“Mackenzie, sweetheart, call me,” she sounds neutral. “Your dad and I want to offer to pay for the moving truck and the plane tickets so you can move to Portland. Please, sweetie, think about the kids.”
Leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, I stare at the nightstand where I placed my husband’s ashes earlier today. I want to believe that he’ll come back, that this is a bad joke, or that as a special favor from God, he’ll come back to us.
His words come back to me: “I promise you that better days are yet to come and even when you don’t see me, I’ll be next to you.”
Better days, that sounds right. My babies needed a breather, a new light.
If anyone asked which author would write my life’s story, I’d answer Charles Dickens, without hesitation. For the past month, I’ve been dreaming of Leo’s ghost. Sometimes, he’s in the background, while I sob for his loss.
“Move on, Kenzie,” he repeats over and over again.
An easy phrase to say. He’s asking me to perform a miracle. Forget our future, our promises. The vows we told each other. He left me without a word, a goodbye, a hug. One last kiss. Am I supposed to accept that I was cheated out of our happiness? Why me? I was a good person, wasn’t I? There’s nothing left for me to bargain, to get angry at, or to give in exchange.
I peer between the blinds, toward the foothills where everything is still. Nothing changes, only the seasons. Couldn’t that be us? Leo and I staying together in one place, forever. Our only time together is in dreams.
“How can you ask me to move on?” I whisper, gripping the hem of my sweater, holding myself tightly so I don’t fall down.
“Would you?” I release the blinds, looking around the dark room. “Would you move on if I had been the one to leave you behind?”
It happens in an instant, like a stroke of lightning hitting me on the head, a surge of electricity travels through my entire body. The answer. A sob escapes me and the tears begin to stream. The only way out of this cycle hurts almost as much as it hurt to lose Leo.
Moving out.
For my kids’ emotional health, my own, and our financial future—we have to go. Maybe far away so I can begin to heal. Look beyond what happened inside the walls of my home. I don’t have much money to continue the lifestyle we’ve had for so many years. The house expenses are costly while my income is zero.
Whether there’s a life beyond what I planned, I know that my children have the right to a better life. The one Leo and I had imagined for them, with some adjustments. In order to do so, I have to pump some life into my heart and my soul. Maybe I can’t continue waiting for him to come home.
I have to accept it, he’s not coming home.
Grieving is a process, a set of phases that one follows until we learn to live with the pain, the loss. Until we remember how to breathe. There are no rules on how to get to the point where the hurt is bearable. No timelines. My lips draw up in a small smile as I place one of Leo’s physics books inside the for Finn box. Maybe Leo knows the mathematical equation that will provide me with an accurate answer on how long the pain of losing him will last. It’s been more than two years and breathing is as hard as leaving my bed. I’m years away from reaching a place where I can imagine a world where Leo and Kenzie aren’t one. But I made the promise to my children, to him, and to myself that I’ll find a way to speed up the process.
Shit, I clear the tear I feel slipping the moment I find one of the love letters I wrote to him inside of another one of his college books. One of the thousands I wrote while we were apart. He went to CU Boulder; I was at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. Separated by an hour drive didn’t sound bad when we received our acceptance letters, but damn, it was a long distance when neither one of us owned a car. It was a small obstacle that didn’t matter, our relationship survived the four years, and after, we swore never to be apart for more than a day. Until now. Seven hundred plus days without the man who made my heart skip every time he entered a room.
My first love, my only love.
This week has been as painful as the first few nights without him. Each time I set an item that he owns—that he owned—away, I lose him all over again. Deciding to pack at night or while Harper is at school and Finn is next door was the best. They shouldn’t see me break down over and over while trying to gain . . . what is it that I’m trying to find? Myself, my courage, a new way to live? All of the above, or whatever might happen during this new phase. Opening my barely alive heart to the unknown frightens me, but I have to do the right thing.
Goodwill’s truck is coming tomorrow to pick the items I’m not planning on keeping. I’m keeping a few things for myself and some of Leo’s most meaningful possessions for the kids to remember him by. Things that their father cherished while he was alive. Shit. I don’t realize that I’m crying until I notice the droplets hitting the books I’m packing.
Everything of his reminds me of who we were, who we became, and what we lost that tragic night. The little pieces leftover from my shattered heart are trying to rebuild the mess inside me, but it’s impossible. There’s nothing but an empty body and I’m tired of fixing the pain with pieces of Band-Aids that fall off with a small gush of air.
“Two more days, Mackenzie,” I tell myself while taping yet another box of books closed. “Portland should change everything. A different life where your kids can see you smile again.”
Splitting the eighteen-hour drive from Colorado to Oregon was either the best idea, or the worst. Day one is over. We stopped in Ogden, Utah, for the night. Luckily, the hotel I booked had a pool, affordable rates, and a McD’s next door. By nine o’clock, the two kids were fast asleep, neither one protesting about us three sharing a bed.
To beat the traffic, I woke up at five. Shoving Harper and Finn inside the car, I drove along I-84 until Boise. We had breakfast at Denny’s. After, I drove to a small park where the kids ran a few laps and played on the swings. An hour later we continued our way to Portland, we had six hours to go before we arrived at my aunt’s home.
“I’m hungry,” Harper reminds me for the millionth time that we hadn’t stopped for lunch. “Mom, you’re killing me.”
My drama queen makes an appearance. Taking the next exit, I drive to the first gas station, parking next to the pump. After a couple of calming breaths, I shut down the car engine and take the keys out of the ignition. Turning around I give her what I hope looks like a pleading face and not an annoyed one. “Let me fill up the tank and then we’ll have lunch.”
“You said that millions of miles ago,” she protests.
I press my lips, avoiding any further discussion with my little hungry girl. Walking around the car toward the pump, with my debit card in hand, I hear a bell ding. I halt, my eyes lift, and I spot him opening the glass door of the convenience store. A tall man, with broad shoulders, dark blond hair, wearing a leather jacket, and a devilish smile directed at me comes out.
“Howdy,” he grins as he approaches the bike parked on the other side of the pump I’m using.
The man owns the place, the streets. Maybe the entire city. The smile never leaves his lips, not even as he takes his helmet from the seat and adjusts it over his head. He mounts the bike and pulls his aviator sunglasses off his collared shirt. They look like they were made just for him as he slides them onto his face.
“Have a safe trip.” His full lips move, his deep voice sounds, and I realize that I hadn’t moved since the moment he open that damn door. He’s handsome, in a Charlie Hunnam way.
As his bike pulls over and leaves the premises, I feel normal. Not the widow that mourns for her husband. More like the old Mackenzie who would enjoy when a guy gifted her a smile even when she was married. Because there’s nothing wrong with receiving a smile from a stranger. It’s, in fact, uplifting to share those around. Maybe moving on won’t be as hard. It doesn’t mean that I’ll forget, or that I’ll find someone else. It only means that I can let myself live again.
I’m standing
in front of a gorgeous Victorian style home, along with a gorgeous guy who is staring back at me. The house isn’t as big as my aunt described it, but we’ll make it work, at least for now. We’re only staying temporarily until I find a job and a place for us to live in. I double-check that the number is right, three forty-eight, and my eyes land on him again. He might be in his early thirties, with short dark hair, perfectly sharp cheekbones, firm angular jaw, and a perfectly straight nose. A pretty face that maybe one of those plastic surgeons could’ve designed for a Hollywood actor. His deep melted-chocolate-brown eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, stare down at me. He’s about eight inches taller than my five-three, and under the gray t-shirt he wears, there are some lean well-defined muscles.
Not bad, but instead of ogling the Portland-welcome-committee, I ask the obvious, “Um, I’m looking for 348 North East Holman?” I show him the printable version of Google maps I have.
He narrows his gaze at the paper and points at the letter A I overlooked, then shows me the letter B right below the big numbers on the wall. “Next door,” he says with a low voice, turning around and leaving me standing in the cold.
What the hell, and what door?
I glance over to the driveway where I parked my car to make sure that the kids are still asleep and push the keyless remote to lock it and set the alarm. I then pull out my phone to verify with my aunt that she gave me the right address and find out where the heck the entrance to her house is. But Mr. Few-words comes out of the house wearing a jacket and a cap before I can call her. He tilts his head, signaling me to follow and walks across the driveway.
Chasing behind him I stare at the fine ass wrapped up by a pair of loose jeans. My head tilts from side to side appreciating the male form in front of me. Oh, shit, wait. I halt in my tracks. Why am I eyeing this man? I’m a married woman and Leo wouldn’t appreciate it if . . . I lift my left hand looking at my bare fingers. Right, moving on from Leo and Kenzie. It doesn’t mean that I’ll jump into bed with the first hot body I notice. Only that I have to push away the guilt from looking.
Crossing the driveway, there’s a tree hiding a small porch and right in the corner there it is, the second door. Before I knock on it, it opens wide. Aunt Molly rushes out with her arms wide open. She hasn’t changed much—same curvaceous body, short, blonde hair and happy, blue eyes. She looks just like Mom.
“Mackenzie?” I hear her voice. “You made it sweetie. It’s so good to see you.”
“Aunt Molly,” I greet, hugging her back.
“Where are the kids?” She asks releasing me and looking behind me.
“In the car.” I take a step back to make sure both kiddos haven’t woken up. “I thought it’d be best to swing by to let you know I’m here, but I want to bring them by when their stuff is delivered. For now, we can pretend we’re still traveling and we’ll stay at a hotel.”
“Nonsense, I have the bed ready for you.” She walks around me and toward the car. “The two of them can fit on that bed and you can sleep on the couch. Maybe tomorrow we can break down that bed and set up the kids beds in that extra room.”
“How many rooms do you have available?” I ask trying to understand the setting. Shit, no one told me she owned a duplex—and that one of them was leased to somebody else.
“Two. My room and the guest room,” she explains, standing right by the minivan. “We’ll make it work, sweetie.”
Pivoting toward the door I knocked on earlier, she calls out, “Porter, dear, are you working tomorrow?” The guy leans against his door, his gaze focused on me for several beats. He gives his head a shake. “Good, you can help us move stuff around my house.” He salutes her, enters his house, and closes the door.
“Who is he?” I point my chin toward the duplex.
“Porter. I lease the other side to him,” she answers. “He works at the gas station down the block and helps me around the house.”
Shit, this isn’t what I expected. Mom said she had two extra rooms. When I spoke to my aunt, she confirmed that she had two rooms. She insisted that I stay with her for as long as I need, that she’d help me with my kids while I worked. It all sounded nice, but maybe I should call a real estate agent and search for a place of my own. Mr. Serious-Neighbor doesn’t look like the kind of man that will enjoy having children around.
“That’s nice, having someone to help you around the house,” I tell her, fidgeting with the keys. “If you don’t mind, I’m heading to the hotel. The room is paid for and I don’t want to lose that money. Tomorrow morning I’ll come by and we can talk about my next step.”
Though, the biggest step has been taken—leaving Colorado. Putting the house on the market, packing Leo’s belongings and starting to move on with my life. Searching for a place to live is easy in comparison to the process I went through since Leo died. Maybe Molly’s offer was the excuse I was looking for to leave everything behind. Yes, she’s my only close family, my favorite aunt, but do I really need to stay in this tiny house close to . . . yes, that’s why I’m second guessing this arrangement. Him. Porter made me feel uneasy from the moment he opened the door. Something about him unsettles every nerve in my body.
Aunt Molly places a hand on top of mine and gives me a sad smile. “You’re going to be fine, Mackenzie. The hardest step is over. The rest will come easily. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, rest well.”
What’s going on? The little bit of furniture I brought with me, along with my boxes are in my aunt’s driveway. I turn off the ignition, staring at my belongings and wondering what in the world is happening. A shirtless male figure with broad shoulders and sun-kissed skin decorated with several tattoos walks toward my aunt’s door carrying a twin mattress. Behind him, a couple other men carry the rest of the bed.
“Is this where we’re going to live, Mommy?” Harper asks as I nod, trying to figure out what’s going on. “This is too small, where am I going to put my dollies?”
“We’ll figure it out, honey.” I sigh because I have no answer for her. Earlier I tried to contact the movers to find out if they could store my belongings for a week or so, but the cost of doing so was outrageous and the hotels in the area are booked up because of some convention. The real estate agent I contacted is on vacation and my laptop died before I could find a new one. That should teach me not to pack all the cables in one box. “For the next couple of days, we’re having a sleepover.”
“Like when I stay with my friend Hannah?”
“Yes, baby, just like that.”
“But Hannah is far away, in Colorado,” she murmurs, her head drops and my energetic girl is gone. “This is unfair.” My almost seven-year-old crosses her arms and I can feel it coming. Some nonsense speech about violating her human rights. “Dad won’t find us anymore. He’s never going to visit me again.”
Her tears quickly turn to sobs and Finn joins in. I drop my head on the steering wheel, squeezing my eyes tight and wishing myself somewhere else. Maybe to the time when I had a husband and a two-year-old girl who wouldn’t talk back. A knock on my window startles me; I straighten my back as my aunt’s neighbor-handy-man is rolling his finger, as if signaling me to lower my window.
“Can you give us two more hours?” His words lack something . . . humanity?
“Why, what’s wrong?”
His shoulders slump, his eyes look at the sky for a second and he lets out a loud breath. “Your aunt can explain. I hate talking.” With that, he turns around and heads to her home.
Peachy. What is he, four?
I flinch when I spot Finn’s reflection through the rear view mirror. It’s been two years since I’ve heard my son speak. Some days I’m angry with Leo because of it. If he hadn’t died, Finn wouldn’t be this quiet boy who sits next to the door waiting for his father to come back. “Harper, stay where you’re at sweetie, I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
I leave the car, locking it behind me, and charge toward my aunt, but first I stop right in front of Porter. “Can you please
keep an eye on my children?” I ask, and continue my way toward my aunt’s house.
The doors are wide-open, one of the men I saw earlier is heading my way empty handed. My aunt trailing right behind him.
“What’s going on?” I question, signaling toward the chaos.
“Well the movers arrived an hour ago,” she answers, walking me outside her house. “Porter explained how you guys won’t fit in my house, and he offered his place.”
“What does that mean?” I frown, watching the surly man standing right next to my car watching my children. “Where is he going to live?”
She wiggles her eyebrows and smiles widely. “With me, of course.” She raises her hands and shrugs, as if she’s going to sacrifice for the greater good. “He promised to keep his distance, but I won’t complain if something happens between us . . . after all, I am a woman—with a heart and needs, you know.”
Is she serious? Really, my aunt and her tenant? Instead of listening to my aunt’s disturbing comments, I walk back toward him.
“Thank you, but this won’t be necessary,” I say, pointing at his house. “We can find a place next week, there’s no point of moving all the furniture around.”
He rolls his eyes and huffs. “Lady, it’s done. You can use my living room and dining room furniture since you don’t have any.” He taps the car window. “They can’t live with your aunt in that tiny room.” He shakes his head.
“One more thing, never leave your children inside the car unattended, the next time I’m breaking the windows.”
“But you’re here and I’m here . . . I never . . .” but there’s no point of telling him anything else, as he already left me standing in the middle of the driveway, alone.
As promised, two hours later the movers are gone and my stuff is inside Porter’s house. Surprisingly it’s comfortable, though, I wonder why he owns expensive furniture and lots of books. He’s a single man. The expected rundown couch, one table and two chairs, and a wall-to-wall television screen are nowhere to be found. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but he not only left some bits and pieces of his stuff behind, but also his sandalwood smell. A scent that is starting to make me feel uneasy. There’s something about him that bothers me or intrigues me. I can’t even pinpoint the emotion that he evokes. What is it about him that has me on the edge?
Undefeated (Unexpected Book 5) Page 3