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

by Whitney Walker

  “Pey, how’s it going?”

  “Hey there.”

  “You missed a wicked party last night. Well, and this morning.”

  Really? This is where he goes? Thank you for the news, Mr. Sensitive. I was a little busy burying my dead mother. Deeming it not worthy of the effort to call him out, I reply soberly, probably the opposite of what he is right now, considering he is calling at 6:10 a.m., “It was Friday so of course I did.”

  “When are you coming home? You know I hate sleeping alone. And waking up with a raging boner and no one to knock it down is even worse.”

  I take in his selfish words and the disrespect he has just displayed. This is nothing new. But what is new is the realization that I’ve grown well equipped to deflecting, and sometimes even defending, his heartless actions and bad behavior. We always have fun as a couple, don’t we? At least as long as we are partying together. For real life, however, I’d seen another side when the call came informing me that my mother had been in the hospital with pneumonia and hadn’t made it out. I’d stood motionless in the middle of the room, my mobile phone falling to the floor as if it could take the news with it. Away from me. When he’d asked me what was wrong, and I had told him, he’d barely stopped playing his guitar to reply, “Bummer, baby. Well, you haven’t seen her in forever anyway, so it’s not like much has changed. Right? Maybe you will get some dough out of it.”

  All that I had wanted was big arms to hold me and tell me it would be okay. That I didn’t have to go back to Detroit by myself and handle everything alone. He hadn’t offered to come with me or held me, or anything else that would have resembled emotional support. Being that he is already nearly a decade older than me, it isn’t as if he is going to grow up quickly and get it, is it?

  At that moment, I had known it was the beginning of the end. Extracting myself from his life—our life—will be no small feat. He’s said on more than one occasion that the secrets I have locked away could lock him away, and if I don’t marry him I’ll have to take them to my grave. I am not sure that he didn’t mean it quite literally.

  “I’ll be back next Thursday.” I don’t say I’ll be home. I am not sure where home is for me any longer.

  “Okay, babe. Try not to miss me too much.”

  With all that I have to do to sort through this house and my mother’s finances, I am pretty sure that I am going to be a little too distracted to spend my time pining over the fact that I am two thousand miles away from him.

  “You could come here and help me,” I say, voice unsteady.

  “No way, Peyton. I don’t do death. Too real.”

  Well, he is right about that. And I am right about him. I could be setting myself up to spend the rest of my life with a man that admittedly couldn’t handle the inevitable, such as death. I wonder, however, can he even handle life?

  “Besides, Pey, you know I hate planes.”

  The more he talks the more I wish he wouldn’t. Don’t people do things for the people they care about even though they are scared?

  “Okay then.” I try to tame the bitterness I feel, but my voice is still more harsh than soft. “I’d better get moving. I’m still in bed and have a million thank you notes to write for everyone that came to the funeral. It was pretty incredible actually.”

  “Good luck with that. Talk to you tonight, okay? I’ll call before we go out. We’re hitting that new club Luke was telling us about last week. It’s supposed to be the place to be these days.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Have fun.” Then I think to add, “But not too much fun.” I am usually by his side for the mayhem he finds, and he did just confess to not liking to sleep alone. He hasn’t been out without me in, what is it, probably close to a year now? Has our one year together come and gone? Is it coming up soon? The date is on the tip of my tongue, but why don’t I remember? Surely it should be significant enough to remember. Maybe I have killed too many brain cells this past year. Maybe it is early onset Alzheimer’s. At least that wouldn’t be self-induced. I could justify not knowing. I realize there has been a long, awkward pause.

  “I’ll behave, Peyton. I love you.”

  Wait, what? Did that just happen? Maybe I should have taken a trip away from him sooner. I am caught off guard, and not completely sure how I want to reply, but before I know it my response is spilling forward, “You too, Kyle.” I feel weak, and a bit bewildered. Perhaps by this point in our relationship, this declaration of love should have already happened, but it hasn’t. And sadly, I can’t help but think it was better that way.

  Swinging my legs to the side, over the edge of the bed, I let my feet hit the wool rug covering the old oak floor. I arch my back and stretch my arms, clasping my hands over my head. I sigh out a big breath as I peer through the open door, across the hall, at the door of the master bedroom. My mother’s bedroom. I’ve walked past the room at least a dozen times now, not daring to cross its threshold. Too painful. Too raw. The door is open just a crack, but in the wrong direction for me to see into the room at all. The white painted wood door beckons me, teasing and taunting.

  Pushing myself up off the bed, I stand in place waiting for my legs to stop trembling. Every cell in my body is tense and on high alert, adrenaline coursing. I am wide awake now. Something is pulling me forward, like in a horror movie where the characters are powerless to resist some unseen force that the audience is sure will cause their demise. No, no, no screams inside my head, urgent and demanding, but courage drowns out the voice. “You can do this,” I say aloud as my fingers curl around the cool metal door handle.

  With purpose, I push the door and my body into the room in one motion so there is no turning back. Finding myself staring into my mother’s mirror affixed to the dresser, I see for the first time the resemblance to her that others always insist I bear. It is remarkable!

  As if placed there purposefully to call me closer, a picture of me and my mother sits atop the dresser, in front of the mirror. I squint at the frame, trying to recall it being taken, which I can not. I pick up the frame and run the pad of my thumb across my face. Am I twelve? Thirteen? Anyone who looked at this picture would have thought the women sisters, not mother and daughter. She had always looked young, but I hadn’t realized how young. She was a young mother, having birthed me at twenty-four. This is the age I am now, and I can’t imagine having a child of my own. Maybe I wasn’t intended to be part of her plan.

  I slowly survey the room, each object evoking a little stabbing sensation on my insides as it registers. First, a ceramic heart-shaped trinket box with a painted pink rose on top. I lift the top. Inside are little teeth. My baby teeth? How disgusting! Why has my mother kept these? Several books adorn the nightstand. There is a book about love languages. My mother was reading a relationship book? I lift the book to reveal the title of the book below, The Agenda of Love. I think back to Kyle saying that he loved me. Why has he said it now when I am gone? And over the phone? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Does he miss me? Or is it, perhaps, that he has his own agenda? I will let my guard down and assume nothing will happen while I am gone. I am burying my mother and that would be cruel. But then again, maybe he was hedging in case he brought home another woman tonight. Or worse yet, already has. Why does my brain go there? Maybe he does love me and finally chose to say so?

  My eyes canvass the double bed. It is neatly made, a navy and white flower-patterned comforter pulled taut. White eyelet lace pillows look so pure and innocent in their places, all prim and proper. My mother probably made the bed every day of her life and spent an extra ten seconds on each pillow making sure they were in their right place. Though she tried to pass on the habit by explaining that making the bed tells your brain you have already accomplished something so early to waking, it never stuck.

  When my eyes land on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, one eyebrow shoots up as my head involuntarily cocks for a closer look, curious about what I see. A three-inch, leather-bound, masculine looking book lays on the table
. Gold imprinted letters catch the sunlight just right and send a small gleam of reflection. I walk around the bed to the other side and pick up the book, index finger tracing the letters of THE BIBLE. My finger then trails the three or so inches to letters at the bottom of the cover. Those which read JACK MANNINGTON. I look around the room more quickly now, for a glimpse of anything else that could be remnants of… what? A lover? Boyfriend? My mother had never spoken a word about a man. Had I asked? Had I just assumed that my mother never had a man around? The yard was immaculate. Why hasn’t it crossed my mind that perhaps she had help keeping it so?

  I see nothing glaring, but carry my shaky self back to the dresser, avoiding eye contact with myself, and open the top drawer on the right. My mother’s bras. Middle drawer. Underwear folded perfectly and arranged by color, of course. As I reach for the handle of the drawer on the top left, I take in a sharp breath, peeking into the drawer with just one eye as the other tries to avoid seeing anything unthinkable. Socks. Female ones. I blow out my breath then look over my shoulder at the closet. Opening the double doors that I remember my mother installing to replace the traditional bi-fold ones, I close both eyes this time. When I open them, I am smacked in the face with the reality that the contents reveal, plain as day, that there is a him to the her. The his and hers closet can’t be more obvious, the line of demarcation a black suit jacket of his and a long pink and orange floral dress of hers.

  My breath whisks away from me as my eyes fill with tears. I am surprised to find they aren’t tears of sadness, however, but relief. My mother hadn’t been lonely. Relief is quickly replaced by distress and guilt when I realize I’d never—until right now—given a shit if she was. What kind of a monster am I to know so little about her?

  I stand in the room wishing that I could know more, but payback or karma or coming full circle really is a bitch.

  Lost in self-loathing, my thoughts drift to the man that I’d stumbled on crying before he ran, Cinderella-like, out of the funeral home. I wonder, could that have been him? Jack Mannington? The man who had shared my mother’s bedroom and probably her heart? The thought sends me scrambling down the stairs, the sound of fast footsteps echoing on the hardwood, to the kitchen counter. I had laid the book of visitors and thank you notes across the small island when I returned home last evening. I start at page one of the guest-filled book looking for the name I’ve seen on the Bible upstairs. Not finding it at first glance, I return the book to the counter and decide to make coffee before going through the book page by page.

  I hit brew on the coffee pot and can’t resist picking up the book again. Opening the cover, tears brim, then streak my cheeks. I don’t bother trying to wipe them away, just keep blinking so the letters remain in focus. Caroline Grace Jennings is written in the cursive writing of a stranger. Then in print: October 24, 1965 – November 3, 2014. I think of her birthday just past. All I did was send a text. I didn’t even call. I didn’t ask if she had plans. I didn’t post anything on social media about her. I suck. And I can’t apologize any longer.

  I turn the first crisp page to escape the date mocking me. Balancing the steaming mug on my knee, I open a small drawer in the table next to the worn brown leather living room chair where I sit. As I’d hoped, it holds a set of coasters. Tricolored wood with Naples, FL scrawled in a fancy font in the bottom right corner. I wonder if my mother had been there to buy these or if they were a gift, but, of course, it is just another question for which I have no answer.

  Picking up on page sixteen, where I’d left off in the kitchen, I find no listing for a Jack but do find an unexpected surprise. An entry for J.T., with a Chicago address listed beside his name. My brain conjures up a truly ridiculous scenario with J.T. receiving the thank you with my return address, showing up on my doorstep, then sweeping me off my feet, overtaking me with kisses. Where the hell does this come from? Maybe the stress is tearing my rational thinking to shreds. Here I am, paper-stalking a mystery man of my mother’s while dreaming up fantasies for myself with another funeral guest. All the while, I remind myself, I have a boyfriend who, um, apparently loves me.

  I use a hot sip of liquid down my throat to clear my mind, and then finish reading through the stack of pages in the book. Nearly forty pages with eight names to a page. Over three hundred people, but none named Jack. Frustrated, I return to the kitchen, pour another steaming mug of coffee, grab a black ballpoint pen, the thank you notes, my laptop, and return to the chair. Not having a clue what to write in thanks for attending a funeral, I bring up my search engine and start to type. Instead of searching for how to write funeral thank you notes, as I’d intended, my fingers, seemingly of their own accord, have the letters Jack Mannington scrolling across the search bar. No returned results are worthy of my cyberstalking. Not a damn thing. Two strikeouts for the day. Who are these men who manage to hide in the digital age?

  Finishing my original search, I grab the pen and a thank you note in a huff and open the book again. I write like a mad woman until my eyes are blurring and hand cramping. Nowhere else to go, I lean back into the chair to stretch my back and ailing fingers. I make a fist and open my hand, again and again.

  I make my way back to the kitchen and look through the cupboards, pantry, and refrigerator. All are full. I guess that is usually the case when one dies unexpectedly. But what if you know you are going to die? Do you eat everything and not go shopping? Not refill the cabinets? Restock the milk? At least there would be the chance to say goodbye. This thought makes my body cover in goosebumps. There is no chill, but I shake like there is one blowing directly across my skin. I am terrible at goodbyes, always stretching out the text string or hanging on the phone awkwardly. But this one I would have welcomed over the alternative.

  Sighing heavily, I realize that even with plenty of food in the house, nothing sounds appealing. I don’t have any appetite. What should I do next? Putting my coffee mug in the dishwasher gives me an idea. The nice woman I had met, Liz, had told me to try yoga. I laugh to myself as I think, “No time like the present.” The L.A. yogis brag about the peace they have living in the present thanks to the practice, and peace is something I could use right about now.

  Finding that there is a yoga class beginning in forty-five minutes at Exhale, the studio Liz had pointed out, I walk through the doors fifteen minutes before class begins.

  To the right, three brown leather chairs cozily encircle a round black ottoman, a pupil in the middle of a caramel colored eye. The semi-circle sits in front of a faux-stone fireplace of gray and light brown which climbs the wall to the ceiling. The fireplace is lit and has the lobby warm and welcoming.

  I observe other students sitting on six tan leather benches for two, removing their shoes. Each pair claims one of the black Ikea cubes, stacked five high and eight long, covering the wall to the left. I slide into one of the butt imprints worn into the bench closest to the cubbies.

  Straight ahead is a sleek and modern black wood desk with two iPads perched atop. I almost chicken out mentioning that Liz has sent me. I fear I will sound like a fool asking for the Liz special, but I really don’t want to add to the list of items that are accumulating on Kyle’s credit card. I know yoga is expensive and Kyle is already helping me bankroll a life I pretend I can afford. She’d seemed so sincere in her offer, I somehow feel it isn’t an imposition.

  When the woman in front of me has finished checking in, I step forward and swallow my pride. “Hi. This is my first class. Liz said to mention she sent me?” My voice rises at the end to make the statement sound like a question.

  “Oh, of course!” She presses her lips into a line and looks upward in thought. A moment later she snaps her fingers as if something comes to her. “Peyton?” I nod enthusiastically. “Hi, I am Kristina. Liz was hoping you’d make it! Just need a couple of signatures from you. Welcome!”

  And with that, a clipboard is in front of me. That was easy, I think, taking the papers from the woman with the broad smile radiating calm. Maybe someday I ca
n come across like that as well. Or not. At least I have made it here. Gotta start somewhere!

  I look up from my clipboard at a tall and slender woman who has approached me. Her sculpted body and sparsely wrinkled face contradict her shoulder-length gray-silver bob. She had been talking to other students when I entered. She has kind eyes that smile even when she is not. Her hand reaches for mine, “Hi, Peyton. I am Alexandra, a teacher here. I’ll be teaching class today. We are so glad that you could join us.”

  “Well, I have Liz—” I stop mid-sentence. “Sorry, I don’t know her last name—to thank.”

  “I’m guessing I know that Liz.”

  “Well, if you see her, can you please thank her for me?”

  “I’d be happy to. By the way, nice sneakers. Chanel Couture? Did you get them in Paris?”

  “They were a gift from my boyfriend but thank you.” I wonder how a yoga teacher knows about Paris fashion and want to ask but another student has commandeered Alexandra.

  I pass the paperwork to Kristina, who smiles up at me and stands quickly, coming around the front of the desk. She waves at one of the iPads Vanna White-style. “Next time you come, just check in here.” She types PEY in the search field and my name pops up. She clicks on it and to the right appears a square box to check in. Just click here. “We have over fifty classes a week, and you have an unlimited membership so you can come anytime.”

  I’m overwhelmed with Liz’s generosity.

  “Follow me and I will show you the studio,” Kristina says bubbling with pride and starts down the long hallway behind the desk. On each side of the perfect-day lightest blue-sky painted hallway are quotes facing one another, stenciled in black feminine, swirly fonts. The first reads: