One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm Book 1)

by Whitney Walker

  “Mrs. Jennings was my very favorite teacher, ever.”

  “Mrs. Jennings changed my life.”

  “Mrs. Jennings was the most wonderful human being I ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

  “Caroline was the most caring person.”

  “Your mother was one of the best teachers we ever had.”

  “You have no idea what this loss means to me and my family.”

  “We will miss Caroline more than you can ever know.”

  So many people seemed to know my mother in a way I never had. She had reached the hearts of many, just not her own daughter.

  I am the lone guest at this pity-party. Do I dare check the time? Flipping the phone on my nightstand over, I see the time is 6:04 a.m. My body on Pacific Time, I know that a 3:00 a.m. wake-up won’t bode well for my making it through the events of the day. I have to try to force myself back to sleep. Sheep? Stars? Something? Anything? Fail. Fail. Fail. I toss and turn until dragging myself to the shower seems the best option. The sky is just waking up, and I have forgotten how bleakly gray the winter in Michigan can be. I am going to need reinforcements against my lack of sleep and the bitter cold I feel in my bones. Starbucks is essential.

  Moving robotically through the motions of hair drying and makeup application, I can barely apply liner to the puffy-from-crying eyelids. Usually, my eyes are my best feature, bright blue, prompting many to ask if I am wearing contacts with the fake ocean-like color imprinted. Today though, they are a hazy cloudy sky-gray with just a tease of blue, and certainly, the red rims detract from their beauty.

  Standing in front of my closet, prolonging the inevitable, I take in the timeline of my past. Pushing my high school varsity jacket to the left reveals the last prom dress that I wore six years ago. The year of the fluffy netting skirts. All my friends had the same dress, but the color and adornments were unique to their personalities. I am a simple, no-frills girl. Then, and now. The royal blue I chose to highlight my eyes. A satin strapless bodice cinched at the waist with a wide black velvet sash that wrapped into a sleek, oversized bow in the back. It accentuated my breasts, a bit too big for my petite five foot two and three-quarters frame. I have my mother to thank for the oversized feature, one of our few shared genetic imprints. People often said we had similar facial features, but I never saw it. I always assumed I took after my father’s side.

  My mother was slender and without curves but mine is more feminine. My skin is on the fair side, and unlike my mother’s dark, straight, never-out-of-place hair, I have waves of blond that always seem to contradict my mood. Sometimes I want it straight and it is determined to keep its natural, soft curls. Other days I try to scrunch it for the sexy, beachy look and it wants to stretch out straight down to my breasts. I’ve learned surrendering to its schizophrenia is easier than the time spent willing it to comply.

  I remove my funeral dress from the hanger next to the prom dress. The prom dress was so much more fun to buy. I’d had to procure a black dress the night before I boarded the plane. When packing, the realization hit me that my wardrobe is full of skirts that barely, if I am being generous, cover my ass. I do live in L.A. after all.

  The four hundred-dollar price tag is still attached and hanging down the front, a flagrant reminder of the running tab I have with Kyle. I sigh heavily, knowing the item will come at a cost much greater. I slide into the dress feeling nothing like myself. Standing over my suitcase, I realize my black heels are more stiletto than sensible, especially for November. They could be construed as hooker heels. I contemplate checking my mother’s closet for a more conservative pair, but I need something to feel familiar. I slide my feet into one then the next. My feet will hurt like hell today, but the pain will be masked by the hurt I feel in my heart.

  I am losing my patience in the much-too-long-for-an-overpriced-coffee line. Don’t people sleep in Michigan? I overhear a ridiculous order, that being a venti, soy, extra hot, dry foam, with a splash of sugar-free vanilla. Seriously? There should be a rule against more than three adjectives paired with espresso. The woman in front of me turns backward, rolling her eyes in exasperation. I lean toward her and whisper, “How does one even know they like a drink with that many adjectives?” Clapping a hand over her mouth, she tries to contain a laugh, but it spills out. I react with an unexpected smile but try to duck my head, not wanting her to notice my disfigured lips and eyes. I’m caught.

  “It’s early to be having a bad day already.”

  She lays her hand on my forearm and I feel I may drown in her wave of compassion.

  “More like a bad lifetime.” I will the corners of my mouth up into a smile, but they don’t cooperate and get stuck just above flat. That was probably a bit overdramatic to drop on an unsuspecting stranger.

  Undeterred, the woman offers consolation, “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it gets better for you.”

  “Me too.” I have to choke back a fresh set of tears. It is utterly exhausting to live on the verge of tears, trying to keep the next set held back for fear of losing control completely.

  As I lose the battle to wipe my tears away as fast and furious as the back of my hands allow, dam compromised, the woman offers, “I have a suggestion if you are interested.”

  Swallowing hard, hoping emotion won’t get the best of me and words will still come, I answer, “At this point, I’d be crazy not to be.” My voice is still available, though quiet and lilting, as I force the words out around the tears.

  She points through the window to our right with her index finger and my eyes move to follow. “See that yoga studio right there? It might help.”

  “That’s funny, a few people have told me that lately. I’ve never done it, and I’d like to try.” I hesitate. “But is it expensive?” Though I have some financial options I can leverage if necessary, it will only add to the indebtedness, and the tab isn’t one that I want to continue to run up.

  “I bet they can work something out for you. They like to make sure everyone who needs yoga can do yoga. Just tell them Liz sent you. I’ll tell them to look for you, and sorry, how rude of me.” She offers her hand. “I’m Liz.”

  I have forgotten what it’s like to be in the Midwest. People are kinder and gentler here. Help with no strings attached, from a complete stranger, seems foreign. “Okay, thank you so much. My name is Peyton.” I sniff, then shake Liz’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Liz, and I’m going to do that. I’m going to go to yoga,” I say determinedly. I can do this. I should do this. “Thank you. It’s nice to have something to look forward to again.”

  As I enter the funeral home to endure another day of my mother’s death, I feel so alone. Really alone, not the lonely from earlier occasions, when I chose it. It has chosen me now. If I get married, there is no one to walk me down the aisle. I won’t have my mother by my side if and when I give birth. I never thought about having my mother there for the big moments until now when I can’t any longer. Girl doesn’t appreciate her mother until it’s too late. I am living the cliché.

  Here we go again. Another fake hug at the door by another “aunt” with her plastered smile. Neither the smile nor the hug is comforting. Catherine sizes me up from head to toe, where she pauses at the shoes. Her eyes slowly track back up my slender frame. “You have grown into a beautiful woman, Peyton.” The compliment is fine enough, delivered with sincerity, but I will dismiss anything that rolls off Catherine’s lips as only some semblance of truth.

  Hovering over my mother’s casket, I find the tears to be off duty this morning, a strong will from deep within keeping my guard up. I stand alone looking at the closed eyes and folded hands of my mother’s cold, lifeless body. The little interaction we’ve had in the past four years makes this woman feel more a stranger than she should be. She tried so hard. I ignored so much harder.

  I am distracted by a man’s laugh. A laugh that captivates me. It sounds innocent and filled with life, so contrarian to the moment I can barely restrain myself from spinning toward the soun
d. Not intentionally eavesdropping, I catch that his laugh is in response to a woman’s inquiry of whether he is still off trying to change the world and fix the broken.

  “There is a lot to fix, but I’m trying,” he answers after the laugh.

  “Well, Caroline was awfully proud of your work.”

  “Well, thank you, but I’m no saint. Some days I want to give up the fight and run away to Australia.”

  He had me at the laugh, but specializing in broken? Running away to Australia? He has captured my heart before hello! I need to meet him, know who he is, and how he knows my mother.

  I close my eyes and slowly turn in place. I make a quick promise to myself that if he is hot, I will be a good girl forevermore.

  A very good girl. I promise. Holy hell.

  Messy, naturally highlighted hair the color of honey frames a handsome-like-I-have-rarely-seen face. He is tallish, probably five foot eleven, but still tall compared to me even in my too-high heels. His dark jacket hides his frame, though he seems thin, and my imagination fills in the blanks. His gray shirt and black and blue chevron tie are crisp and modern.

  Giving all his attention to the conversation, I only see his profile and the curve of his strong, square jaw. His nose turns up slightly on the end, his cheekbones are high, and long eyelashes make his blinks appear to be happening in slow motion. Tan skin, unnaturally so for November in Detroit has me ridden with curiosity. My mind conjures up an image of the exotic sun and sand he may have just returned from visiting. He must sense my intense stare because his head begins to turn in my direction. My eyes quickly dart toward the floor, and my chin dips, but I believe I have been busted.

  When my gaze lifts, he is facing me with a sympathetic smile, and I know that he knows who I am. He has the upper hand since I do not have the same luxury. I force my lips closed into a shy smile as he turns back toward the woman and I hear him excuse himself from the conversation. When his whole body is facing me, and it’s clear that he is going to close the short distance between the two of us, my heartbeat stutters. This man is full-on beautiful. Capital B. My type is usually tall, dark and handsome, but for this man, I can make an exception. His smile weakens me in the knees, and I realize this is a completely inappropriate reaction for this situation. Am I at my mother’s funeral pining for a man?

  As if he comes to the same realization that his reaction is incongruous to the circumstances under which we are meeting, he appears to force the corners of his mouth back into the original sympathetic smile. However, he is unable to hide the remains of my impact in his eyes. Bright blue that rival my own, they look as if they hold a million secrets in the light and dark shades that mingle together. His eyes draw me in, involuntarily causing mine to narrow into slits, squinting from their brightness, like walking from a darkened place into the sunshine.

  “You must be Peyton,” rolls off his tongue as his hand reaches toward me. I can’t help losing myself in those eyes that seem to peer into mine in a way that says he knows everything about me already. I am exposed. Internally commanding my hand to rise to meet his, my brain and limbs no longer seem to be connected to one another, or perhaps they are just ignoring me, also taken aback by the devastatingly handsome stranger.

  Still mesmerized by those eyes and lips and the rest of him, I should have known my hand held in his would do nothing to calm my senses. His hand is soft, warm, and immediately comforting. We hang on just a second too long for a regular nice-to-meet-you exchange.

  My heart catches, takes pause, then subsequently beats anew, different, and irrevocably changed somehow. His fingers close around mine as his left hand moves up to cup my elbow. Unable to speak, I stand motionless, eyes still locked in place.

  He is undaunted by my stupor. “You look just like her. Mrs. Jennings. So you’re Peyton, right?”

  Still not finding my outside voice, I manage to lift my head up and down, some semblance of a nod.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Peyton. Mrs. Jennings, your mom, was a great woman.”

  So I’ve heard.

  Swallowing hard, I manage to squeak out, “Thank you.” Then I realize that I still don’t know his name, but must. Right now. I find my voice and more confidently ask, “And you are?”

  “J.T. Walker. Your mom was my teacher and counselor.”

  “Thank you for coming, J.T.” I have to try out his name and see how it works for me. It does. This seems wrong but feels so right.

  My attention is diverted to another hand on my arm as Catherine appears out of nowhere and interrupts, “Peyton, I need to introduce you to someone.” Her fingers curl around my arm as she pulls me forcefully toward a group of people gathered nearby. I look back over my shoulder to where J.T. was standing the moment before. His back is already turned as he converses with another man who looks to be about our age. Somehow, in an instant, everything seems different. I can do this. Fake smiles hurt less than the day before, and forced conversation is more tolerable as I introduce myself to all of the people gathering here in celebration of my mother’s life.

  I listen more carefully to the compliments paid today. Have I underestimated my mother? Maybe there is a lot more to the woman than I had taken the time to understand. What if I will never know? Overwhelmed with this thought, and for the first time today, I cover my mouth to catch a sob that rises in my throat and forcefully seeks an exit. Blinking hard to hold back the tears I know are a moment behind, I look around for the nearest breakdown-appropriate escape. I see a perfect corner to hide away from the crowd and hurry in its direction. Rounding the corner, I come to an abrupt halt as I bump into a man amid his own full-on cry. It is a toss-up who is more startled. His head lowers to make his face indistinguishable, and he brushes past me quickly toward the building exit. I start to chase after him, to find out who he is, as he appears more distraught than any of the others here, including my blood relatives.

  No! My path toward the door is compromised. A large man cuts me off. I try to look beyond the formidable frame but can’t pass. Imposing hands reach for both of my shoulders as he canvasses me. Face. Breasts. Hips. Breasts. Gross. He pulls me in for a hug but I keep my arms straight and limp at my sides, not returning the embrace. “Peyton, say hello to your Uncle Gus. I can’t believe that this is the first chance I’ve had to say hello.” His voice makes me want to spit in his face. I know his suit is expensive, but he can’t help but cheapen it. His slicked-back hair, the red face that screams I drink too much, and politician-esque charm are revolting. Hell isn’t a horrific enough place for Gus Rhodes to rot and burn.

  I sidestep Gus, mumbling, “Excuse me, please.” I can feel his persecuting eyes on my backside as I push past him through the crowd. I know he is looking at my ass. He even gives a little cat-call whistle. Barely subtle. Bountifully disgusting. After today, I shouldn’t have to deal with these relatives ever, ever again, and this fact causes glee to do a little dance up and down my spine.

  Finding the stranger now is a lost cause. He has disappeared through the front door, leaving me perplexed. Why on earth would someone hastily exit as he did? Was he embarrassed by his emotional tears? Avoiding someone seeing him? I don’t have time to continue the conversation in my head as a female voice speaks to me from behind. A woman with a sliver rectangular nametag, in a dress that should have stayed in 1972 when it appears to have been made, stands before me. “Peyton? We’re ready to get started. Are you ready?” Is that a rhetorical question? Is anyone ever ready for this?

  NOVEMBER 8

  CHAPTER 3 | Peyton

  U pon waking, I know it’s late, sunbeams cascading through my window from high in the sky. I roll over. It feels like I have a hangover, only with no fun involved. Reaching for my phone on the bedside table, and finding that it is ten minutes after nine o’clock, makes me grateful. I have fewer hours to get through in this day than expected. I’ve been in bed for nearly fifteen hours, and much preferred these last fifteen to those prior that included a funeral, luncheon, and cemetery. A
feeling of finality sweeps over me. I am alone in this world now. Truly alone. Now, I am only accountable to myself, and can only disappoint myself. This fact terrifies me and feels empowering at the same time.

  Too much thinking is going to make me crazy, so I make the choice to take this whole thing one moment at a time. And in this next moment, I am going to distract myself by trying to get a glimpse of one J.T. Walker. Throughout the funeral and luncheon, I had tried to sneak glances in his direction. I could feel his presence and kept working the crowd to get closer to him just to try and take him in. We hadn’t said another word to each other, and I wasn’t sure I wasn’t making up the attraction.

  Swiping my finger across the smooth screen of my phone, bringing it to life, I quickly type in my passcode and bring up the search bar. I type in his name and scroll through the thumbnail images that appear. Not one contains a glimpse of the man I’d met. I try various searches on Twitter and Instagram but to no avail. Damn it. You just never know how someone might name themselves on social media. There is also the small fact that I have no idea what the J and the T letters that comprise his name stand for.

  My cyberstalking is interrupted by an incoming text across the top of the screen.

  morning, babe – hanging in there?

  Kyle. It is the first thought I’ve had of him in much longer than I should admit. Even to myself. Shit.

  hey – still in bed. guess u could call it hanging…

  A second later his face is covering my screen with an incoming call. Thankfully, he isn’t adding video as I surely look like hell. It’s likely that yesterday’s makeup, post crying and sleeping, has made its way to parts not warranting its presence. Hesitating before answering, to mentally prepare myself, I finally press the green button and move the phone to my ear.