Undeveloped (Life Unfiltered Book 1)

by K Leigh

  Undeveloped

  K LEIGH

  Undeveloped Copyright © 2020 by K Leigh. All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design by Krys Janae TakeCover Designs

  Edited by Amanda Cuff at Savage Hart Book Services

  Formatted by J.R. Rogue at Savage Hart Book Services

  ISBN: 9798683683481

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Lia

  2. Natalie

  3. Lia

  4. Natalie

  5. Natalie

  6. Lia

  7. Natalie

  8. Natalie

  9. Natalie

  10. Lia

  11. Natalie

  12. Natalie

  13. Natalie

  14. Natalie

  15. Natalie

  16. Natalie

  17. Natalie

  18. Natalie

  19. Lia

  20. Natalie

  21. Natalie

  22. Lia

  23. Natalie

  24. Natalie

  25. Natalie

  26. Lia

  27. Matt

  28. Matt

  29. Matt

  30. Matt

  31. Natalie

  32. Natalie

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by K Leigh:

  To my free-spirited niece. May you always dance to the unique beat raging within you.

  Prologue

  “When is it okay to lie?”

  The camera slips to the edge of my fingertips at my niece’s question and I compose my thoughts and face before turning to meet her curious eyes.

  “What do you mean, Lia?” My voice is shaky, but she doesn’t notice. She has her own camera, a disposable one from the multipack she spent her allowance on, smashed against her eye. The tip of her tongue sticks out of the corner of her mouth as she snaps another picture.

  “Miss Jean was talkin’ about lyin’ during Sunday School. I told Daddy she said it’s wrong, and he said that sometimes, it’s really okay to lie. For the right reason.”

  As I watch the wheels turn in her mind, she winds the camera before placing it to her face again. Lia’s eyebrows scrunch up as she snaps a picture of a gathering of dandelions at the corner of the barn. A small smile tugging at her lips, she hands me her camera.

  I tuck it into my bag as she makes her way to the golden patch, sinking to the ground with crossed legs. She pulls a couple of the flowers out of the ground and begins weaving a necklace.

  As I walk toward her, I’m taken back to the day she was born. The memory of looking down at her for the first time—her wide, dark eyes staring up at me as if to say, What took you so long?—smacking me in the face.

  “Well, your daddy sees things differently than some people,” I finally say, lowering myself to sit beside her. I grasp my own dandelions, the motions of tying a ring out of the stems resurfacing. I guess it’s like riding a bicycle, the joys of our childhoods never quite leave us.

  “So it’s never okay?” Her lips tremble, a telltale sign that she fears she might be in trouble. Hoping to reassure her, I wrap my arm around her, pulling her into my side and pressing a kiss to her temple.

  “I didn’t say that either,” I tell her. She relaxes against me, her fingers still fumbling with the same stem that’s now limp from her efforts.

  But I know she won’t quit. She’s never been one to give up without a fight.

  Holding her close, her words tumble around in my mind, pulling to the forefront all of the lies I’ve ever told.

  The time I broke my mama’s favorite candy dish and told her the cat knocked it off the fireplace.

  The time I snuck out to a barn party, letting my parents believe I was spending the night at my best friend Kate’s house.

  The time I found the answer key to a geometry quiz and memorized the answers.

  My lies were always an attempt to protect myself—or others—from pain.

  “I think you have to decide for yourself when it’s okay, or whether it is at all. I guess it depends on what you can live with.” For the most part, I’d made peace with the fibs from my youth. There’s always one that haunts me though, and as a result, I live the straight and narrow.

  Satisfied with my answer, Lia plucks another flower, tucks it behind my ear, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek.

  “Think the pond is warm enough to swim?” I ask, shaking off the ghosts of my past.

  My attempt to distract her works. She jumps to her feet with a squeal, taking off toward the house. “I’ll get my bathing suit!”

  Leaning back on my elbows, my mind travels back in time. The murky memories of when everything changed lurk in the shadows, a reminder that after that summer, I was never the same.

  1

  Lia

  “Amelia Rose Winegar.”

  Aunt Natalie’s voice echoes through the stairwell, our running joke making me smile. When she was my age, everyone called her by both her first and middle name, Natalie Rose, and she despised it. Now, when we're teasing each other, it’s one of our go-to weapons.

  My parents named me after my maternal grandmother and Aunt Natalie. We may joke around, but I actually feel honored to be named after my aunt. She’s a stubborn, take-charge woman, answering to no one and to nothing.

  Except for me.

  Everyone jokes that I had her wrapped around my finger the moment she set her eyes on me, but it goes both ways. Despite our age difference, Aunt Natalie has always been my best friend.

  “Coming, Natalie Rose,” I call. Bouncing down the stairs, I hold my camera case safely against my chest.

  “Ready?” Natalie meets me at the front door, her own camera bag slung over her shoulder, as she pulls her red braid out from underneath the strap. I’ve always envied her beautiful hair. I’ve got my mama's mousy brown hair, and no box of dye I’ve ever tried has been able to match Natalie’s. And I’ve tried plenty.

  “As ready as I can be,” I joke as we make our way out the front door and onto the wraparound porch. Inhaling the fresh morning air, I survey my grandfather’s hard work with wistful appreciation. He built this porch with my dad. Every day after work and school, they would add a little bit at a time. We’ve had countless family cookouts and parties on his beautiful creation, and it’s the perfect tribute to his memory.

  I don’t remember my grandparents. Ned and Amelia Winegar died in a car accident on their way home from a jubilee when I was two. I’ve seen pictures and videos of them, but that’s not quite the same as having memories.

  Natalie leads the way to the rundown barn. An old but secure building, it hasn't housed livestock in ages. While my great-grandparents made a livelihood by raising animals and planting crops, Grandpa Ned was an accountant and a preacher. He would rent out the barn for weddings, him marrying the couples while my Grandma took pictures. Now, Natalie has turned the land into a full-service wedding venue.

  People think it’s weird that she lives with our family, but that’s just the way it’s always been. It’d be silly for her to live somewhere else and drive here every day, especially since we have the space. The wedding venue has become a fa
mily business. My mom handles the catering, and my dad takes care of the financial aspects. Natalie’s talked about buying a tiny house for herself to put on the property, but I talk her out of it every time.

  There’s a pond and a gazebo for smaller ceremonies, the barn for big, more traditional weddings, and even a honeymoon cabin to wrap it all up. She photographs the weddings too, which is included in the price. We do all types of photography, but weddings are our moneymakers.

  “What's on the agenda today?” I ask her.

  “I think we need to update the website. We’ve had the same images up forever.” Natalie unlocks the barn in one swift movement, then tucks her keys into her camera case. “And I want to have the loft repaired right away. I want to try to capture the big kiss from up here during the Bentley wedding.”

  “Oh my gosh, it’ll be gorgeous!” I say. Following her gaze to the rickety wood above us, I can see her vision as if she’d actually shown me a picture of it.

  “Right?” she says. Throwing her arms out, she grins at me. “It’ll be perfect. And the loft would be cute for bridal images, as well. We can set up hay bales and other decorations.”

  “I can’t wait to see brides climbing up the ladder in their dresses!” Unzipping my bag, I pull out my phone and shoot my aunt a wink. “I’ll call Leo. He’ll be skipping down the driveway to see you.”

  “Shush,” Natalie warns me, trying to fight the small smile peeking its way through. She hates when I tease her about our construction guy’s crush on her. Shaking her head, she waves me out of the barn. “Get going. When you get off the phone, run up to the attic and look in the totes of Christmas decorations. We have some lights in there we can use.”

  “Sure thing.” I rush out of the barn and dial Leo’s number as I make my way across the yard.

  “Leo’s Construction,” he answers on the third ring.

  “Hey, Leo! It’s Lia. Aunt Natalie is wondering if you’re available for a project.”

  Leo chuckles. “Available? Y’all keep me in business! What do you ladies need now?”

  Laughing with him, I begin to describe our vision.

  It’s wedding season at Journey’s Farm, and the Winegar girls are ready.

  After we hang up, I make my way into the house and up our giant staircase.

  When I was a kid, the attic always creeped me out. I dreaded packing away winter clothes or running up there to check the breakers. As I grew older, I overcame my fears and made a nest in what once frightened me, a place to hide away from the world. I would cuddle up in the window seat and let my headphones drown everything out. My mom always had to come upstairs and yank them off my head for dinner.

  As I pull the cord to the attic door, the stairs come sliding out of the ceiling, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and used books comes wafting around me. I climb up them with my head lowered, something I never worried about before.

  I haven’t come up here in a year or two, having outgrown my need to hide. However, my window seat looks as if I could’ve just gotten up from a rainy afternoon of listening to The Avett Brothers while scrolling through my social media apps. I’d even left a pair of headphones perched on the windowsill, curled up and waiting for the next time I ventured upstairs.

  The attic is one large room and kept relatively clean despite the fact that its only used for storage. However, the air never works properly up here and I can barely breathe in the stuffy heat. Fanning my shirt as it tries to stick to my skin, I spot the Christmas totes lined up against the back wall, labeled with their contents in Natalie’s untidy writing.

  I sort through a few that are marked “lights”, but I only find multicolored ones. As I shift the containers over to reach the ones underneath, a box slides out, landing on my foot with a thud. It’s a keepsake box, hand painted by the looks of it. In all the time I’ve spent in the attic, I don’t recall ever seeing it before. As I bend down, a cutout in the wall catches my attention. There’s a thick layer of dust around the outline of where I assume the box had previously been. Someone must have put it there intentionally.

  I blow dust off the lid and open it slowly. Nestled amongst ratty gift tissue is a disposable camera and a leather-bound journal.

  I pick up the disposable camera, remembering how Aunt Natalie always bought them for me for my birthday. These days, they’re harder to find, but for nostalgia's sake, we still use one occasionally.

  Peering at the number of pictures left on the reel, I see there’s one unused shot. I wonder why she never had it developed. Moving to the journal, I trail my hands over Natalie’s full name, embossed on the cover in gold letters.

  With bated breath, I climb into my window seat. It feels like slipping into a pair of worn pajamas; comfortable, familiar, home. As I trace the worn cover, a battle rages within me. To read or not to read. The idea of invading Natalie’s privacy gives me pause. Then again, she’s more my best friend than my aunt, so I probably already know everything she wrote about.

  The spine creaks as I open the journal, and a photo falls out of the front cover and onto my lap. In the picture, Natalie looks about the same age as she is in her high school graduation photos. Her hair was a brilliant red rather than the faded strawberry blonde it is now. She has a soft smile on her face, and her hands are cupping the face of a boy.

  A boy I’ve never seen before.

  He has wavy blond hair and a sparkle in his eyes as he looks at her. They’re both propped up by pillows, and judging by the angle, he had stretched his arm out wide in order to take the photo. I was hesitant to read the journal before now, but the picture makes it impossible to resist.

  Who’s this guy lying on a bed with my aunt? She looks like a different person. She looks happy. She looks happy now too, but this is different. The joy that radiates from her large smile and laughing eyes makes her look…alive.

  As I turn to the first page, Natalie’s familiar handwriting scrawled in messy loops, I dive in.

  Natalie

  Eighteen Years Earlier

  Today was the baby shower…

  “Natalie, let’s go!” my best friend, Kate, beckons me from the sidewalk. “I swear I’ll be careful.” She leans against the hood of her mom’s beat up car, twirling the keys around her finger.

  “You just got your license.” The wariness in my tone isn't lost on her.

  “You’re one to talk, you haven't even tried to get yours,” she retorts.

  I don’t need reminded of the fact that it’s a little ridiculous I have no desire to learn how to drive. Even now, at eighteen years old. My brother teases me every damn day about it.

  “How else are we going to get to the baby shower?” Kate impatiently jerks her head toward the car. “Let’s go, Nat.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, my best friend is right. My brother, Teddy, and his wife, Violet, are celebrating the impending arrival of my niece and it’s important that I arrive on time. My mom will kill me if I show up late.

  “I wish you would’ve gotten here on time. Then we could’ve rode with my mom.” Rolling my eyes, I hurry to the passenger door, shutting it carefully behind me. Kate had broken the window out on this side by slamming the door too hard once, and I’d hate to repeat the incident.

  Kate bounces into her seat, sliding her phone into the cupholder between us. She’s probably keeping it there for easy access to text, but her driving makes me nervous enough. Especially since it took her three chances to pass her driving test. Besides, she literally just left him.

  “No texting. Seth can wait.” Snatching her phone, I tuck both of ours into the cupholder on my door. “I won’t text either.”

  “Why didn’t your mom just wait for me?” Kate buckles up, adjusting her mirrors as if for show. Maybe she hopes it’ll convince me that she’s a serious driver, and I’ll decide to ride with her to the beach. But I’m not a fan of that idea at all.

  After camp, our families are going on our annual group vacation, and she wants us to drive separately this time. I’d b
e much happier if we could just stick with tradition and camp out in the back seat of my mom and dad’s van on the way to the beach.

  Kate’s boyfriend works at camp with us, and he’ll be driving down for a few days of our vacation. Seth is cool, don’t get me wrong. He’s a great guy and he treats my best friend like a queen. And normally my boyfriend, Connor, and his family come along for vacation, too. But this year, he’ll be at football camp and his parents have decided to stay home.

  Still, sharing my best friend isn’t always my favorite thing to do. And I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous of their relationship. Seth and Kate mesh together perfectly, whereas Connor and I always seem to be grating against each other.

  After graduation, life will go topsy-turvy. We’ll be going to separate colleges in the fall, and this is our last summer together before our paths divide. I’m ready for a new adventure, but it’s bittersweet to see everything change before my eyes.

  Kate pulls onto the street from my driveway. “Maybe we’ll get there in time to help finish with the decorations,” she says. “Your mom is, like, Superwoman. It’s probably all finished by now, anyway.”

  Kate stomps the break at the stop sign and I catch myself with my hand to the dash. The sign has been there our whole lives; I don’t know why it caught her off guard.