Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1)

by Claudia Burgoa

  “We’re not meant for each other, Porter.” I avoid the hurtful thoughts and save them for my shrink. “If we had been, we wouldn’t have had to work so hard to keep everyone away, to hide it.”

  “This time it will be different,” he sounds like a junkie swearing he can quit anytime.

  “You can’t have alcohol ever again, Porter.” I remind him. “I think it’s the same with drugs, and you just mentioned that I’m one of your drugs.”

  I imagine him sitting in some sterile white room, scratching the nape of his neck and searching for a way to convince me.

  “Thank you for the tender-loving moments, Porter,” I sob. “They’ll stay inside my heart forever.”

  “Don’t leave me, AJ, please.” I hear him crying. “I love you, AJ, don’t leave me.”

  The image of that fourteen-year-old hits me, and I fight with the need to protect him and keep him safe from everything his family did. But I can’t because he’s no longer fourteen.

  That boy disappeared long ago. He’s a man who needs to learn to take care of himself.

  “Goodbye and Merry Christmas, Porter.”

  A hand retrieves the phone from mine as I let the big bawl take over. The tears blur my vision, but my parents are right beside me. I know they’ll wait until the tears subside. It should be soon.

  2015

  I’m strumming Breezy while Papi tunes Constantine. He insisted on doing it for me—I can tune my own piano, but I think he wants to baby me after my call with Porter.

  I can’t believe that my piano is inside my room. The ten-year-old and the fairy who lives inside me are jumping up and down. Twirling around celebrating this new and unique event. After my parents, Mason, and my brothers moved my stuff back from Texas, they rearranged my old bedroom.

  My desk is piled against one corner so they could fit the piano inside. Something about, not moving the music room around for only a few weeks and keeping the temptation out of the living room. I didn’t understand the latter, but I was happy they broke one of their rules. No instruments inside the bedroom at night.

  Ha, the joke is on them. I bet they’re going to slam on my door and tell me to stop the music when they realize the consequences of their acts. But I won’t be able to hear them since I’ll be playing beautiful music with Constantine and Breezy—not at the same time though.

  Dad opens the door and stares at me before speaking, “You have a visitor.”

  I expel one of those big breaths that lift some of the weight of the world away from my shoulders, place Breezy on her stand, and head toward the door.

  “Are you going to receive your visitor like that?”

  I scan myself from head to toe. A pair of shorts, a cami, and my kitty slippers. I lift one shoulder and continue walking.

  “Who is it?” Chris asks and I don’t hear the response but I do hear his loud voice. “Come back here and change Ainsley Janine. You’re not receiving boys dressed like that.”

  His distraught voice drags a chuckle out of me and the gloom still lingering from Porter’s call is lifting. Until I see him standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Mason.

  Yes, I should go and change… how? Without the kid-like slippers and with something more… I have no idea, but I know I look like shit. I haven’t washed my face after the call, and the dry, crusty tears on my face must look hideous.

  “What happened?” He takes several steps and holds my chin with both hands examining me.

  “I had a call with the past?” I don’t know what to say and he waits for me to continue. “Porter.”

  He releases my face and combs his hair with both hands.

  “He’s working on his twelve-step program and wanted to talk to me,” I add casually.

  “Why did you agree to talk to him?” Mason questions as I stare at the grayish-green eyes behind those Clark Kent-like black plastic glasses I love.

  “Because,” I know that’s not a real answer.

  “You need to stop having any contact with him,” he suggests. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  His insistence puzzles me. Mason doesn’t discuss much about Porter or the Porter era, it’s like fight club. You know it exists, but you don’t talk about the subject, which is why I’m curious about his question.

  “Because he needs closure in order to heal too,” I explain, as I take his hand and drag him to the couch.

  We sit and as I pull my legs toward my body and hug them, he touches the slippers and smiles at me.

  “What about you?” he questions. His lips draw a thin line each time he closes his mouth. “Why would you agree to that while you’re trying to fix your own shit?”

  “I accepted the call because I was ready—I need closure too. Real closure.” His eyes aren’t judging, but the imaginary hot seat is burning my butt. “After three years, I think the biggest issue I carry is the abuse.”

  “Mostly, that for years I’ve watched movies, read books, heard stories of women who lived inside these scary, abusive relationships and I said, ‘That’ll never happen to me. How can they not notice?’ And yet, I didn’t and there’s something inside of me that keeps wanting to find out why I was so stupid.”

  Mason opens his mouth to interrupt me, but I shake my head and continue.

  “In any case, those self-doubts are the reason I lost all the terrain I’ve walked and slid back to the anger and bitterness. Then I bargained with myself because if I had done things differently…”

  “If he recovers, are you going to forgive him?”

  I take a deep breath. I’d rather watch back-to-back movies of Alien vs. Predator, or watch A Thousand Years at War twice—the shit Mason likes – than discuss Porter with him. Especially with him hating Porter with every cell of his body.

  “I forgave him.”

  A strange animal growl erupts deeply from his throat, but he doesn’t move, speak, or change his expression.

  “For both him and me.” I make myself clear, or as clear as I can since his defaced eyes aren’t changing. “Think, Mase. What’s the benefit of carrying any feelings he created—good or bad—inside me? The good moments will stay; my brothers and I have great memories from the time he arrived until we all grew up and things changed.”

  I place my chin on top of my knees. My eyes begin to water, Mase squeezes my hand.

  “That’s what hurts, Mase; he was our friend.” Not only did I lose a friend, my brothers did too. “I’m having trouble merging that kid with the guy I thought I loved. He asked me not to leave him over the phone and when he said it, I remembered that scared homeless boy my parents brought home. How can we abandon him?”

  I turn my head and now my temple is leaning against my knees. Mason watches me with a strange void to his features, not one hint of his mood surfaces. His cold silence makes the wait feel like hours or days; perhaps it’s only seconds.

  “I applaud your big heart,” Mason says dryly. He doesn’t change his serious expression. “I’ll ask one last time, and after, we’ll forget he even existed. Are you getting back together with him?”

  “Not at all. At this point, I doubt what we had meant what I thought back then. He gave me what I needed, a person who accepted me as the little monster I believed myself to be.”

  I came to find that we didn’t love each other the way couples should. However, that’s a tad bit for myself and no one else’s ears.

  “At the same time, he used all those insecurities to fill my head with ideas and make me believe that without him, I was no one.”

  That was not the person my parents raised, but then my parents handled our lives in such a way that I had no idea what was real or not. Porter’s insecurities and need to guarantee that the one person who believed in him would always stay by his side, helped brew the perfect liquid explosive to create a major catastrophe.

  “I don
’t want to forget, I want to learn from the past and the present, Mason,” I say, his attention still transfixed on me. “I want to learn how to live, do all that I couldn’t while trapped under his magic spell. That’s what you get when you live enclosed.”

  I lift my head and look around the room and wave my hand through the entire house—my former cage. Or what I thought once had been my cage.

  This is just peachy. The conversation turned out to be all about me and that pesky past.

  “Dates, night clubs, bars, movie theaters, the venues I only visited backstage… I want to concentrate on being me.”

  “If one day a great guy comes along and offers that thing I want, I won’t shut him down because of my past.”

  “That’s a mouth full.” He rakes a hand through his hair and then brushes some strands of hair out of my face. “What’s that thing you want from that your mysterious guy?”

  “A love story, his and mine. Ordinary and yet extraordinary,” I tell him hopeful that it’ll happen someday. “One, unlike any other. You know how they say there’s not two fingerprints alike in the world… like that.”

  He nods and checks his black fancy watch with different time zones and buttons on the side that I can’t possibly understand from where I sit.

  Mason stands up and pulls me with him. “It’s time for me to leave,” his voice is firm but his eyes don’t look convinced about it.

  Heck, I don’t want him to leave yet. Being with Mason dissipates the black clouds and shitty moments. Keeps the crappy stuff of the world at bay.

  “I actually came for a quick visit. I wanted to check on you before leaving the country,” he explains as he takes my hand and we head outside of the house. “I have a couple of long term projects that will keep me busy for a long time. Text, email… you know, the same shit. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me… never hesitate.”

  “Goodbye?” I mean, what else is there to say, right? See you in two to three years?

  He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he gathers me into his arms, holding me tightly. His soapy, musky scent slams against my nostrils and this time the anticipation stiffens my body. Mason loosens his grip gliding his hands up. One hand lands on the nape of my neck, the other cups my chin. He gradually lowers his lips to mine, a brush, a test, a nibble; those lips persuading me to let him take over.

  The caress of his lips along with the stroke of his hand and the closeness of his body cause my entire body to combust. I part my lips, letting him take over and send me swirling to a dimension I’ve never known existed.

  “Take care of yourself, sweet girl.”

  “Bye,” I whisper. “Be safe.”

  “Always, I’ll see you around.” He climbs into a dark sports car and drives away toward the shadows of the night.

  Because that’s what superheroes do.

  A huge thank you to everyone who worked so hard to help me bring this story to live. Paulina and Andie, they listened to my first thoughts about the plot—for months. They are a couple of troopers.

  A big thank you to Jordan Rosenfeld, who helped me through the creative part. Chasity who guided me to find the best way to tell the story and puts up with my crazy moments of madness—love you for that and more.

  Thank you to my friend, editor and everything: Carol Allen, she makes sense of my doodles and polishes them until they shine. I love you girl.

  Huggeronies to my beta readers, Gloria Herrera, Wendy Metz, Christina McPherson-Mock, Deb Devita, Stephanie Neighbor and Paulina. The time you gave my story means the world to me. Thank you!

  Thank you to Hang Le for producing the perfect cover, I couldn’t have dreamt of a better way to wrap this story than what you created. Dr. Christopher Thomas, a great friend and also the one who answers my medical questions so my books are as accurate as possible. If I missed something is all on me, not him.

  All the bloggers that have so far supported my books. My readers for following me, writing reviews and to those who write me those amazing notes telling me that my stories touched them. My fellow writers, thank you for your support.

  Let’s not forget my family. The husband, children and dogs who not only support me, but keep me grounded even with all the nonsense that flows in my household. My friends, for listening to my ideas and putting up with my book venting while we’re out having fun. Thank you for still taking me out of the house from time to time.

  Born on the mystical day of October 30th in the not so mystical lands of Mexico City, Claudia grew up with a childhood that resembled a caffeine-injected soap opera. Seventeen years ago she ventured to the lands of her techie husband—a.k.a. the U.S.—with their offspring to start a new adventure.

  She now lives in Colorado working as a CFO for a small IT company, managing her household filled with three confused dogs, said nerd husband, two daughters wrought with fandoms and a son who thinks he’s the boss of the house. To survive she works continually to find purpose for the voices flitting through her head, plus she consumes high quantities of chocolate to keep the last threads of sanity intact.

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