When I Was Yours, When You Were Mine

by Evie Sinclair

  WHEN I WAS YOURS, WHEN YOU WERE MINE

  Evie Sinclair

  Copyright © 2020 Evie Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To the brokenhearted, the confused & the healing

  PLAYLIST

  Runnin’ Just In Case - Miranda Lambert

  That Don’t Sound Like You - Lee Brice

  Dancin’ Away With My Heart - Lady A

  Met You First - Spencer Crandall

  King Of Apology - Jana Kramer

  I Don’t Dance - Lee Brice

  I Can’t Trust Myself - Devin Dawson

  When You Look Like That - Thomas Rhett

  Gentle Man - Drew Baldridge

  Pushin’ Time - Miranda Lambert

  The Day You Stop Looking Back - Thomas Rhett

  Portland, Maine - Tim McGraw

  Next To You - Little Big Town

  We’re Not Friends - Ingrid Andress

  Speechless - Dan + Shay

  Bad Boy - Brantley Gilbert

  When the Night Moves - Tyler Hilton

  Mercy - Brett Young

  Never Be Sorry - Old Dominion

  I Hope You’re Happy Now - Carly Pearce, Lee Brice

  Bet You Still Think About Me - Blake Shelton

  So Small - Carrie Underwood

  CHAPTER one

  One, two, three, four … forty-five, forty-six: I count the highway signs, any sign I can see, over and over, letting them be the only thoughts that fill my mind.

  Highway signs beat memories of my failed three day engagement to a man I devoted myself to for four years too long. Which is how I find myself driving from Seattle to Maine - back to where my brother has set up home in our old family house; back to the people who hold my heart in hands I trust.

  My cell rings, changing the music on the car stereo to an obnoxiously loud ringtone and breaking me from stupor - my twin brother’s name flashes across the screen.

  I answer. “Still driving safely, Logan. Although the more you call, the more distracted I get …”

  “You should have pulled over to answer,” Logan grumbles.

  “I pressed a button on the wheel. Very easy, very safe.” I imagine he's rolling his eyes at this. “I’m going to throw my cell out the window real soon. What do you want? I’m twenty minutes from Spokane. I’ll stay there tonight no thanks to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Loges. You booked my car in for a service yesterday and they kept it overnight … I didn’t want to rush.”

  “You don’t have to rush. But who knows the last time dumbdick had that car serviced!”

  “That’s true …” I can’t help but agree.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  I don't answer straight away. I'm confused by the numbness. I thought I'd feel something new by now. I’ve been processing and moving through the breakup for two months. I keep trying to guess each emotion as it comes. My best friend, Sammy, keeps telling me to let each feeling pass with no judgement. But the achy, angry, sad heartbreak wants to analyze every inch of this experience.

  “Mae?” he prods.

  “I'm numb. It feels like some shitty dream ...” I divulge.

  “I wish you’d have flown.”

  “I hate flying. Driving will be good for me.”

  “But, alone, Mae? Really? I’m worried sick about you.”

  “I will be fine. I'm a big girl.”

  “Can’t Sammy drive with you?”

  “Sammy’s in New York being wined, dined, and loved up by some charming Englishman. I’m not telling her about the move until she’s home. We both know she’d leave him mid- whatever they’re doing to get to me - ”

  “ - Which is a good thing.”

  “For you maybe. Not for me and not for her. Let me do this, Logan. Alone and for myself. I’m serious when I ask you to trust me.”

  He’s quiet on the other end. “Please call me as soon as you get to Spokane …” he says.

  “Yes, Dad. Thank you, Dad.”

  “Shhh. Call me when you get there. Love you.”

  “Love you back.” I hang up.

  Poor Logan. One minute older and he’s taken on the role of big brother, mom, dad, and therapist so damn well. A little too well. Growing up with him felt like I had a bodyguard I never paid for. As a teenager none of his friends batted an eyelid at me and all took to over-emphasising the word dude every time we happened to converse. The only guys who’d come anywhere near me were ones from other schools, who didn’t know about the overprotective twin that kept watched. Deep down I knew he meant well, which is why I put up with it for so long.

  Thirty minutes later, I pull into the carpark of the cheapest and least seedy motel I can find.

  “You safe?” Logan asks the moment he picks up.

  “And sound …” I state.

  “Good. Where are you staying?”

  I crane my neck to look at the giant neon sign above me, the l missing on both words. “Gilbert’s Motel.”

  “Is it nice?”

  “It’s cute.”

  “You ok?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Tired. I think I’ll get some sleep so I can set off early this time.”

  “Ha! I’ll never live that car service down.”

  “Don’t count on it any day soon. Sleep tight, brother.”

  “Night, Mae. Keep your phone on.”

  “Yes, Sir.” I hang up, and fall back onto my dusty bed for the night.

  You know those places that feel like you’re wading through dust? Yeah. This is one of them. And considering dust is majority dead human skin cells … I’m pretty much spending my night, literally, breathing people in.

  Joy.

  At least I can’t feel lonely knowing that, right?

  Slipping off into nothing, I thank the heavens for the hot and perfectly pressured water from the rusty, seen-better-days shower head.

  That feeling in the pit of my stomach is back, again. The one that began the morning Dale called off the engagement; tears and desperation, middle of our living room floor, begging him to change his mind.

  The constant questioning - why? Why now? Why here? Why after proposing? I had our life planned out and it was crashing down around me.

  Then, two days later he finally came out and told me he’d met someone. And all that inner turmoil mulched together and it felt like I was properly conscious after four years … and those four years with Dale cost me more than I had realized.

  My independence had withered. My belief that I could be alone had vanished. I had become so embedded in him for all the wrong reasons. He had me questioning myself, my dreams, and my decisions.

  Sammy and Logan flew over. They begged me to come home, but I thought I was being brave. I didn’t want to admit defeat in the face of destruction. I kept saying I was going to make it work, that Dale and I could come back from this. Sammy had been oddly quiet during our relationship, she wanted me to be happy. But she wasn’t holding back anymore. She sat me down and demanded I take a hard look at myself. Where had I gone? It didn’t take long for me to see I’d become a shell of my former self. I had let myself bend and break to everything Dale wanted of me, and I hadn’t noticed.

  I
asked them to leave after two weeks. I had to get my life back on track. I was showering again, eating small meals, and wearing clothes other than Dale’s.

  Then, three days ago, I took the strength I had built up and I packed my things. I took the car, which was all I wanted from the breakup, and got the hell out of there.

  I had woken up that Thursday morning and my heart told me, home.

  Standing in this motel shower, it feels strange to look back on those two months. But, maybe Dale had done me a favor. Yes, my heart still thuds an ache that has me catching my breath. And the numbness feels odd when I make jokes with Logan, or get a funny text from Sammy. But life works in peculiar ways and I can’t help but remind myself - sometimes the hardest things in life turn out to be necessary for progress, and in this case for me to get back to myself again.

  I would have married Dale. I would have cooked him his dinner every night, made sure my nails were always manicured, never missed a waxing session, and forever put his needs before mine. Then, in the ten or so years after marrying him, I would have woken up and wondered whether any part of myself still existed.

  And, now, more than ever, I want to exist so badly.

  After reliving the whirlwind of the last two months and scouring my body clean, I crawl into the dusty bed of dead skin cells and position myself right in the middle, sprawling my legs and arms out like a starfish.

  I place my hand on my heart, tapping it to remind myself that it's there, beating. The numbness can't take me.

  It’s okay to be alone. It’s okay to be alone. It’s okay to be alone.

  I repeat this until I drift into my first full night of sleep in an exhaustingly long time.

  CHAPTER two

  I wake with a jolt. I didn’t set an alarm, because I didn’t expect to sleep past six.

  I check my cell and the time reads 9:03, but I’m more distracted by the ten missed calls from Logan.

  “My phone was on silent …” I ramble, as soon as he picks up. He grunts. “I’m sorry, Logan - ” I continue, “ - but I had the best sleep in ages and I didn’t even mind eating all the dead skin cells …”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to get up, get some food, and get on the road.”

  “Sounds good. Glad to hear you’re alive.”

  “Alive and well brother dearest. Alive. And well.” I hang up and head for the shower.

  After an average coffee from a local cafe, I wander back to the motel to finish planning my route for the day.

  I’m contemplating loneliness and cats when the reception door slams, jolting me from my thoughts.

  I shield my eyes against the sun as someone strides toward me. They stop, managing to block the sun with their large six-foot-something-frame.

  “Kingston?” I ask, before I even know I’m talking.

  “Mae Walker as I live and breathe.” And the twang in his accent doesn’t go unnoticed to me. Those years traveling and playing in Texas have left his accent all mixed up.

  “What are you doing in Spokane?” I ask.

  “On my way back to Maine. Playing some small gigs along the way.”

  “Back to Maine? Me too. I’m going back there, too. Like today. As in right now I’m on my way there. For a short time. While I work out what’s next …” The words tumble from my mouth. “Wait.” I quickly bring my excessive talking to a halt. “Does Logan know you’re driving back? Have you spoken to him? Did he set you up to this?”

  I will give it to him, he looks confused at my sudden bunch of questions.

  “Ummm no. No. And no,” he states matter-of-factly.

  “I’m so sorry!” I blurt. “He’s been calling me constantly since I left yesterday - pointlessly worried. I thought maybe he’d gone completely mad and hired me a bodyguard.”

  Kingston chuckles and damn if that laugh doesn’t bring back memories.

  We grew up together, both our families traveling - moving away from Maine in between - but always coming back. And then, I guess with time, we really started growing up. Puberty was tough. I won’t lie that I had our future all planned out and he had his eyes trained anywhere but me. I became a jaded young adult when it came to him.

  In the end, he moved away to play football, I moved away to college, and we all moved on as life happens.

  “Loges will never change.” He points out with a laugh.

  “No, he won’t. He’ll always be trying to save me from harm. Present or not.”

  “He’s a good brother.”

  “That I will agree with,” I say. “How’s your family?”

  “Good. Mom and Dad are in California and Lily is in Oregon with Tara. They’re getting married back in Maine. They’ve asked me to sing at the wedding.”

  “Married! Oh, I’m so happy for them! They’re wonderful together!” And aside from the small pang of hurt from the reminder of my extremely brief engagement, I truly am. His sister was an ally for me growing up. “And I saw that you’ve been forging a music career since leaving football,” I say.

  “Eh. Career? That’s old reporter hype. I’m having fun and keeping myself busy since everything.” He gestures to his shoulder.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry to hear about it. Fuck that!” I declare, one hand on my hip, the other blocking out the slight bit of sun creeping through each time Kingston moves.

  He jolts out a laugh and gives me a strange look, shaking his head. “You sure have grown up.”

  My eyes narrow as I take in his statement. And the truth is, I have grown up, a lot.

  Losing my mom when Logan and I were seven, and having a distant - emotional and physical - Dad, was tough. As a child I spent so much energy looking for safe places and safe people. I was lacking guidance when it came to facing life and everything that came with it. Logan did what he could, but we were both kids, and then both teenagers. College helped me spread my wings and find a sense of myself, a way of accepting and loving parts I once hated. And I wanted more of that, which I thought Seattle would give me.

  Seattle took a lot from me, but it also created a determined woman who’s slowly demanding her power back.

  “So where are you off to next?” Kingston asks, breaking me out of my trance.

  “I was heading back to my room to figure that out. How about you?”

  “I have a gig in Coeur d’Alene tonight. It’s about an hour and a half from here. You should come.” His smile looks sincere and reminds me of home. “Only if you want. You may want to drive further today,” he continues.

  “You know what. I could take it easy. Text me where and when, and I’ll be there.”

  He extends his hand toward my cell. I hand it over and he puts his number in. It feels nice to have that old, comfortable familiarity with someone when you’re in the middle of nowhere with no idea where you’re going in any way, shape, or form.

  As I steer my Audi out of the motel parking lot, I watch Kingston ride off on his motorcycle. I smile to myself as old memories flood back. Reminders of days spent as children chasing one another from house to house. Witnessing each other grow up. Watching Kingston leave Maine and come back again.

  Maybe fate is a funny thing - old friends showing up when you need them most, but can’t articulate it well at all.

  ◆◆◆

  Once in Coeur d’Alene, I drop my bags off in my motel room and head to the venue for Kingston’s gig. I order a drink at the bar and watch him chat to the workers while they set up mics and sound. I catch him looking up, his eyes roaming the room before landing on me, his face falls into yet another boyish grin.

  “Hey.” He strides toward me and stops short. I can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling as strange as I am.

  “Hey!” I brush my hair from my shoulder to create some kind of non-awkward stand-still.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “Of course. As if I’d say no to hearing you sing.”

  At that, and with his trademark handsome grin to the floor, he excuses himself to the stage
.

  I don’t know how many people can look so damn good on a football field and then look even better and more at home on stage, but he does.

  Five songs in I feel a hand on my lower back. I turn to see a glassy-eyed guy leering down at me.

  “Where’ve you come from?” he murmurs in my ear. I take a single step to the side. “This is fate!” He continues without an answer.

  I laugh to myself. So much talk of fate.

  Fate. Such a funny thing.

  A couple of months ago I was lying on the floor of my living room begging a man to love me. And now I’m in a bar, watching a long lost friend sing songs that make the ache in my chest less achy.

  And then, as fate has it, I feel another presence to my left and am met with a kind, handsome face.

  “You all right?” asks the stranger.

  “It’s all good.” I smile. “I can handle him.”

  He nods. “Glad to hear.” He turns to leave, but quickly pivots back. “I’m Glen.”

  “Mae.” I stretch out my hand. He shakes it.

  “You live around here?” he asks.

  “Just passing through. Yourself?”

  “Yeah, for a short while anyways.”

  I hear the crackle of the mic and glance up to find Kingston has finished his song, and his eyes are burning into mine. I shuffle, slightly taken aback by the intensity of his stare.

  “So this is my last song for tonight,” Kingston speaks into the mic. He strums his guitar and the glassy-eyed guy leans closer into my right and Glen is close on my left. And right now, after spending the last four years playing house and pretending it fulfilled me. Right now, I somehow feel both incredibly lost, and yet absurdly in the right place.

  He finishes his set and the crowd goes wild, hollering his name. He has a way of making everyone want him in one way or another.

  “You with the band?” Glen asks.

  “Kind of. Not really. We’re old friends.”

  “Walker.” Kingston’s gruff voice vibrates through me. I turn around, eyes locked on his.

  “Great set, King.”

  “Thanks.” His stern look relaxes into a smile, which drops quickly when he looks past me to Glen. “Kingston James.” He extends his hand.