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

by Whitney Walker

  What a journey it’s been! Both literally and figuratively. I’m returning from a four-bus, six-plane, and hundreds-of-people-amazing trip to Malawi. It seems much longer than ten days ago that Jack packed long skirts from my mother’s closet over Facetime before he and the girls accompanied me to the airport for my sendoff to another continent.

  Jack replies:

  Missed u too! See u soon!

  I smile, knowing I influenced his texting with just the letter “U” in place of the word. I can’t wait to share the details of my trip with Jack, though it will be painful not to share them with J.T.

  I noticed how things looked different when we changed planes in Amsterdam. Somehow, the lens of my world is more crisp and colorful. I looked into the eyes of people in a new, and deeper, way. Like J.T. looked at me. I get it now. You see and feel things differently after getting away from first-world problems for the gift of perspective. As J.T. had taught me, but I couldn’t know without living it, God and love are everything.

  I’m forced to stand up as the plane door is open. The people seem harried and I am bumped and jostled as I’m still in the slow pace of people who can’t live their lives by the clocks they don’t have. It may be chaos here on the outside, but I won’t let it disturb the peace and calm of my inside.

  I clear customs easily with nothing to declare and head down the long escalator to baggage claim, hoping my luggage has also made the trip across multiple airplanes and time zones. Appreciating the beauty in the diversity for the first time, my eyes hesitate on blond, messy and sexy distinguishable, just-the-right-length-for-someone-I-haven’t-seen-in-two-months hair. My eyes narrow, disbelief in what they perceive they know. The man is holding a sheet of paper. I must be creating a mirage in my mind and he’s a man with a sign indicating the name of an incoming passenger.

  I’m too far away to see clearly. Plus, Jack is picking me up. And J.T. had made it clear long ago we were finished. He’d never replied to my last thank-you Snapchat for the quilt so it seems unfathomable and improbable that he is in the waiting crowd. But I am coming closer and am still finding familiarity that makes my heart skip a beat and stomach flip-flop in that way that only J.T. Walker’s presence can arouse. Then there is everything else that he arouses as well. Oh. My. God. Is it too good to be true?

  My brain reacts to make sense of what I see. Finally. Has something happened to Jack? Is J.T. here with bad news? No. It can’t be. He texted me just minutes ago.

  “Excuse me.” I turn sideways and take the next step down the escalator. I need to get closer more quickly. “Excuse me,” I say again with more urgency. I need to make eye contact. My heartbeat quickens, then stutters. The logo on the black down vest is easy to make out. SFS, with my now-favorite continent embroidered behind it. It’s him! It’s a good thing I’ve just been in Africa and learned about inner beauty because my messy bun and no-makeup traveling look wouldn’t be the intended reunion look!

  His head finally turns toward me. Those eyes. They take me in, see my soul, perfect sunny-day sky-blue meet mine. Lips creep upward and don’t stop until the smile overtakes his eyes, embodying happy. Mine do the same. Broad, childlike, uninhibited.

  He gently and smoothly twists and turns through the crowd. I can see his lips moving, “Pardon me. Pardon me. Pardon me.”

  I have carefully navigated the people of the escalator, and my feet float towards him. He has picked up his pace to close the distance between us. What happens next?

  I’m held in familiar arms I’ve missed beyond measure, my feet no longer feeling the earth beneath me. My embrace is tight, filled with longing for lost time. His breath is warm in my ear, against my hair. Lips find my temple, and he whispers, “Do you hate me?”

  I answer him with my lips, not words. Our mouths collide. I waste no time wanting to feel his tongue against mine. I grip around his back and hold his shoulders, desperate for the closeness I’d been denied for so long. We’ve been denied. Our lips entangle and entwine. I breathe into him and him into me. We make up for lost time, tasting him again like it’s the first time. But I remember the feel of my tongue brushing across his bottom lip. I remember the pressure of his lips against mine. It fades, and I push forward into him, harder, my tongue more deeply in his mouth, then his lips everywhere on mine. Intense. Craving. He holds my head. He owns my heart. His lips relent but still brush against mine. Shallow gasps of breath whisper into my mouth, “I think we’ve just put the train-station kiss to shame.”

  “I think we did. We had some lost time to make up.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  He pulls away, despite the resistance of my hands dragging along his arms. I’m never letting go again.

  The sign is behind my back, and he holds it in front of his chest.

  I read it aloud, in my newly learned Chichewa, “Ndine wachisoni. I don’t know what it means.”

  “It’s the closest translation I could get to ‘I am so sorry’.”

  “You are so forgiven. Good thing you taught me a little something about that. But you do owe me a New Year’s and Valentine’s Day.”

  “Done. When I saw you just now my heart had a tremor. I think it skipped a beat. Or twenty. I don’t know what I would do if I could never have you again.”

  “You’ve got me. And I love the sign.”

  “I stole the idea. I’ll fill you in later. Or Cassandra can.”

  I’m curious how Cassandra fits into the story and how he ended up here, but there will be time for that. I need to touch him again. I reach my hand up, pressing my palm against his cheek. He circles my wrist with his fingers mid-movement, turning it upward. His eyebrows rise at the black ink.

  “This is new.”

  “Yep. The Om sign. Thank yoga. It’s my past, present and future reminder. Connection to the divine. Connection to Alexandra, Liz, and Cassandra.” I look down, a little embarrassed. “Connection to you,” I say softly.

  “Sounds a little familiar.”

  His lips press against the black ink. I remember when he bared himself to me, literally and figuratively, what seems like a lifetime ago. “You were right, you know. I get it now. Everything you said about not needing anything but love to survive.”

  “I was right about that, all right. So right that I have a confession to make. I told you I need a relationship based on truth. I’m ashamed of this but I have to tell you.”

  Damn it. I don’t know where this is going but from the sound of it, I am not going to like it.

  “The last time I heard from you in the office that day, I left and went to a bar. I needed something to dull the pain. I hadn’t felt pain like that in a long time. I knew what would make it stop because, if nothing else, I wouldn’t remember for at least a little while.”

  “Oh no. Oh, J.T. Oh my God, I am so sorry.”

  I know I didn’t make him drink any more than I pulled the trigger on the gun Kyle shot, but the thought I am the reason for compromising ten years of his sobriety makes me weary.

  “I sat on a bar stool and held the glass.”

  He looks away; too hard to admit while looking in my eyes and finding disappointment or judgment.

  “I got lucky. My sponsor answered the phone, and before I lost ten years of pride, his hand was on my shoulder. God had my back on that one. I almost blew it. I didn’t think anything had that power over me any longer, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to survive without you. What I believed then, I know with certainty now. I never knew if I’d have the chance to love someone. I want the chance. With you. You are what I need. I missed you so much, Jennings.”

  “I couldn’t have said that better myself.”

  He smiles, recognizing our inside joke.

  “I missed you too, Joe Walker. J and T are my two favorite letters, but I’d like to keep trouble away for a while.”

  He laughs. It’s so good to hear. Deep and guttural, yet innocent and playful, holding nothing back.

  “It sounds better when you say it. I can work with that.�
��

  He leans in again to kiss me. Like he means it. I always wanted to be met like this. Wanted like this. Loved like this. Where I am. For who I am. I never expected to have it, but hoped for all of it. One day.

  My one day has come.

  Hi, it’s Peyton.

  I know I wasn’t exactly the star of the show, but the movie where I delivered my first real lines (regardless of how I got the job) has finally been released. Fingers crossed for good reviews! And just like in the movies, everyone knows that with books, reviews make or break you. If you thought my performance worthy, I am hoping you will head on over to Amazon and tell the world you enjoyed One Day After Never.

  Thank you!

  Afterword

  Addiction’s impact is felt throughout families and the numbers affected in the United States is astounding. In 2017, 19.7 million people over the age of 12 battled a substance use disorder according to the National Survey on Drug Use and Health. Throughout the book I referenced several programs, and if someone in your life is battling addiction please get help to keep hope.

  Alcoholics Anonymous

  Al Anon – for family members

  Because of my personal experience with addiction and these organizations, a portion of proceeds from this book will be donated to organizations supporting this cause.

  About the Author

  Whitney Walker starts and ends each day with gratitude to the tribe who has helped her realize the serendipity of our stories.

  She writes for all the hopeless romantics who believe tears and laughter are best friends, second chances are better than firsts, and true love is worth fighting for. She writes for others to lose themselves in words or find themselves not so alone.

  With faith, wine, and chocolate by her side, she aspires to be the best mother to two, girlfriend to “the one”, daughter, friend, and yogi she can be. It’s a work in progress, and she appreciates the chance to share her life learning through writing. She was born & raised in Detroit, then chose to reside there, even before it was cool!

  Visit her and subscribe at: https://www.whitneywalkerwriting.com/

  @authorwhitney

  Facebook.com/AuthorWhitneyWalker