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Sunshine Press
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A Long Time Coming
Copyright ©2013, Heather Van Fleet
Edited by Julie Wilcox
ISBN: 978-1-939978-26-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual person—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
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A Long Time Coming
Perfect Timing Series: Book Two
Heather Van Fleet
Dedication
To my husband, Chris. Because without your support this book never would have happened. I'll love you today, tomorrow, and always.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Heather Van Fleet
Other Books by Heather Van Fleet
Abigail Orson has a problem. A love problem to be precise; and she has absolutely no idea how to go about fixing it.
For years now, she has been chasing her best friend’s brother—demanding things from him that he’s never wanted to give. For one? A real relationship that surpasses well beyond that dreaded ‘just friends’ zone. You see, David Anderson is her idea of perfection to a T. The one and only guy who has ever had the ability to make her heart beat faster; make her toes curl with the simple blink of his long, girly lashes. But David is also a recovering amputee, and the only thing he really wants from Abigail is to be left alone. Abigail is a fighter though, and losing the one guy who has ruined her for every other is no longer an option.
A guy with one leg who has lost his motivation to live—to love—to actually be a man. David believes he’s a waste of space. If only the beautiful girl of his unattainable dreams would get that through her perfect, blonde, stubborn head! He’s not the right guy for Abigail. He’ll never be worthy of what she deserves. However, staying away is almost impossible, especially when he’s just as in love with her as she is with him. But Abigail has a life ahead of her, one that’s definitely livable without a nineteen–year–old gimp like him holding her down. What makes her want to stick around is beyond questionable to David’s mind.
Choices will be made. Lines will be drawn. And together, they will face challenges that nobody saw coming. David and Abigail may have had almost fourteen years to fall in love, but the thing is, timing and love have never exactly worked in their favor.
It has been years in the making, and definitely A Long Time Coming for David and Abigail. Let’s hope they don’t screw it up before they actually have the chance to get it right…
Prologue
October, 2011
I can’t make it much longer, David, please hurry.
The words were like written scripts of poison, brightening up the face of his cell phone. His heavy foot sank down against the accelerator, while his stomach churned with trepidation and a shit ton of anger. Damn, Harley. Why’d she have to go to that party in the first place? She was broken—a shattered mess that wouldn’t heal for shit—and the last thing she needed to do, was to go out, especially tonight.
But he’d do anything for his sister. He loved her more than he loved anyone in the entire universe. So when she’d come to him earlier in the day, begging him to cover for her with their parents, he had no choice but to give her what she wanted. David couldn’t stand to see his twin so miserable, and if the simple prospect of going to a farmhouse party twenty miles out of town had the ability to ease her ache on this dreaded six–month anniversary, then he wasn’t about to keep her from going.
Unfortunately he was realizing too late how big of a fucking mistake this actually was. Three crying phone calls, followed by multiple text messages that scared the absolute shit out of him; Harley was belligerent, drunker than a monkey’s fucking uncle, and now here he was, out on some random road outside Hillsdale, at two in the morning driving to pick her ass up.
On the outside, the girl put on a front that said, Hey, look at me, I’m awesome; I’m completely over the fact that my boyfriend committed suicide just six months ago today. But David knew the truth—felt it deep in his soul because he was also living through it himself. His sister would never again be the person she was before her boyfriend died. He shook his head at the thought. Nobody would be the same, actually. Aiden had been his best friend, the only dude he could ever really count on to be straight with him. He’d stood by David, supported him with football and always encouraged him to be on top of his game. He wasn’t going to lie—he missed the holy hell out of the guy. But he was also pissed—pissed because he’d taken his own life with a gun to his head. Too selfish to think about the people he’d leave behind after he was dead and buried in the ground, Aiden simply let a his bi–polar disease win out before asking for help.
Slamming his fist into the wheel, David ripped the tires of his car through the gravel as he weaved in and out of a path of trees sitting at random along the way. The thought of his sister lying there in the darkness, alone in some strange dude’s bedroom, had his speed gauge pushing ninety.
Fog filtered over the road, dark surrounding tree branches loomed overhead. Ominous was the scene as he sped past the dark shadows of the one–lane graveled road he rarely had traveled. With his brights on, he flew forward, praying the shortcut would get him there faster than taking the interstate.
The rain was a steady pitter patter against his windshield, and the sound of old country music lilted over the speakers. But he was too on edge to change the channel, too worried that he wouldn’t get to her in time. No texts had come through in the past ten minutes, and his redundant cell phone checking just to see if she’d sent another was grating on his nerves. But the last one still sat there like a broken record with no sound, teasing his eyes and creating a fear that rivaled death throughout his chest.
“Dammit, Harley, what the hell are you doing?”
Filtering through the possibilities in his head of how bad things might have gotten, David half wondered if he should have just broken the promise he’d made to Harley, and woken their mom and dad after all. They’d take care of things—especially their dad. Those two were the epitome of an almost perfect set of pare
nts, and he loved the hell out of them.
He swallowed the traitorous groan of anxiety that balled like a bitch in his throat, just as the relieving sound of a ding echoed from the passenger seat. He blew out a breath as his pulse skyrocketed against his veins. He reached for the phone. Thank fuck…the girl had finally texted back. Cringing, he read the words.
I’m tired. I’m gonna sleep now.
“No! No–no–no! Dammit, Harley !” Lifting his left knee to take control of the wheel, he tapped out a message with his fingers.
Almost there.
There, that was enough—it had to be. But with the one swipe of the send button, the one single diversion of his eyes from the road, David’s life flashed before him, appearing like a ten second movie trailer. A deer—a buck with huge–ass antlers—had pranced its big Bambi ass into the path of his racing car.
“Shit!” he yelled, swerving to miss it, only to lose control of his car instead.
He pulled and pushed against the steering wheel, cussing the damn brakes as he did. But not a single motion could keep his car from flipping. All odds were against him. The gravel was wet from the rain, the tires were bald, and at speeds well above ninety, the car took on a mind of its own.
There would be no second chances now.
There would be no time to readjust and stay on the road.
And one mistake was all it took to change his life…forever.
The last vision that appeared behind his eyes, just as the windshield glass shattered into his face, and the roof crushed in over his head, was Abigail: the girl he’d never get to kiss.
The girl he’d never be able to fully make his own now that death was on the horizon…
Chapter One
September, 2013
It was plain and simple: David Anderson’s mother drove him bat shit crazy. Today was his ultimate breaking point in that discovery—the only proof he needed to confirm this one simple fact. If the lady didn’t get her emotional shit together soon, he was going to throw his very own version of a bat shit crazy fit, right there in her face.
“Mom, seriously, did you really have to cry the entire time? I mean come on! We’ve been going through this for what now, three months?” He shook his head, gripping his crutches tight with his fingertips as he edged down the handicapped ramp of the Hillsdale Therapy and Wellness Center.
Thank the therapy gods that today was the last time he had to go to this brick institution for six short weeks. He’d seen enough doctors, therapists, nurses and all that other shit to last him for an eternity.
The prosthetic leg from holy hell burned against his stump the faster he moved, but he held back his grimace, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the groans he wanted to unleash, locked up tight in his throat. His mother struggled to keep pace from behind, sniffling the whole time. He shook his head, anger brewing at her emotional issues once again. The last thing he needed was for her to find out that his new, prosthetic ‘frenemy’ wasn’t fitting right. She’d already done enough damage to his ego today as it was. Who knew what she’d say or do if she had a clue of the misery he was experiencing with this thing!
His mother wasn’t the one suffering through the exertion of physical therapy four days a week—through the hell of getting used to a device that rubbed your skin raw some days. Sure, she may have insisted that her tears were happy due to the supposed progress he’d made, but David knew better. The woman was a train wreck because she couldn’t fix her son—couldn’t Humpty Dumpty his ass back together again.
Would the lady ever get it through her thick skull that he was never going to be her proverbial athletic football–star son again? The guy every parent wanted as their kid? The good boy with the good grades, good looks, and a good head on his shoulders? Hell, he’d never be that guy, and she had to accept that fact—and soon—otherwise she’d only be setting herself up for a lifetime filled with disappointment.
David held off on his berating in the end, biting his tongue and hiding his words the best way he knew how—by ignoring her. He was The Master of playing ignorant anymore, even though he was more aware of certain shit around him than a lot of guys his age were. He also knew that he’d already said his piece for the day. And the last thing he wanted to do was set off her waterworks again.
His mom hadn’t left his side in three months, not since the whole surgery–to–prosthetic–to–therapy thing began. She’d done her part, sure, been his rock and his best friend, by simply just being his mom. In fact, he’d never felt more loved than he did these past months. But holy hell—he was done with her babying. If anything, it was about time she cut the damn cord away.
The whole protection thing she had over him had only worsened since his twin sister Harley moved to California to be with her surfing–freak of a boyfriend in May. Lucky girl she was though… Harley got to leave the nest, while he was left behind, playing the role of two baby birds.
“Oh honey, come on! You know that there are probably millions of moms out there who’d do the same thing!” She patted his upper arm, voice dripping with a sappiness he didn’t want to hear. He shut his eyes, his breathing staggered, his teeth gritted together. He was about two seconds away from losing it on her. “And you’ve come so far, so fast! I’m just…I’m proud of you!” He glanced her way, eyes narrowing as he watched her wipe the wetness from her cheekbones.
Shit, there really was no use was there? The woman had gone and fallen off her emotional rocker for good this time, and he was in no way, shape or form ready to pick her back up today.
He’d always been patient with his mom, more so than anyone in the family. He accepted her motherly ways and her need to be a fixer most of all, but this? Christ, this was going beyond anything she’d ever done.
The late August wind pushed his dark hair into his eyes. And with an annoyed groan, and puckered lips, he blew it away. He should have cut the crap, it was getting ridiculously long for guy. But secretly, he wanted it there too. It made for a good curtain when he didn’t want to look at people, or didn’t want people to look at him.
“Whatever Mom,” he grumbled, worn down and exhausted from having the same argument over and over now for months. “You’re just too…blubbery and crap,” he shook his head. “It’s just hard to concentrate when you’re there blowing your nose and hiccupping every other second.”
She gasped, pressing her palm to her chest. Dammit, she was just as dramatic as his sister, “I do not blubber, David. I cry, happy tears, for my baby boy.” He rolled his eyes, picking up his speed as the car came within a few feet of his body.
He yanked at the handle, growling as it stuck, “Son of a bitching lock!” He shouted, pounding on the window with his fist. He saw his mom flinch from the other side as she silently unlocked the doors with her key fob. He didn’t look up at her fully, there was no point, no need. He knew exactly what he’d see: Tears…more fucking tears.
He sighed to himself, balling his hands into fists as the circulation in his palms cut off. Eagerly, he tossed his crutches into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind him with a battle cry of a groan. Being an ass to his mother wasn’t exactly an enjoyable job, but sometimes that was the only way he could handle her when she got like this.
It’d been over two and a half years since the night of the accident that had left him shy of his left leg from the knee down. It’d been a little over four months since he’d first decided to go ahead with the prosthetic leg. Surgery, followed by therapy, followed by constant parental guidance and supervision was definitely not how he’d planned on spending his time after graduating high school. The crap part about the whole situation was that thing that was supposed to make his life easier had only proven to be a whole hell of a lot more work than he’d ever bargained for.
The doctors all insisted that he was young, and that he would have no problem adjusting to his new “limb”. But nobody was ever straight with him about the negatives of this entire prosthetic process either. They’d mentioned the prob
lems he could encounter, but actually experiencing those problems was a lot more challenging than just being told about them. From the phantom leg pains aplenty, to the blisters that always seemed to form like a second skin over his stub, David couldn’t help but wonder if he would be better off with his old pal the wheel chair in the end.
“David, honey, talk to me here. I need to know what’s going on inside of that head of yours. We need to communicate better. Don’t you remember what the psychologist said?” His mother reached over, and attempted to grab at his hand, but David stiffened, pulling away at the mention of the word psychologist. He clutched his buckle with his sweaty fingers, using his other hand to grip the oh–shit bar above his head. He faced her though, locking his angry, black eyes on her sad, dreary—and like always—wet ones.
Oh yes, the therapist…yet another one of his mother’s idiot ideas. The whole aspect of talking to a shrink about his supposed feelings was a damn joke—a joke that was definitely not a funny ha–ha one either. His sister had gone through it after her boyfriend’s death and it hadn’t worked for shit. Why would his mother think it would be any different for him? Yeah, he’d be the first to admit that he had a temper and all—the yelling, the occasional punching of picture frames and doors when he could barely move, when his new leg wouldn’t work the way it was supposed to. Sometimes the pain in his skull ate away so badly at him, it was a wonder he hadn’t died of an aneurysm by now.
But for the doctor and his parents to claim that he was suffering from a feeling of abandonment by Harley leaving, and depression from life itself? Well those had to have been the two most dumbass ideas he’d ever heard. Why? Well, simple. It wasn’t depression or abandonment he was feeling—it was jealousy; hardcore, angry, shit–eating jealousy. And secretly, the only thing he wanted to do was skip out on this town altogether, just like his sister had done.
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