It’s Not Home Without You: A Homecoming Novel #1

by C. Lymari

  CONTENTS

  1. Freya

  2. Freya

  3. Freya

  4. Max

  5. Freya

  6. Freya

  7. Freya

  8. Max

  9. Max

  10. Freya

  11. Freya

  12. Max

  13. Freya

  14. Max

  15. Freya

  16. Freya

  17. Max

  18. Freya

  19. Freya

  20. Freya

  21. Freya

  22. Freya

  23. Freya

  24. Freya

  25. Freya

  26. Freya

  27. Freya

  28. Freya

  29. Freya

  30. Max

  31. Freya

  32. Freya

  33. Max

  34. Freya

  35. Freya

  36. Freya

  37. Max

  38. Freya

  39. Freya

  40. Freya

  41. Freya

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  It’s Not Home Without You Copyright © 2019 by C. Lymari. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editors: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Design: Vixen Designs

  Proofreader: Horus Proofreading

  Formatting: Pink Elephant Designs

  To my little Cherry: you are my courage.

  Love Mommy.

  "Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."

  –F. Scott Fitzgerald

  1

  Freya

  Once the bus came to a stop, I dreaded having to get up and make my way down the long aisle. I had gotten used to the old gray seats. It was disturbingly sad to say they were almost comforting. My life was in ruins now. I could drown my sorrows in alcohol, trying to dull the pain, but I wasn’t like her. After all, I had survived much worse. When the bus driver gave the last call to get off, I hesitated to look out the window because I knew what was waiting for me outside the safe confinement of the bus.

  Nothing.

  Okay, that was a lie. Outside the windows was a reality I didn’t think I’d have to face again. Outside the windows was a place I once called home. Sunny Pines, where it wasn’t always sunny. Where pine and other trees were abundant, making the town a lush wonderland in the spring and a sea of leaves in the fall. A place where dreams were born but died if you didn’t get out. Where I now came crawling back, swallowing a mountain of pride. I had big dreams, but sometimes big dreams end in a bigger disaster, so here I am at eleven at night sneaking into the place that stopped being home long ago. Taking a deep breath, I get up, grab my luggage, and make it out to the dark bus stop.

  No car.

  No man.

  No dream.

  I had it all. I was living the dream, but then it ended. Now I faced the harsh truth that my dream was nothing but a glamour, just the façade that was my life in San Francisco. I’d been working as a personal stylist for a small, but high-class, boutique for the last few years. I, the girl who was all about jeans and tank tops, was now a trendsetter. I loved the fact I got a discount on the latest fashions, my closet was fabulous, and I got a say on what merchandise to stock up on.

  What I didn’t know at the time was that my fabulous closet was being used by the women who my boyfriend brought back to our place. I was just the main chick while he was parading around town with his harem. I know, silly of me to think we were exclusive simply because we lived together, shared the responsibilities of our house, and he had bought me a ring. I didn’t know what hurt the most, the fact that Ashton cheated on me repeatedly or that Victor, our driver whom I adored, didn’t give me a heads-up.

  Then again, he would always say, “You’re too good for this place, Miss Freya.” Or “You are one of the most amazing women I have ever met.” Let’s not forget when he called me mi niña. “Mi niña, you deserve only good things.” Guess that was his way of warning me that my boyfriend of three years was cheating on me. If he would have said something along the lines of “Your boyfriend is dipping his toes in every pond in the city,” I would have gotten the memo much sooner. I’d still be living my glamorous life if I hadn’t gotten off work early and Victor had answered my calls. Instead, I took an Uber home to find my boyfriend balls deep in his secretary. On our couch.

  A couch where I used to sit with a glass of chardonnay and relax.

  A couch where we used to cuddle and watch movies on Sundays.

  I mean, really, how cliché could Ash be? The heir to the Hill’s luxury hotels fucking his fresh-out-of-college sexy assistant right under my nose. And just like that, everything came crashing down.

  On the bus ride, I had too much time to think things over, and a lot of it I didn’t like. All that pride and sense of accomplishment I used to feel every morning waking up wrapped in merino disappeared. I felt ashamed. I felt guilty. I felt undeserving.

  I left home when I was eighteen, a young girl with one goal—not letting myself care about the mess I was leaving behind. I didn’t stop to think about my grandpa and the fact I was leaving him alone, and I certainly didn’t let myself think about the boy whose heart would break when he didn’t find me the next morning. I left with nothing but two goodbye notes. One to a boy who loved me, and the other to the only father figure I had. I was all my grandfather had left.

  My mother was a good woman at some point in her life, at least that’s what my grandpa says. She used to be loving and caring, and she had a dream too. She dreamed of leaving her hometown and living large with the boy she loved. Well, that boy went on to live the dream without her, leaving her pregnant and alone. My mom didn’t cope well. She drank and tried to find love in all the wrong places. She loved the bottle more than she did me and drowned not only in alcohol but in water when she drove her beat-up car across the bridge and into the stream. Our town was small, but the countryside was so vast that no one found her until the next morning, cold and dead. I was four, and I remember waking up alone and freezing in our trailer. I somehow made it to my Grandpa’s trailer, which was half a mile away from ours, barefoot and hungry.

  I didn’t mourn my mother. I didn’t even know her; she was just the woman who said she loved me, but she never showed me that. Here I was, seven years later, and everything I left behind was catching up to me. Good thing I was fantastic at running from my problems, except it was kind of hard to run in Jimmy Choo heels. Being so used to city lights and the constant coming and goings of people, I forgot how things worked in a small town. There was no taxi service after ten. But it wasn’t like I would want anyone to see me. Here I was walking to my grandpa’s trailer in heels and dragging my Louis V, not caring that the leather would get damaged. All these materialistic things that proved I was no longer trailer trash were nothing but dead weight. I ditched my shoes about halfway to my grandpa’s. My blistered feet were probably bleeding, and I couldn’t help but think this was karma at its finest, giving me the fate I so desperately tried to push away.

  Why didn’t I have a car? Oh yeah, because Ashton took care of me. He provided for everything, ensuring I wanted for nothing. The penthouse was his; I helped clean it a
nd paid a few bills.

  I shook my head, not wanting to think about all the things he enjoyed taking care of. If there was a bright side in this mess, it would be my fat bank account.

  Dammit, Ashton. I couldn’t think of him without bile rising in my throat. I let him sweep me off my feet for a lie.

  It should scare me to be walking alone in the dark, but this was familiar—a little too familiar. The smell of pine was as comforting as it was suffocating, reminding me of things better left in the past. The back roads were just like I remembered them—lonely, dark, and beautiful. The tall green trees and pines added a touch of magic to the town while the darkness served as a cloak. I didn’t need to be seen just yet. I stopped and stared at the water when I passed the bridge where my mother drowned.

  “Was it worth it to lose yourself in alcohol? Was it worth it to lose everything running away from your demons?” There wasn’t an answer, and there never would be. I never understood my mother. How could a woman who named her daughter Freya after the Nordic goddess of love care so little for herself?

  My feet were blistered, my luggage scrapped by the time I made it to the faded, old trailer. I was barely holding it together. History was repeating. I was lost and heartbroken when I made it here when I was four. Now at twenty-five, I could say the same. I stood in a mantle of darkness with nothing but stars to shine a light on me when my grandpa opened the door.

  “Welcome home, my sweet girl.” And for the first time since I left San Francisco, I cried because the “perfect” life I had built for myself turned out to be a lie.

  2

  Freya

  Fifteen years old

  God, I was freezing my ass off. This was what happened when I listened to Rusty and snuck out in the middle of the night so we could go to a bonfire. We never made it to said bonfire, because Rusty’s truck broke down. The truck was as old as my grandpa’s Chevy, and that was saying something since Grandpa’s Chevy was a dinosaur. Still, Rusty liked to brag that his truck had personality, and if by personality he meant it helped him get laid since the back of his truck saw more ass than Heavenly, the stripper joint a few miles out, then yes, his truck was bursting with personality.

  Still, Rusty and I were best friends. We grew up together, both of us being only children. Our grandpas had been friends since the Vietnam War. At one point, Rusty’s grandmother hoped for us to get hitched and have kids, the whole shebang, but that was never going to happen. Not because I didn’t find Rusty attractive; he was very good looking—brown tousled hair, warm eyes, soft looks—but underneath it all was his player persona. We always fought, getting on each other’s nerves every other day. Most importantly, it would never work because we were practically siblings.

  “You know what, Rusty? I’m going to walk home. This truck isn’t going to turn on today, maybe not even tomorrow. Rest in peace, Bow.” I patted the old truck while Rusty glared at me. Bow was short for Rainbow, since the truck was so faded and had different colored parts. Bow also stood for “bed on wheels”—you know, because the truck had personality.

  “You know what, Gabs? Your negativity is really hurting her feelings. Just watch, one day old Bow is going to be a freaking classic, and you’re going to beg me to take you places so that you can be seen in a beauty like this.”

  I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t likely, but I wasn’t going to insult him any more right then. Sometimes Rusty could get so testy and dramatic. It was better to let him have the last word than to argue with him about nonsense. Since I wasn't really going to abandon Rusty, I went and sat down on the cold grass. We were stuck on the back roads, and people rarely came this way—it was the trees and the darkness that freaked some people out. For others it was the old bridge. Some swore they had seen the ghost of my mother hanging around. That was funny since the only unfinished business that woman left behind was a bottle of Jack hidden under the sink, because she sure as hell didn’t remember me.

  “Your grandpa is going to kill me if he finds out I snuck you out,” Rusty said, bent over the hood of Bow.

  “You’re probably right.” I did nothing to try and convince him otherwise. It wasn’t that Grandpa hated Rusty; he just didn’t trust him ever since he found out he could get a girl to drop her panties with pretty words and his smile—and the fact that Rusty was a junior and I was a freshman didn’t have my grandfather jumping for joy either.

  I was so freaking dead if I didn’t get home and sneak back in.

  “Dude, I think I’m starting to get frostbite. My fingers are cold, and they look blue.”

  “That’s just the moonlight, stupid,” he answered.

  Just when I was going to give up and leave him alone so I could walk home, not caring for my grandpa's disappointment or his punishment, lights blinded me, making my stomach drop. I held my breath, scared that it was going to be another faded truck, but thank God it wasn’t my grandpa.

  It was an old Mercedes, but just because it was old, that didn’t mean it didn’t look new. I knew that car. Everyone knew that car. It was one of Mr. Dunnetts. My stomach sank. This wasn’t a good thing. Most of the Dunnetts were mean and egotistical. There was Prescott, the eldest Dunnett. He was currently a senior, man whore, and certified asshole. Then Maximilian, who was a junior, sporty, and a little nerdy. Their sister, Juliet, was a sophomore, and her friends didn’t like me.

  This is going to be interesting.

  Rusty seemed to have come to the same conclusion as I did, standing protectively in front of me as the car stopped right in front of us, blinding us to whoever was behind the wheel.

  “Do you guys need any help?”

  Rusty’s shoulders relaxed as he walked to meet the person who had come to our rescue. “Max, my man. Damn, am I glad to see you. I could kiss you right now.”

  I peeked around Rusty’s shoulders and saw Maximilian. Out of all the Dunnetts, he was my favorite. His looks were often overlooked. He wasn’t in-your-face, insanely hot like Prescott, but he was still good looking. Max was tall and a little lanky, but I was sure that was going to change as he got older. Like his mom, he had russet hair and eyes like moss. Maximilian dressed super preppy—all nice jeans and sweaters. He looked expensive, but the fantastic thing about him was that he was humble, or at least I thought he was. He wasn’t shy, but he was quiet. The words gentleman, total class, and sweetheart were used by the town whenever Maximilian Dunnett was mentioned. He was the town’s golden boy, while I was the wild orphan child.

  Someone like him would never notice someone like me. Trust me, I wasn’t pitying myself. It was a fact. I was used to it. My life motto: sticks and stones.

  He smiled at us, all perfect white teeth, and I found myself smiling back at him. There was something hypnotizing about his smile. There was a sincerity and innocence to him that was hard to overlook.

  “I think I’ll pass on that kiss, Russell. Although, if the pretty girl wants to give it to me, then I can get on board with it.”

  Oh my God.

  First, he called Rusty by his given name, all prim and proper, and it was cute as hell, and second, he just called me pretty. I knew I wasn’t ugly. All brown hair and big brown eyes, I was good looking, but more often than not, guys made me feel cheap. Right now, the way Max called me pretty, it made me feel like I was more, not just the daughter of the town’s drunk whore.

  “That could be arranged, if you can get me home before I get frostbite.” I noticed Rusty’s shoulders tense, not liking my flirtatious tone. It was his fault we were stuck. I may or may not have frostbite, and I wouldn’t mind kissing Max Dunnett.

  Rusty could suck it.

  Max looked me right in the eyes. It was the first time we had ever had an actual conversation. “It’s merely forty-fives degrees, and there’s barely any wind; you won’t be getting frostbite anytime soon. If it were January at zero degrees with winds going fifteen miles per hour, then I’d say it would have taken around thirty minutes for your fingers to turn black.”

  I grimaced at
the imagery he presented. He was a little dorky but very charming and sweet. I gave him a wide opening for a kiss that I so wanted to have with him, but he didn’t mention it again. Was I a little bummed? Totally. Still, I couldn’t deny the warmth it brought to my heart. Most guys made lewd comments to me on the daily. It was refreshing not being seen like a ho just because my mother was one.

  “Told you, but no you have to be a drama queen.” Rusty, being the typical oblivious dumbass he was, patted my head like I was a little puppy. He’d done that many times before, but he’d never done it in front of Max. Now the whole image I tried to project was shattered. Can you say freshman dweeb? Here, here.

  “Max, can you give Gabby a ride home then come back and help me get this baby back on the road?” Rusty ran his hand lovingly over Bow. Meanwhile, I tried hard not to beam. Okay, so maybe Rusty didn’t intend to leave me alone with Max, but I take back calling him an ass.

  Snapping out of my moment of shyness, I grabbed Max's arm and led him to his vintage 1957 black Mercedes Benz 300sl. The only reason I knew the car model was because of Rusty, who, unlike me, was all about cars. “You give me that ride, and I’ll give you a kiss.” I grinned up at him, trying not to laugh at his somewhat horrified face. I’d been told I was a little intimidating.

  Just a little.

  Also headstrong, stubborn, and loud would be applicable. Oh, and we can’t forget talkative; that’s the main one. My grandpa always said I could bullshit my way out of any situation. I could make a killing selling books to blind people.

  “Gabby, right?” Max asked after he opened the passenger door, leading me inside his car. No one had ever opened a door for me; it was a little old fashioned.

  “No, my name is Freya. Rust says I talk a lot, so he calls me Gabby for, you know, gabbing too much.” I ran my hand across the soft leather of the seat as I watched him walk to the driver’s side. Max wasn’t anything like what I thought he’d be.

  The car might be as old as the truck, but it was in pristine condition. I looked through the side mirror, and Rusty was already a small blip in the darkness.