One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm Book 1)

by Whitney Walker

  “Close your eyes, focus on your breath.”

  I can do this. I close my eyes and topple left the moment I am balancing on one arm and two legs. My eyes fly open as I catch myself. Maybe I will save trying that for the third class. I can focus on my breath though. Just one at a time. I make it through four whole breaths before another image of J.T. fills my head and the questions start again. Does he work? Why does he want to run away to Australia instead of, say, Paris? Paris could be nice for romance. Oh, dear God! Focus much, Peyton? I scold myself and get back to my breath. An improvement. The next time I make it through five whole breaths before I chase after my runaway brain in the middle of imagining what our first kiss will taste like.

  By the time I am moving to lie on my back for the ending pose of Savasana, or corpse pose, I don’t want the class to be over. I haven’t stopped thinking at all. I don’t feel calm or peaceful like I had the day before. Then the teacher’s voice oozes soothingly, “And push yourself up from fetal pose leaving behind your burdens and cares.” I’ve just missed all of Savasana. Then she says to find some gratitude. This one I’ve got. I’ve burned enough calories to have a fru-fru drink at Starbucks.

  But first, I must check my phone! Right on command, my stomach flip-flops first, then the rest of my body chimes in. Clammy palms. Heartbeat capitulating wildly. Head dizzy in delight. All for one single text message. Pathetic much?

  morning! still on? any Detroit faves?

  I love how he capitalizes Detroit to give his hometown the respect it deserves. Just one of the annoyingly pervasive questions in my head during class, I have an answer prepared. I have no idea if the restaurants I am considering are still as I remember them, but at least I will make suggestions. My favorite pizza place for the low end, favorite sushi place for the middle, and steak place for the high end. I’d tried to become a vegetarian when I had first moved to California, but the steak-and-potatoes piece of my roots was too hard to deny. If he picks sushi I’ll be eating it two days in a row, so that nearly qualifies me as vegetarian, doesn’t it?

  not fussy… but Gabe’s, Sake’s and Modern are the faves, since you asked!

  I secretly hope he will choose pizza or sushi, as my last option is definitely more date-like than the other two. Guilt has been alternating with excitement all morning, but excitement is winning out, at least at this moment. He answers:

  sushi for my CA girl – but of course – sounds great

  His California girl? His girl? Am I reading more into it than he means? Probably. Definitely. I swing back to guilt over excitement. Before I have time to torture myself further, my phone buzzes again:

  text ur address and I’ll pick u up @ 7

  This has officially crossed the line with a not just dinner but a pickup and drop-off from dinner, yet I hesitate none in replying. Let chivalry reign!

  thank you – see you @ 7!

  I add my address and hit send before my head can overtake my heart.

  Seven hours and twelve minutes later, I am wearing new jeans and a long sweater that flatters my top, but covers everything below. I have admonished myself for spending money I don’t have over the last two hours. Applying yet another coat of lip gloss in front of the mirror, I seal in the color with a loud smack. A little more sleep has done me well. The dark bags and red-rimmed eyes are not exactly a distant memory, but at least I look presentable.

  I begin to pace, nerves getting the best of me, back and forth in front of the window, as if catching him in the act of pulling up will somehow make this all a little easier. A bundle of energy and anxiety, I want to impress, but am also concerned I haven’t spoken to Kyle since the night prior. I’ve texted several times with no response and know that there is probably only one explanation. He’d been high as a kite on something and then crashed, and is probably passed out and not remembering that he has a girlfriend since I am not right there next to him. I only hope that he doesn’t call while I am out with J.T. We should be wrapped up with dinner by the time Kyle would be dragging himself out of bed and knocking back several red bulls, or using another substance I don’t want to consider, to get himself ready for another night of, what was his phrase? “Sheer bliss, baby.”

  The sound of a car pulling into the driveway startles me from contemplation, and I smile to myself. Despite my careful watch, he’s surprised me. Maybe it is just the start of sweet surprises. By the time my hand is on the wrought iron door handle, he is knocking. I pull the door open and he looks as disconcerted as I felt a moment ago.

  “Hey,” he says shyly, like he needs a minute to compose himself. He stuffs both hands into his pockets, and looks away, but wears a big smile. His blond bangs fall so perfectly across his forehead they look fake, hair on a mannequin, perfectly painted into place. “I was hoping for just one more minute there.” He pauses then, and if it is possible, his smile broadens. “Beautiful girls have a way of unnerving men, you know.”

  It is adorable, emotions right out there in the open for the world to see. He is so real! And hot! And has just called me beautiful.

  I mirror his endearing grin. As we turn to descend the porch stairs his hand finds the small of my back in the perfect sexy-not-creepy-at-all spot, guiding me gently down the stairs. My whole-body tingles with his touch, feet barely feeling the pavement. He reaches for the car door with a sideways ‘don’t you even think about it’ look, and, pulling it open, waits for me to sit down before closing it softly behind me.

  NOVEMBER 10th

  CHAPTER 5 | J.T.

  W ith a loud crack of thunder that makes the panes of glass tremble in the window frame, I am jolted awake. Damn. The weather is as strange as what is going on in my life at the moment. Damn. What a night last night had been. When I pulled up to Peyton’s house, I’d been second-guessing my decision to suggest the date. After bounding up the porch steps confidently, I needed an extra breath to calm my rapidly beating heart. The rapid heartbeat wasn’t from the steps. She’d surprised me by pulling open the door. It takes a lot to surprise me, life having taught me it’s advantageous to always be on guard, but Peyton had literally taken my breath away! She is beautiful. Angelic beautiful, classic beautiful, devastatingly beautiful. There aren’t enough adjectives to put before the word beautiful to describe how I see her.

  She captivated me the moment we shared our first intense gaze and I’d known exactly who she was. The daughter of a woman for whom I held the utmost regard. The difference last night, however, was that her tired and distraught features from the funeral had softened and were even more beautiful.

  The porch light had illuminated her blond waves and face, and though I tried not to let my eyes drift from hers, I couldn’t resist taking in the way her sweater beneath her unzipped jacket had accentuated what I could only imagine as perfect breasts. Her high cheekbones, highlighted with soft pink, stole my attention, and those full lips seemed to be poised in a pout that was just for me, ready for me to steal. Her curious eyes sparkle blue as the cloudless sky but with just enough gray to reveal pending storms. I tried to steady myself before I was caught, but I’d seen in her eyes that I was busted. No better way to dig myself from the hole, I’d had to stuff my hands in my pockets to avoid the potential of her noticing how they were shaking with nerves. I felt like a middle schooler again, in the back of the classroom, trying to duck my hips back to avoid the dead giveaway that I’d lost control of my emotions.

  Knowing that with a well-placed compliment I could basically weasel my way out of the most tenuous situations, I was sincere when I confessed she had unnerved me. The way her eyes had smiled in return as her lips curled up in gratefulness, and she thanked me, uncoiled the knot in my stomach. Then, we had turned to descend the porch steps and my hand had reached for her in a protective reflex. When I’d made contact with the small of her back the intense ripple of pleasure, yet again, had me questioning whether the date was a good idea.

  I knew to keep the conversation high level, answer questions with questions. Both of us
were like young children with injuries that could be coddled by deflection and distraction when anything real bubbled too close to the surface. She seemed to want to reveal less than I did, if that was possible, so she appeared perfectly happy to let my games and light content suffice, laughing playfully all the while. My last area of anguish was easily extinguished with a truthful, easy-to-deliver answer. When the waitress had asked for our drink order, I’d only had to answer that I was driving. None of this is a long-term strategy, but hell, I am taking this all one minute at a time.

  I had expected that sushi would be safe. Who knew that she would look so incredibly cute and sexy, an unlikely combination to achieve at the same damn time while clumsily trying to use chopsticks. I was a sucker for her nose crinkling up in thought as I asked her questions like what historical figure she’d most want to have over for dinner. Her answer had been Jesus. “Who else could possibly compare? Though, Audrey Hepburn would be a close second choice.” What would she feed Jesus? That had stressed her out, as she’d bowed her head shamefully but tilted puppy dog eyes to mine. “Frozen pizza? Hot dogs? Macaroni and cheese? Maybe all three, buffet-style? Oh, and wine, of course. Wine classes up all of those dishes!” I recalled the expression on her face when I’d stoically folded my napkin while shaking my head, telling her, “I’m afraid I’m going to need to end this evening earlier than expected.” Then clearing my throat authoritatively I’d added, “I’m sorry, but not cooking is a deal breaker for me,” all the while pressing my lips into a tight, thin line so as not to burst into laughter.

  I’d only intended to leave her hanging wide-eyed for a moment, but then I saw the pink blush across those damn fine cheekbones. In an effort to correct my bad behavior, I placed my hand over hers and felt something inside of me shift.

  No. Shift isn’t a strong enough word.

  Ignite seems more appropriate.

  Something long pushed away, buried, shelved for never. The spark exploded some familiar, yet forgotten, feeling back into my being. If I thought I was going to get away with not falling for her, that was the moment I officially crashed and burned.

  Whispering sadly, she’d said, “Oh. Okay. I guess just take me home then?” She phrased it as a question, one she was obviously hoping I wouldn’t answer, and I’d squeezed her hand and smiled broadly. “I was totally kidding. I love to cook. Don’t care at all if that is all you can make. My roommates and I put Jamie and Guy to shame!”

  Her response had been priceless, her own smile extending from ear to ear, perfect white teeth glistening. “Well, so was I. Just so happens I might be a little gourmet myself!”

  Crash and burn take two.

  “You so got me,” I’d retorted, then followed her eyes down to the table where our fingers were threaded together. She had more than just gotten me in a joke. She had my head and heart.

  Peyton filled in the details on how she’d gotten my number, minus the details of who actually wanted to get together in Detroit. I suppose she was making excuses to stalk me, which is just fine, as she saved me the trouble of having to concoct my own little reconnaissance mission.

  We covered facts about ourselves, literally, from A to Z with my favorites about her being C for her chocolate addiction, and G for giraffes being her favorite animal because they symbolize good luck. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her it is actually the elephant, not the giraffe, known for its luck-bringing potential. Hell, who was I to argue if giraffes work for her? I loved her R, as well, where she had said running shoes were her “best frenemies”, and then Y for yoga as her new favorite way to spend her time. It wasn’t as if I should have found that surprising, as I’d certainly heard more than an earful about the benefits, but when she spoke about yoga she was so impassioned I was convinced even the biggest doubters would flock to try it immediately. This nearly ensures my mother will soon become her biggest fan.

  My favorite part of all, however, was how I’d made her laugh at my answers. Happiness echoing through the restaurant, a sound I believe I will never tire of hearing. I am not even sure that I am funny, but it made me feel like a million bucks, nonetheless.

  As we’d slid from our respective sides of the booth, I found a way, once again, to make physical contact with Peyton. My leg under the table gently brushing hers had nearly rendered me incapable of standing to exit. I shook my head at myself as I paused a moment, appearing to let her out, but in actuality trying to tame the weakness in my thigh muscles that on any other day are strong and powerful. Karma is a bitch. I’ve given plenty of ribbings to friends unwise enough to admit a girl had brought them to their knees. But now, I know what they mean. Even if I am not sure that I want to.

  By the time we’d reached her house I was hoping for more, perhaps inside the confines of the four walls, or more specifically, one particular room. When we arrived, and I’d walked her to the door, things took a turn I wasn’t expecting.

  Now I lie here apprehensive and anxious about where we left things. One thing is certain, however, and that’s how much rejection sucks.

  Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I check the time and see two things. One, the absence of a message from Peyton, and two, that I have no more time to lie in bed pitying my sorry ass. As if on cue, the voice of my mom drifts up from the lower level, “Joe, honey, let’s go! I have to teach.”

  CHAPTER 6 | Peyton

  I am pacing.

  No, not pacing. Stomping, pouting, restlessly traipsing around my house. I. Am. Such. An. Idiot! Why hadn’t I just told J.T. the truth last night? Surely, he’d felt the rug was pulled out from under him when our too-good-to-be-true evening came to a screeching halt on my fricking front porch. I’d fled like a child, with no explanation, leaving my name with a question mark punctuating the cold, dark night.

  Had I crossed even the slightest line, it wouldn’t have ended until the finish line.

  Stupid stalking, stupid agreeing to a date. Sushi was safe? Like hell! Nothing was safe. I wasn’t safe in his presence to control myself! But what I had felt was real safety, the kind where I knew to my core that he would protect me always.

  The November rain falling sideways is pelting the windowpane, mocking me as the branches of the trees beat against the glass of my bedroom. I am jumping out of my skin every five seconds because of its horror-movie sound effect likeness. If J.T. was here, by my side now, or in my life, I know I would feel comfortable in my own skin. The way I felt throughout our entire evening together. His gentle nature was evident in the few touches that had barely whispered across my skin. And his easygoing and polite demeanor was impossible to miss with every person we had encountered, from the valet to the waitress, to the elderly woman he helped ease into her seat before her husband made it to the table. He was a true gentleman who appeared, contraindicative to all things me, to be the least selfish being I’ve ever encountered.

  I know in my gut this makes me unworthy, but there is a part of me that is hopeful I could be. Though I’d avoided eye contact at all costs, it still seemed he saw all of me. Maybe everything I think I know about who I am is wrong.

  Grabbing a black pair of yoga pants that slump in a pile on the floor next to my bed, I push each leg into them. Annoyingly they’re inside out. I pull them off and quickly reverse them, hopping on one leg closer to the suitcase. I grab a sweatshirt off the top of the stack of clothes and pull it over my head, trying to smooth the wrinkles and vowing to put my clothes into the dresser when I return.

  A quick look into the bathroom mirror reveals a lost cause, and forgoing even a brush to my hair, I sweep my blond locks up into a messy bun with one twist of my wrist and adept fingers that seem to be trembling slightly. Descending the wooden stairs, bare feet echoing off the walls, I slip my toes into my tennis shoes, not taking the time to put them all the way on. I opt to take the seconds to pour another cup of coffee before sliding the keys into my pocket and retrieving my clutch from the counter. A quick glance to the clock on the microwave says I only have a slim chance of c
atching him.

  Slim is good enough. It has to be.

  I need, not just want, to see him again. He deserves an explanation, and consolation, and whatever else will constitute an appropriate apology. It needs to happen before he steps onto an airplane and potentially never sees me ever again.

  I am pulling to the curb of the departures area, thankful we had spoken about his early flight back to Chicago. During our favorites alphabet game, at the letter “U” he’d said, “United Airlines. My second home.” He hadn’t gone into details as I’d been distracted by the fact that he’d flown to Detroit just for my mother’s funeral, as had several other students. My mother was worthy of people flying to celebrate her life. I’d made a mental note to ask later why he spent so much time flying but it hadn’t come up.

  I shift into park and grab my phone, texting one-handed:

  where do u happen to be at this moment?

  It immediately buzzes:

  in line hoping to avoid a Monday morning tsa strip search ;)

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief at the realization that I am not too late. I haven’t missed him and let the best thing I’ve had going in a long while fly off into the sunrise. I text again:

  do u have time to come outside???

  With the next buzz, um sure??? flashes across my phone. I open the car door, a bundle of nerves, the pit of my stomach rumbling, perspiration pooling in undesirable areas despite the temperature outside. I walk around the car, peering into the glass of the passenger side window for one last useless look at myself. I lean my hip against the door to look casual, though the real reason is to steady myself. I wish I could blame the cold, but know my teeth are chattering with nerves instead.

  The glass door to my left slides open and J.T. steps through with a small shiver as the cold air hits him. He is unshaven, jean-clad, wearing Timberland boots and a black jacket too thin for the weather. My heart is motionless in my chest, stopping upon the sight of him. I loved him in his suit at the funeral and jeans and sweater last night, but this casual, rugged look ups my attraction to him more than a notch. His hair is unkempt, looking as if he’d run his hands through it before walking out the door. Messy, yet put together, a look that could grace the cover of a men’s magazine.