by Ellen Smith
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Every last minute
BOOK 1 OF THE TIME WRECKER TRILOGY
Ellen smith
ESW BOOKS
WASHINGTON, DC
Copyright © 2017 by Ellen Smith.
Every Last Minute is under copyright protection. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All rights reserved.
ESW Books
Washington, DC
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Editing: Shayla Eaton, ShaylaRaquel.com
Cover Design: Monica Haynes, TheThatchery.com
Book Layout ©2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
Every Last Minute/ Ellen Smith. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9961999-3-3
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
For my husband,
A.B.S.
and our children,
G.B.S., R.N.S., and V.M.S.
Acknowledgments
True story: there was actual time travel involved in writing this book.
Okay, maybe not fancy time travel with a time machine or timeline rectification or anything snazzy like that. Every Last Minute was the first novel I ever wrote. Poorly, I might add—but I loved the characters of Mara and Will and I desperately wanted to tell their story. After revising that first version many times, I finally put it down, stepped away, and got to work on my next novel: Reluctant Cassandra, which became my first published book.
After Reluctant Cassandra was released, a good friend asked me about that first book I had written; so I found myself looking back at the original draft. Revisiting a fictional world I had abandoned years ago was very much like traveling back in time. The world had changed since I last worked on this story, and so had I. Going back and trying to write the book again was exciting, scary, and incredibly challenging.
Thankfully, I had a lot of help along the way.
First, I want to thank my friend Sarah, who read my first draft years ago and encouraged me to try again. I’m grateful to her for bringing me back to a story I loved and helping me believe that I could write it.
During the long process of rewriting and revising, I received incredible feedback from fellow writers and readers. Many thanks to the Waterfront Writers critique group, to the Curiouser Author Network, and to the beta readers who read over the final draft: Sarah, Jocelyn, and Peter. I’m indebted to each of you for your help in drawing out the story that needed to be told.
In the publishing world, I’ve been extremely fortunate to work with Monica Haynes of The Thatchery and Shayla Raquel of Curiouser Editing. Monica always brings her passion for great books and beautiful images to her cover designs. I’m grateful to her for bringing the setting of Every Last Minute to life on the cover. Shayla went above and beyond as an editor, patiently working with me to correct everything from punctuation and grammar to fine-tuning the characterization and plot. I’m so thankful to both of them for getting Every Last Minute ready to send out into the world.
And finally, the greatest thanks are due to my husband, Andy, who lights up my life simply by sharing it with me. Out of all the love stories I’ve seen and read and even written, ours will always be my favorite.
Chapter One
MARA
ONE LIFE, ONE TIME
Join Conrad Gibbons, new president of ONE LIFE, ONE TIME
at the National Mall
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
for a community rally against the sin of timeline rectification
REMEMBER, NO MATTER WHAT . . .
TIME MARCHES ON!
Mara Sterling rolled her eyes at the postcard and threw it into the recycling bin. She stuffed the rest of the mail inside her heavy laptop bag, which bumped against her thigh as she crossed the lobby and climbed the staircase. Days like this made Mara wish she and Will had rented a garden apartment, or at least picked a building with an elevator. Walking all the way up to the third floor was easier some days than others.
Today was one of the “others.”
The stairwell was empty, so Mara took her time. She shifted her bag and tucked her right arm closer to her side, like an injured wing. In public, Mara usually kept her right hand tucked discreetly in her coat pocket or laid it casually across her lap. But there was no one around, so if she wanted to move slowly and cradle her arm, she might as well. Trying to keep up the appearance of an ordinary, perfectly healthy twentysomething was exhausting in its own right. Especially on days like today, when chronic pain made her feel more like eighty.
Then again, the workday was over now and she was almost home to Will. Seeing her husband made Mara feel more like eighteen. So there was that.
Predictably, Mara’s right shoulder was already seizing by the time she reached her apartment door. It had been a long commute home on the Metro and now it was past time for her next dose of painkillers. Then her key got stuck in the lock. Mara shifted her weight and jiggled the key again, leaning into the door as hard as she could. Every time she moved, a lightning bolt of pain zinged from her injured shoulder, radiating down her arm and up the side of her neck.
At last, the key turned. Mara lost her balance as the door swung into the apartment. She barely caught herself on the doorframe before she landed face-first in the living room. The flap of her laptop bag
flew open, scattering the mail across the floor. Thankfully, the laptop stayed securely in place.
“You sure know how to make an entrance, don’t you?” her husband said, crossing the room in three long strides. Will Sterling stood just over six-foot-three, so by comparison, Mara always felt as tiny and delicate as Thumbelina. Even after Will took her workbag and helped her upright, he had to lean down to give her a kiss.
It was a good kiss—the kind that overpowered the pulsating pain in her shoulder and made her feel light and breathless. When Will straightened up again, his fine blond chin hairs barely grazed the top of her head.
“But seriously, are you okay?” Will asked. His green eyes were narrowed with concern. From Mara’s angle, they looked even smaller through the thick lenses of his glasses. “Are you dizzy or anything?”
“From you or from the painkillers?”
Will grinned. “I meant the meds, but feel free to feed my ego.”
Mara wrapped her good arm around him and rested her cheek against his crisp blue work shirt. “I’m fine, really. I just lost my balance. How was your day?”
“Unreal. A bunch of kids forgot their instruments, I broke up a fight in third period, and I don’t think a single class played through a piece without having to stop and start over. You’d think the kids were excited for the long weekend or something.”
“Too bad you don’t get a long weekend too.” It would have been nice to have Will home for an extra day, even if she still had to go to work.
“At least I get a teacher workday tomorrow. I should have plenty of time to catch up on emails and put in grades for the quarter too.”
Mara had heard that before. She waited a beat before saying, “So you’re going to be bringing some work home with you tomorrow night, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
Her shoulder seized again, so badly that she couldn’t help but wince. Will’s fingers found the stiff, knotted-up muscles and gently began to work them loose. Mara both ached and relaxed. He worked closer into her shoulder blade, making tiny circles around the long, curved scar. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Mara motioned for him to stop.
“I’m going to go take a shower,” she said. “Try to calm this shoulder down a little.” Heat did wonders on her damaged nerve. Since she’d started her new job, she’d begun taking hot showers almost every day after work. Good thing water was included in the apartment’s utilities. That was one perk to living in this building, at least.
“Want me to order something for dinner?” Will asked.
“Sure. I think the new Greek place has a delivery special on Wednesdays.”
“Gyro and fries?”
“Perfect.”
“Nope, perfect would be eating our gyros and watching Netflix,” Will said. “You want to pick the show?”
“You can.” He would probably pick a stupid comedy show or some kind of overzealous courtroom drama. That was okay. Will had been teaching rowdy middle schoolers all day and he’d probably be up to his ears in paperwork tomorrow. The least she could do was let him rule the remote for the evening.
Mara gave him a one-armed squeeze before she headed down the hall to the bathroom. She could take her next round of pain meds and then relax under the hot water. Maybe she still had some of that passion-fruit-scented shower gel. That would be a nice way to scrub off the grit and grime of the city.
“You better hurry,” Will called after her. “If the food gets here before you do, I’m eating all the tzatziki sauce.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
* * * * *
Mara gritted her teeth as the hot water pulsed over her aching shoulder. She rotated her arm again, leaning and stretching as gently as she could.
Don’t overdo it. That’s what the physical therapist had cautioned her, over and over again. Overworking a damaged nerve is as bad as underworking it.
Mara gave one more stretch under the running water before turning and letting the shower stream run over her face. She tried to imagine the shower washing away her worries, like it said in the positive thinking self-help book her friend Robyn had recommended. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in . . .
The water stung her eyes, and Mara backed away from the stream.
No luck. Her worries were all still present and accounted for. The only thing going down the drain was a knot of her long, dark-brown hair. Gross. Mara fished it out with her big toe and reached down to pick it up, sending a sharp pang all the way down her right arm. She jerked it back, knocking over the shampoo bottle as she did.
Mara massaged the angry shoulder with her left hand, chewing the insides of her cheeks as the pain worsened and then eased. I need to be more careful. Can’t let something like that happen at work.
In her first six weeks as one of Dr. Olivier’s research assistants, Mara felt that she was the one being studied more often than not. Elliott, who ranked one step above her as Dr. Olivier’s head researcher, double-checked every word she said and every move she made.
At first, Mara thought it was because she’d checked “Asian” on her job application. People were always questioning her mixed-bag ethnicity. Mara could never just check “white,” even though her dark-brown hair and eyes weren’t all that different from her father’s. Her face shape and features were distinctly Japanese, just like her mother’s. Enough so that her ignorant prep school classmates used to call her “Dragon Lady” and “Geisha Girl,” or ask where she learned to speak English.
Mara turned and angled her right side under the shower spray. Maybe race did have something to do with Elliott’s initial reaction to her, but as the weeks went on, Mara realized that Elliott was probably suspicious about something else. It was in the way his eyes lingered over her when she used the mouse with her right hand—painful, but doable in small doses—but typed with only her left. Or when he handed her a stack of papers and then watched carefully to see which hand she used to pick them up. Mara had run into his type plenty of times before. Self-appointed watchdogs, out to make sure she was really as disabled as she claimed to be.
Thank goodness the other two people in the office were easier to be around. Colleen, who sat at the desk next to hers, had been nothing but friendly. Dr. Olivier seemed overly eager to make sure Mara was comfortable. Mara supposed there might have been some truth to Elliott’s mutterings around the office. Dr. Olivier had probably wanted to hire her because it looked good. A trauma survivor working on a research study about trauma. How poetic.
Elliott can think whatever he wants. At this point, Mara was just grateful to have a job. After two and a half years of unemployment, it felt good to have a paycheck and a retirement fund and something to put on her résumé, just in case she ever wanted to put herself through another job search. That probably wouldn’t be happening any time soon. It was hard to squeeze in much besides work anymore.
The steam from the shower fogged up the bathroom. Mara tested her arm’s range of motion again. Good. As good as it was going to get, anyway. She shut the water off and wrapped up in a towel. Dinner had probably already been delivered. Better get moving.
Mara took two pumps of lotion and rubbed it up and down her arm, working closer to her shoulder and even, bravely, down through the shoulder blade itself. No twinges. The hot water had helped so much that she felt almost normal.
Almost.
With the edge of her towel, Mara wiped the steam off the mirror. Her reflection was cloudy, but she could still see the angry pink scar that underlined her collarbone. That was from the first surgery. She turned her head as far as she could and looked at the long scar that curved along her shoulder blade. It framed the pucker marks where the bullets had hit. Two of them.
Mara was glad she couldn’t remember that. Unfortunately, Will could.
She reached around and traced both marks with her finger. After eight years, they looked more white than pink, pockmarks rather than wounds. I’m still here, she told herself. Jason Mann d
idn’t win. Will and I did.
Mara said the same thing every day. And it was true. Every day.
* * * * *
Will had already set out dinner on the coffee table when Mara emerged from the bathroom. Even though she was 98 percent sure Will had been kidding earlier, Mara was still a little relieved to see a cup of tzatziki sauce on each of their plates.
“We’re not just eating out of the containers tonight?” she asked. “Fancy.”
“Only the best for my girl,” Will said, offering her a paper napkin. “Now get ready—there’s something playing on TV I think you’ll like.” He pressed the power button on the remote.
Mara squealed when the familiar Spanish-style mansion appeared on the screen. “They brought it back for another season?” She curled up on the couch beside Will, tucking her legs underneath her.
“I cannot believe you got me to start watching this,” Will said as the words Engaged or Enraged appeared on screen. He popped open her can of ginger ale for her. Mara took one fizzy sip as the voice-over began:
“While most engaged couples are shopping for wedding gowns and picking out favors, these ten couples are taking the ultimate challenge. They’re putting their marriage to the test before they take their vows. Will extreme sports, team challenges, and unbelievable drama bring them closer together? Or will their relationship shatter under pressure? It’s an all-new season of Engaged or Enraged!”
The theme song began and Mara hummed along. Each of the ten couples appeared in turn, dancing a little and pretending to shoot each other with fake bows and arrows when their names flashed up on the screen.
“Every time I watch this crap, I die a little inside,” Will said.
“We don’t have to watch this,” Mara said, shooting him a mischievous grin. “I did say you could pick anything you wanted.”
“No, I know you really like it. I don’t mind,” Will said.