word until we are back downstairs in the kitchen.
"I'm so sorry for Tessa's behavior--"
"Don't apologize," I interrupt, shaking my head. "I actually kind of enjoyed it."
Mrs. Dickinson's eyebrows lift. She looks concerned for my psychiatric health.
"She's not angry," I explain, though it sounds crazy. "She's scared. That's why she's so upset. It's not about me or you or anyone else. It's about her." I stop myself and laugh because that probably sounded ridiculous. "I'm not usually this philosophical."
Mrs. Dickinson smiles, that same gentle sadness in her eyes. I wonder if it ever goes away. "In any case, there is no excuse for the way she treated you just now."
"Don't worry about it," I insist. "Would it be okay with you if I come back tomorrow?"
She looks surprised. "If you want to..."
"Of course I want to."
Mrs. Dickinson purses her lips and says, "Tessa never would have been so rude if she knew about--"
"I don't want her to know about it." I try my best not to look desperate. "It'll only make things worse if she knows. Besides, no one has ever seen the light by being told there are darker places out there."
Mrs. Dickinson gives me a puzzled smile.
"It's nice to know there's at least one person in the world who doesn't feel bad for me." I grin and head for the front door. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Dickinson."
About the Author
Abbie Emmons has been writing stories ever since she could hold a pencil. What started out as an intrinsic love for storytelling has turned into her lifelong passion. There's nothing Abbie likes better than writing (and reading) stories that are both heartrending and humorous, with a touch of cute romance and a poignant streak of truth running through them. Abbie is also a YouTuber, singer/songwriter, blogger, traveler, filmmaker, big dreamer, and professional waffle-eater. When she's not writing or dreaming up new stories, you can find her road-tripping to national parks or binge-watching BBC Masterpiece dramas in her cozy Vermont home with a cup of tea and her fluffy white lap dog, Pearl. If you want to see Abbie in her element (ranting about stories) just type her name into YouTube and search.
