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

by Whitney Walker

  “Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the self.” – Bhagavad Gita.

  Yikes, this is going to take some yoga dictionary to understand. How the hell do you pronounce Bhagavad anyway? Hopefully, there is no test prior to becoming a student here. I think that is definitely 300 level.

  “The mind is everything. What you think you become.” – Buddha.

  I know Buddha was smart so figure I’d better pay attention to this one. At least I can pronounce Buddha. I envy the person that reads it and thinks, rock on! Certainly, if that is the truth, then I am on my way to becoming, well, I can’t really go there. I make a mental note on that one. I have a lot of work to do.

  When I read “The future depends on what we do in the present.” – Gandhi, panic sets in. Before this week, my present was filled with, well again, I am here now, right? I should definitely roll with this present. And also the present given to me by Liz.

  “Peyton?”

  Kristina is pushing a rolled-up purple mat into my hands. I’m busted for being in my own little world. I’m present now, in front of the studio door, shaking like a leaf. “Thanks.”

  She pushes open the heavy wooden arch-shaped door to reveal the narrow, dark wood-floored room with dimly lit ornate lanterns hanging along both sides. She motions for me to enter. “Have a great class!” And with that, I am on my own.

  I unroll the mat and realize my older legs don’t prefer a cross-legged position any longer. I don’t consider myself athletic or flexible, and I am pretty sure I am going to make a fool of myself. As if she can sense my hesitancy, Alexandra gracefully swoops in, bending over and whispering into my ear, “You’ve got this.”

  She starts class by welcoming all the new students. I am glad I am not alone on this new journey!

  “All that is required for the next sixty minutes is the ability to breathe.”

  I relax. I can handle breathing. And, since it’s basically dark, no one will really know if I screw up a pose or twelve, right?

  Relaxing into what she calls child’s pose as we lean our hips back on our feet and outstretch our arms in front of us, I let the stress of the last few days release from my muscles. Making my way through the first sun salutations and a warrior series, I love the teacher telling us to find softness and strength together. It speaks to me! I have always wanted to be the tough girl, but underneath, beneath the show that I work so hard to put on, I know I am not like my other friends. They are happily living the L.A. life with ne’er a mention of aspiring to more. I know there is something deeper to life, I just don’t know what.

  Before I know it, Alexandra is instructing us to slowly lie back onto our mats for the final pose. I am not sure how it’s considered a pose to be lying still on one’s back, but I am new to this so who am I to argue? It feels damn good. I am warm, and sweaty, and calm. I start to remember what it was like, what seems a long time ago, to feel happy and at peace. It has been too long. Next, we roll onto our sides into what Alexandra calls the fetal position. She tells us to leave anything behind that we don’t want to carry with us. I’ve got a Louis Vuitton set of luggage to unpack if that is the case.

  I roll up my mat, feeling ready to take on the big, bad world again. Stepping out of the studio with renewed purpose, I know exactly what to do. A minute later, the phone is ringing on the other end of the line I have dialed.

  “Pey, how’s it going in the D?”

  “Hey, Brad. It’s okay.” I pause, knowing he is probably well aware of what Kyle is up to. Brad is nearly omnipotent. “How about there?”

  I sense he suspects what I am up to when he laughs. “Oh, nothing much. Couple parties. You know. The usual.”

  Damn him for insinuating without dishing. Well, hopefully, when I ask for the next favor, he will be just as discrete. It comes along with the territory. Stars, celebrities, those of privilege. Call them what you like. He knows where and how to find them. Brad always gets the scoop. To call him paparazzo doesn’t do him justice, however, because he is not paid for gossip, but for crime and punishment. When someone suspects trouble, it is Brad who discretely, and expensively, delivers the news, good, bad or ugly, depending on which side you are on.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of Peyton Jennings calling? No one calls me just to chat.”

  Shoot. I hope I haven’t offended him, and sadly it is the truth in my case as well. “I’m sorry. That sucks. And I am just as guilty, because,” I bite my bottom lip hard, knowing how the words are going to sound, “I need a favor.”

  “For you, darling? Anything.”

  I know he means it. If Kyle hadn’t gotten to me first, we may have ended up together. I’d avoided finding out too much, as saying Kyle falls into the jealous type category is an understatement. I can sense that he is attracted to me, and I think maybe the rough exterior he presents is more for show than he lets on. It’s surprising he is friends with Kyle, considering.

  “I need a number for an address, please.” I exhale, realizing how nervous I am. I pull up the photo on my phone that I took of page 16, just in case, and rattle off the Chicago address. Realizing I may as well capitalize on him being on the line, I add, “And I need some dirt on a Jack Mannington from somewhere in Detroit.”

  “Uh, geez, Peyton, want to be a little more random? What the hell is going on there? Not one but two conquests? In such short order? At a funeral, no doubt?”

  Shit. While it is half the truth, by his tone, I can tell that he is now the one fishing for dirt on me, probably to protect his friend. I backtrack. “Ha, that’s very funny, Bradley. Don’t get carried away. I’m in Detroit, not Hollywood. Don’t be making up any crazy stories in your head.” Making up stories in the head is my job today.

  “Okay, Peyton, I am on it. I’ll text you what I find out. See you when you get back.”

  “Thank you. Thanks so much, Brad.” Then I feel I should add, just to alleviate any last-minute doubts, “It’s about my mom.” He’d be an ass to argue with that card being played.

  “Gotcha. Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  “Like always.”

  “Always. See ya, Pey.”

  I hang up and turn the key in the ignition of my mother’s car, realizing, once again, that I have nowhere to go. I turn the key backward and look around at the quaint surroundings.

  The hissing November wind bites at my cheeks the moment I step out of the car onto the charming street. The gray of the season needs extra light, and small white ones wrap each tree branch and trunk. They twinkle despite the early afternoon time. The studio is nestled between cute shops with old-fashioned black and white striped awnings featuring home décor and boutique clothing. The little girl in me window-shops at the toy store I pass, marveling at the fact that the indulgent Barbie dream house I always wanted is still coveted.

  It’s cold, so I choose the closest restaurant, advertising ‘Best Sushi in Town’ atop a mound of fake snow on the glass of the front window. It’s crowded with lunch patrons, and I slide onto a stool, joining plenty of company at the bar.

  I stay through the Happy Hour sitting at the bar, making more Midwestern small talk with other friendly singles and couples. As I am digging into my purse for my credit card, not Kyle’s, the vibration of my phone brushes against my hand. Hoping it is Brad, I flip it over in my palm to see that indeed it is. Two new messages. The first contains a phone number with an 847 area code. Chicago! My stomach does an arbitrary little flip-flop. Then it drops as I read the second message containing an address and phone number I know from memory.

  They are my own.

  Shit! Have I kicked Jack out of his home? Why wouldn’t he show himself at the funeral or meet me? How will I find him now that the only information I have on him is also mine?

  This bit of knowledge keeps me, albeit briefly, from thinking that I now may be able to track down J.T. Walker. I shake my head in disbelief while I walk back to the car, position myself into the seat and open Brad’s message again. Fingers trembling
as I dial, I hold the phone close to my ear as it rings three, four, then five times. The recorded greeting starts to play. “Hey, you’ve reached us. Well, not really, since Zach,” the voice changes, “J.T.” (His voice!) Another change, “And Owen… can’t take your call. Please leave us a message on our vintage answering machine and make it good so we can laugh. And don’t forget to say which one of us you are calling for,” J.T.’s voice chimes in again. “Or don’t.” Laughter ensues, then the beep. Who has a home phone these days? And does anyone actually check messages? And all of them will hear my message? I clear my throat and summon some bravery. “Hey, this is Peyton Jennings. I’m calling for J.T. Can you tell him that there are some people in Detroit that want to hang out?” I sound confident and cool. I am truthful with the message, as several of the other students did say they wanted to get together in Detroit, and after all, there is at least one for sure. Even though I shouldn’t.

  I am about to hang up when I hear rustling on the other end of the line. “Hello? Hello?”

  I press the phone back to my ear. “Oh hey, I didn’t think anyone was—”

  The voice interrupts, “Sorry, was outside grilling. Don’t ask me why. It’s like twenty below. I heard your message but had a plate of steak in my hands. Glad I caught you, because J.T. is still in Detroit. I’ll give you his cell. Gotta pen?”

  I look around the car quickly, and like the good Girl Scout my mother was, find one in the console. I write the number on my hand, above my thumb. I may never wash this hand again. I quickly thank the man I assume is Zach or Owen and try to think what the hell I can text J.T. that won’t make me sound like the stalker I am.

  The backspace my new best friend, fourteen minutes later, I’m still sitting in the same parking spot guiltily contributing to global warming with a running engine for heat. I struggle to find anything that works. I start with the same line I had used on the answering machine but can’t use the words ‘get together’ in a text. No way could a guy miss the sexual connotation. I try asking if he wants to hang out but that seems too childish. I mistakenly type ‘hook up while you are still here?’ Oops. Subconscious speaking? This is ridiculous. I should just call. Nothing can be left to interpretation then. But then again, doesn’t a little piece of me want him to interpret, or misinterpret, my double entendre and sexual innuendo? Besides, no one calls when facing potential rejection. Thus the beauty of text! Much less scary and painful if it happens.

  heard u r still in town…me too. bored. just in case…thought I would see if you want to grab a drink?

  My finger hovers over send as my stomach fills with a full kaleidoscope of monarchs migrating south. Hit the button, Peyton! I think of the time Hayden was sending a message to someone she was stalking on Facebook. She wouldn’t hit send so I ran across the room and, before she could protest, hit send myself. We had fallen into a fit of giggles. As I smile remembering, my phone still cradled in my now sweaty-palmed hand, buzzes.

  hey u! thx for text! curious how u got #??? hanging with mom 2 nite - raincheck?

  A grin overtakes my face. Not a yes, but not a no either. I can work with that. Typing back, then rereading just to make sure it is acceptable, but not overthinking, I hurry to hit send on a message that says:

  I’ll take a raincheck

  His response is just as quickly received. Men never think too much. Well, maybe sometimes they don’t think enough either. And here I am, overthinking again. His message says:

  tomorrow? dinner?

  Whoa! Has this just gone to a full-fledged date? Only I can overanalyze two words! It is dinner. How can I not think it is a date? I am pretty thrilled he didn’t ditch hanging with his mother on Saturday night for me when he is clearly interested. And I will see J.T. Walker again tomorrow! Two happy moments are even better than one.

  My phone buzzes again in my hand. He is calling! I look down at the phone to answer but see Kyle’s picture smiling up at me. Shit! What have I just done? A drink is one thing, but a date? My voice isn’t steady as I answer the call. I probably shouldn’t be answering at all, “Hey you.”

  “Hey, babe, everything okay? Brad said you were digging up some dirt on your mom.”

  Two thousand miles, less than thirty minutes. Thanks, Brad. Thanks a whole helluva lot.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, then unwavering add, “Totally fine.” Kyle isn’t a details guy, so I expect him to drop it. He does, changing the subject to his favorite topic. Himself, of course.

  “Great day today. I got callbacks. Wait for it,” he says, clearly amused. “Not for one, but three roles. Signing Shannon as my agent was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  Ever? “That’s great, Kyle. Really great.” I don’t want to tell him that Shannon had told me that if he fucked up any of the auditions because his “party boy” reputation was true, he was done. Kyle could be considered quite successful for all intents and purposes. He works consistently in B movies and has been on several television shows, just none that had made it past a couple of episodes. Like most everyone in Hollywood, minus the one percent that has already made it, he is waiting for his ‘big break’ His success has afforded us plenty of lifestyle luxuries, but also more than our fair share of trouble.

  I really do have everything I thought I had ever wanted. I have friends, maybe of the shallow and materialistic variety, but still. They were Kyle’s friends, but they have adopted me. They even gave me a place to live when I needed one. My last relationship, defined by the loosest sense of the word, as in it existed because I was loose, ended and I had nowhere to go. I’ve only been able to stay because Kyle subsidizes my rent. I’m ashamed to admit I work, stereotypically and pathetically, a waitressing job while auditioning for roles of my own. I’d been so happy just minutes before. Now, I think about the real reason I haven’t been home in so long.

  The ashamed girl inside me didn’t want to hear “I told you so” from everyone who had warned me. The Michigan governor had a grand scheme to build the ‘Hollywood of the East’ in an attempt to revitalize the flailing manufacturing-bound economy. Forty-six movies were shot in 2010 in Michigan, along with countless television productions. This had given plenty of us young actor wannabes false hope and lucky breaks. It had been easy to get small roles. I look the classic all-American girl-next-door part. Landing callbacks and spending late nights on set sneaking exciting glances at Josh Duhamel and Hugh Jackman in Transformers and Real Steel. I even got to meet my idol Courteney Cox. Me! Meeting Monica! It had me believing in the dream that I could be the next Friend or the leading lady to one of Hollywood’s hottest heroes. It had me believing in the dream of running away, making it big, and never looking back on my meager and painful upbringing. I would show them all. I dropped the few college classes I had been taking at a local college while living near campus in a grungy apartment, took my last movie paycheck and landed in L. A. with barely a penny to my name and no plan to speak of.

  I was young and hopeful. I was innocent, optimistic and naive. Or just dumb. I hadn’t earned my lifestyle in a respectable manner. Rather, I’d ridden the coattails of one man after another, with complete disregard for my body. In other words, I’d sold my soul to devil after devil. And not believing myself worthy of more, I let each one treat me as less.

  Tears stream down my cheeks as I realize I haven’t been listening to anything Kyle has said the last few minutes. He won’t notice I am crying. At least I had that going for me.

  “Sounds great, right?”

  “Yeah, great, Kyle. Just great. Hey, I gotta run. Can we talk in the morning? ”

  “Really, baby? You are too busy for me? What are you up to?”

  “My carry-out is ready. I’m starving.”

  “Okay, well, miss me.”

  “I do, Kyle.” I hang up the phone. I sit with my shame a few more moments until I close my eyes and see an image from the yoga studio wall. Letters dance to life as I breathe, long and deep. The future depends on what you do in the present.


  And with that, I return the text to J.T.

  sounds great – just say when and where!!!

  My phone buzzes again.

  Phew – you took long enough to answer!  Text u tomorrow

  He has just won my heart a bit more by sharing his insecurity. I’m probably not worthy of him, yet he is the one worried I might say no. Surprised, but pleased with his being real, I slide my phone back into my purse and say out loud to myself, “I can’t wait!”

  Now, what to wear?

  NOVEMBER 9th

  CHAPTER 4 | Peyton

  I may have topped one million looks at my phone by the time I make my way to the yoga studio on Sunday morning. I had woken up early, still not having slept well, but better than the prior nights. It is much easier to wake up with something like a date to look forward to, instead of, say, a funeral. I know better than to keep looking, ‘a watched pot never boils’ annoyingly ringing in my ears, but still. One more glance at the screen, just one last time—it’s only 9:49 a.m. for goodness’ sake!

  As my body moves through the motions, my brain is swirling ribbons of crazy. Still wondering what I will wear with my non-Midwest-appropriate wardrobe. Where will we go? Should I drink beer or wine? Does he want sophisticated or sassy? Sporty or classy? Are the two mutually exclusive or the best combination? Holy hell!

  I hear the teacher say, “Step your right leg back to a lunge. Your right leg steps back. Your right leg.”

  She’s talking to me. Quickly, I switch my legs, and not very gracefully. Once again, I am so grateful it is dark in the studio. In the quick scan of the room I had done after the teacher corrected me, it hadn’t appeared that anyone was glowering at me in annoyance. On the contrary, everyone seems to be lost in her or his own little world, eyes softly gazing forward and faces full of concentration and determination. Some even have their eyes closed.

  I hear the teacher suggest that we each stay focused in between the four corners of our own mat. Oops! Busted again!