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

by Whitney Walker

  Jenna bounds into the bathroom and assesses my white cropped jeans and long-sleeved, flowy black blouse that covers what it should. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

  “I am dressed.”

  “How long is this grandma phase going to last? I thought as a single girl you might want to doll it up a bit, in case. You never know who you might meet during a GNO!”

  GNO. That reminds me of NGO. I lean toward the mirror and apply light pink, natural-looking lip gloss onto my very big smile. “I’m good, thanks.” I feel a bit mischievous.

  “Well, suit yourself then. Maybe you can pick up a Mormon or something looking like that.” She waves her index finger up and down, pointing to my body, then shrugs.

  “Maybe, if I’m lucky. They probably cheat less. And God knows I’d save the calories on the drinking.” Oh! Something I had not thought about in dating J.T. Extra chocolate and ice cream calories. I think of his sculpted abs and ass. On second thought, hold the ice cream.

  The cab is mercifully able to get close to the door—the fewer steps the better in our high heels. Not surprisingly, with the traffic, we are late, and Sam Smith is already crooning away. We each buy an overpriced cocktail and make our way to amazing seats. First row of grown-up seats, as close to the stage as you can get without being with the kids in the too-hot and crowded front standing-room-only section. I lean forward and look left, to Meredith on the aisle, and yell over the music, “These are great seats! Where’d you get the tickets?”

  She leans forward but mouths something akin to not being able to hear while pointing to her ear. I notice Jenna and Hayden exchange glances before they look back to the stage. I decide not to ask.

  Next up, OneRepublic is taking the stage, whirling lights and loudness. So many amazing artists are here tonight. Because everything makes me think of J.T., I can’t help but wonder what he would be like at a concert. Does he dance? Well?

  Hayden nudges me with her elbow. “Come with me!”

  “Where?” I yell towards her while keeping my eyes fixed on Meghan Trainor, who has just started dancing in our direction.

  “I’ve got friends in a suite!”

  The invite appeals to me because I am hungry and don’t want to spend money on food if I don’t have to. “Okay,” I yell back, standing up. “Is everyone coming?”

  “No, just you. They can’t get us all in.”

  Hayden leads, and I climb the stairs up from the floor behind her. Reaching the concourse, Hayden points to the sign directing us to the suites. She reaches for my hand and drags me forward, like a mom pulling her child. “Hey, I’m coming,” I protest. “It’s the damn shoes!”

  We take the elevator to the fourth level, thank the elevator attendant, and head down the hall to suite 1416. Loud laughter and voices are floating into the hallway from the suite. I hear the familiar voice of Brad. If Brad is here, it means Kyle is too. Of course. The tickets. Damn it!

  I turn on my heel and start to head back toward the elevator, but I am lifted off my feet, arms around my waist. “Not so fast!”

  I kick my legs and wiggle in an attempt to set myself free. I feel like Naomi Watts in King Kong’s grip. Kyle sets me just inside of the suite, where Hayden thrusts a drink into my hand with a charming smile I want to smack off her face, then disappears into the crowd. Brad steps over quickly, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “You don’t look happy to be here,” he whispers. Kyle knew when I crossed the threshold that I’d have to act civil. I plaster on a smile for several people who surround me and say they miss me. I resist rolling my eyes. It takes work.

  Kyle has managed to besiege me with people like a caged bird, no room to fly. “Baby, we need to talk.”

  I can’t even see around his hulk of a frame. I’m trapped, with no one to come to my rescue. “Don’t call me baby, Kyle, and there is nothing to say.” I could go rogue and make a scene with my words, but I know that won’t end well for me.

  “Listen, I’m sorry for getting to you like this, but I know we can work this out, Peyton. I know it. You know it. Your friends know it. We belong together, and I’m not letting you walk away from us.”

  “Oh my God, Kyle. Let’s be clear here. Crystal fucking clear. I didn’t walk away from us. You walked away from us. You chose to hook up with someone else, and that was the end of us. Do I need to spell it out for you? E-N-D.”

  “I promise you. It will never happen again, Peyton.”

  “I know it won’t. Because I won’t be with you to let it.”

  “I just wish you didn’t seem so happy. I wish you seemed a little more bent about this.”

  “I’ve just found ways to make myself feel better, Kyle. You should try it sometime.”

  “Like what?” he demands. “Are you fucking someone else?”

  “No, Kyle. That is your M.O., not mine.” What J.T. and I had done was not in that category. “Yoga. It helps me let everything go. Specifically, you. It makes me happy.” I see Brad watching me from across the room. I use the opportunity, waving across the space, then walking swiftly past Kyle in his direction.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Kyle is doing what he can to win me back. It’s not going to happen.”

  “To be honest, I’m scared of what might happen if he doesn’t have you, Peyton.”

  “How can I be responsible for Kyle, Brad? I can barely take care of myself.”

  “He loves you, Peyton, and you keep him grounded.”

  I can finally roll my eyes. “I’m tired of all of you saying that. If he loved me, he would have been consoling me for losing my mom and not consoling Kate for losing her job. And he is a grown man. I am not responsible for him. Brad, for all of our sakes, convince him. We’re over.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Pey, but I’ll try.”

  “Try hard, Brad.” I give him a quick hug. “I’m out of here.”

  “Okay, see you. And hey, I like the new look.”

  “Thanks, Brad.”

  I escape the claustrophobia of the suite to my seat, sans Hayden, who was deeply engrossed in a conversation with one of Kyle’s friends, Jackson. I would have a chat with her later about that little plan of hers. In the meantime, I had to enjoy the view and the music. It was too good to pass up. Thanks for your generosity, Kyle Nixon.

  DECEMBER 10th

  CHAPTER 24 | Peyton

  I need yoga. I miss J.T. and have fifteen more days until the chance to see him again. Kyle has sideswiped my friends and I am living on guard, wondering what his next move might be. I roll out my mat, excited for sixty minutes of focus on breathing and moving and listening to whatever message the teacher has for me today, though Alison doesn’t hold a candle to Alexandra.

  I ease onto my back, one vertebra at a time, and breathe deeply, relaxing into my own little world on the four corners of my mat.

  “Pssst.”

  It’s close to my ear. My eyes open. I startle to sitting, back to the unbelievability of the here and now. How dare he invade my sacred space! “What are you doing here, Kyle?” I hiss into the quiet of the studio.

  “You said I needed to find a way to make myself happy, and you said that yoga made you happy.” He is beaming proudly. “If A equals B and B equals C, then, you know, as they say, the rest is history.”

  “That’s not exactly what they say, actually.” I quickly assess the room for another spot to relocate my mat, but it’s filled up, with class about to begin. I contemplate leaving, but damn it, I have been looking forward to this all day. I will have to use my infantile yoga skills and try to detach from the distraction of him. It may be fun, however, to see him in his first class. He is a large man, and athletic, having been a collegiate lacrosse player, but in my month on my mat, I’ve witnessed plenty of athletic men lacking grace and resting during class.

  Struggling to breathe, my lungs under duress, I think Kyle is sucking the oxygen out of the whole damn studio. I can push through class, get beyond him, and on to J.T.! I know I can. Less
than twenty feet away, on the wall just beyond the door is a quote that tells me so. “The future depends on what we do in the present.” Yes! Kyle can’t have my peace! I’ve got this. I close my eyes and slide more deeply into extended warrior. Stretching into the long line of the pose always makes me feel feminine and sexy. Eat it up, Kyle Nixon.

  DECEMBER 11th

  CHAPTER 25 | Peyton

  T oday’s filming is wrapping early because tomorrow evening we are shooting until 6:00 p.m. to capture the sunset against the city’s skyline view from one of the uber-expensive penthouses I’m thrilled just to step foot inside. This allows me to work a dinner shift at Conundrum, so I can purchase Christmas presents for Jack, his family, and J.T.

  I’d heard from J.T., finally, as he was getting ready to wrap up his day, while I still had a seven-hour shift to work! He said that all was well, claimed to miss me like mad, and he was counting down the minutes until I was in his arms again. I couldn’t have asked for a better pick-me-up after the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I’d had with Kyle vying for forgiveness. Even if things didn’t work out with J.T., I knew I would never be lonely enough to settle for Kyle.

  Arriving at work, I am excited to be given the patio to work on a picture-perfect evening. I love working outside, the heat lamps flushing the chill out of the air, and being close to the passersby and activity of the street. Made up stories fill my head about the couples strolling hand in hand, or those rushing home from the office to waiting families.

  My tables fill, nearly all at once, and I am ready to get my efficiency on! Hot sauce for table eight, extra ranch for table three, Chardonnay at nineteen dollars a glass for not one, but two ladies at table six. I peek up from my bar pick-up to see Kelly seat one older lady at my last two-top. She looks the part of L.A. matron. Her this-season Louis draping from her arm cost more than three months of my income. A long strand of pearls, no doubt real, decorate her tailored navy short-sleeve sweater. Slacks are the best word to describe her perfectly pleated and ironed white pants—no memorial and labor-day white rules for the rich. I can’t make out her loafers, but they aren’t Target knock-offs for certain. Kelly beelines toward me on her return to the hostess stand, whispering as she whisks by, “Take good care of that one.”

  I put on my best suck-up smile and greet her warmly, “Hello, I’m Peyton, and it’s my pleasure to serve you this evening. May I start you with something to drink?” She orders a dirty martini, four olives, if we have blue cheese-stuffed, if not, only two, nothing near house vodka. No problem, Sally. The Meg Ryan pie order movie scene had helped shape who I didn’t want to be when I grew up.

  Her drink appears to be swallowed all in one gulp. Making eye contact, she lifts the glass indicating to bring her another. I am calculating the tip in my head. Hopefully, she isn’t cheap. I take her equally high maintenance dinner order of grilled chicken breast and her own made-up greens and accouterments combining ingredients from the various salads on the menu. Admittedly, the combination does sound appealing, and I ask Eric to make two, one being for me to eat a bite at a time between taking orders and delivering drinks.

  I return to Ms. Matron to check on the food that has been delivered via my runner, ready to compliment the guest on the concoction I’ve also been enjoying. She lays down her fork, clears her throat, and looks up at me. Looking down again, she folds her napkin tidily in her lap. “You said your name was Peyton, didn’t you?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Peyton Jennings, you are?”

  She asks the question backwards as if the common English version is beneath her, complete with old-money accent. She is the movie character I’d seen being filmed earlier. Overbearing rich mother disapproving of the slutty girlfriend her perfect son has fallen in love with. Everyone knows how it ends.

  Of course, I am intrigued by her question. I don’t recognize this woman in the slightest. “Yes, ma’am,” I repeat, remembering my manners. “I am Peyton Jennings. I’m sorry, have I made your acquaintance prior?” I class it up as best I can.

  “Peyyyttoonn.”

  It’s the most drawn-out version of my name I’ve heard, and I swear I will die if she adds “dahling.”

  “I’m Patricia Nixon.”

  She pauses, probably to see if I will recognize the name. Which, of course, I do. Kyle has made this a family affair. I want to laugh at the irony, considering I was never introduced while dating him.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Nixon,” I lie, because it isn’t nice at all.

  “I’m glad to make contact with you this evening. Were you wondering if Kyle was an orphan?” A haughty, cigarette-induced, rough and raspy laugh follows. Clearly she finds herself humorous, though I don’t at all.

  I hate the word orphan.

  “Why, pray tell, has he not introduced you to us? We don’t mind,” she clears her throat, “you’re just a waitress.” She pretends she hasn’t just hurled an insult in my direction. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it, dear?”

  It was before you arrived. “Yes, it is. May I help you, Mrs. Nixon? Is there anything else that I can bring you?” Patricia laughs again. This time, a long, loud, exaggerated one. I look around to see if she has turned any heads.

  “You know what I was hoping you could bring me? A grandbaby.”

  I don’t hide my surprise well. A little gasp of shock escapes. “Excuse me?” I ask with disbelief. I think she said baby.

  “Oh, you heard me, Peyton. I know you are the object of Kyle’s affection. The one that has him all tied up in knots, moping around like a broken-hearted schoolboy, so to speak.” She rolls her eyes, waving her hand wildly. “For God’s sake, just take him back already. I’ve never seen him like this, so beside himself.”

  “Are you sure you are looking for me, Mrs. Nixon? I think you might be looking for a woman named Kate instead. Last I heard that was where he was getting his bread buttered, so to speak.” I know it’s wrong to throw him under the bus to his mother, but this has gone too far.

  “It’s you he wants, dear,” she continues unfazed. “And frankly, I’m tired of hearing about perfect Peyton.” She chokes on the word perfect, not hiding her disdain for Kyle’s selection. “It’s none of my business whom he desires. I know I’d never think anyone was good enough for my baby boy. The prenup would be a given regardless of my opinion, but I’m not unreasonable. I am willing to be flexible, and I am sure that it will be worth your while, even if you don’t end up seeing eye to eye. And let me assure you, your children would always be, shall we say, taken care of.”

  My head spins as I attempt to process. Is she setting up an arranged marriage? A business agreement? Does she think I can be bought?

  “Well, thank you for the kind offer, Mrs. Nixon. Unfortunately, I think I’m looking for a little bit more than Kyle can offer.” Something like a real marriage. With love and admiration, trust and respect.

  As if on cue, tears begin to stream down her face, leaving mascara-filled ruts in the foundation caked on her sagging skin. She dabs at her eyes with her napkin. “I’m going to die without a grandchild! I can’t die without a grandchild. I’m not getting any younger. And you know,” she leans in to whisper now, “I don’t think Kyle will give up his little parties unless he becomes a father.”

  Does she actually believe Kyle will trade drugs for diapers? I’m certainly not going to be the one to test that theory.

  “I knew I should never have let him become a child star. Those people just kept calling, with all of those opportunities. It’s my fault.”

  As far as I know, those opportunities had only amounted to a handful of commercials as a child. At least now I know he comes by his narcissism honestly.

  “Then, of course, there is his illness.”

  I freeze in place, unable to catch my breath. Does he have cancer? Am I his last dying wish?

  “The doctor warned us it could happen again with too much stress, and things have been just fine for so long that we hadn’t thought ab
out it in quite a while. To see him so distraught, however, I don’t know how much might be too much.”

  “What illness are you referring to, Mrs. Nixon?” Nothing seemed to be wrong with him in our time together.

  She leans forward towards me, then looks around, blocking her mouth with the side of her hand. “The mental illness.”

  No. No. No. Not happening. Unhear. Rewind.

  “We almost lost him, you know.” She shakes her head, eyes closed as if trying to clear the memory. She catches a loud sob by covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

  I can feel eyes burning into the back of me, people wondering what is taking place at this table. An inopportune time, but I have the predicament of needing to check on other tables. “Can you please excuse me for just a moment, Mrs. Nixon? I need to get someone to cover my other guests.” I pat her hand softly and dash off for reinforcement.

  My manager, Dickson, escorts me back to my section. My eyes dart from table to table garnering sympathetic looks from those who have full line of sight to our conversation. I return to my ungraceful squat alongside Mrs. Nixon.

  “Peyton, you looked surprised just now. Is it safe to assume Kyle never mentioned his past? You didn’t know that he spent significant time recovering from wounding himself?” Her voice is barely audible, “Depression and anxiety. He cut himself. He had the best care that money can buy, but they warned us it would be a lifelong battle for him to face.”

  Bewilderment, panic, fear and shock spin tornado-like between my head and heart. I may puke.

  “It was after another relationship ended. And Peyton? He didn’t care for her half as much as he appears to care about you. If you leave him now, God only knows what he might do to himself. I don’t think you would want to carry around that burden for the rest of your life. Take that into consideration when you think about my offer.”

  She doesn’t take a breath between sentences, releasing the final arrow in her quiver. She sets a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table and stands, brushing past where I am still half-kneeling, stunned into submission, on the restaurant floor.