It Was Always You

by Johnston, Andrea

  Table of Contents

  It Was Always You

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Andrea Johnston

  It Was Always You

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrea Johnston

  Cover design and Formatting by Uplifting Designs

  www.upliftingauthorservices.com

  Editing by Karen L. of The Proof Is in the Reading, LLC

  Front cover photo by iStock

  Back cover photo by Shutterstock

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.

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

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, characters, businesses, artists, and the like which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or, it was not purchased for you then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for supporting this author.

  From the Author

  It is no secret that I spend a lot of my downtime watching reality television. Like reading, it is a way for me to decompress from day to day life. One day my friend Ally suggested I watch Love After Lockup and I was hooked. Shocked. Confused. Inspired. Yep, I was inspired to write a love story.

  While I’ve done my research, I’ve also taken liberties with a few points in the story. My hope is you’ll embrace those liberties as they pertain to Drew and Ally.

  Happy reading!

  xo

  Andrea

  For Ally.

  Thank you for your friendship and sharing my love of ridiculous T.V.

  About the Book

  You know how the story goes . . .

  Boy and girl are childhood best friends.

  Boy moves away and devastates girl.

  Years later, two strangers meet on the internet and one of them has a secret.

  Or two.

  When Ally Honeycutt rushes home to her small town of Pickerton Grove she never expected to find her once best friend working at his family’s business. No longer the small little boy she once chased lightning bugs with, Drew Collins would give any sinful rock star a run for his money. With soulful dark brown eyes and hair that slips easily through her fingers, she’s less worried about what he keeps trying to tell her and more interested in the way his lips feel on hers.

  Drew Collins has made a lot of mistakes in his life, the last one landing him behind bars. He never dreamed a single dare would find him back in contact with the first girl he ever loved. Ally Honeycutt is everything good in the world, and his mistakes make him the bad boy every fictional girl dreams of. Now if he could only stop falling in love long enough to tell her the secrets that could ruin it all.

  They say you can’t go home again but what happens when home is in the heart of your best friend?

  Chapter 1

  Ally

  “I don’t know why you insist on wallowing in a pit of self-destruction, Ally.”

  For the fifth time in as many minutes, I roll my eyes as my best friend swipes mascara across her lashes. Without a mirror. What kind of superpower is this? I’m lucky if I can manage not poking myself in the eye when I try the same maneuver while standing in front of a mirror.

  “No need to be dramatic. I’m not wallowing, and there are no pits anywhere around me. It’s a little thing I like to call self-preservation. There’s a difference,” I inform her smugly.

  Satisfied with my retort, I sit back and cross my feet at the ankle, a smirk on my face, and a glass of wine in my hands. Her eyes are wide, the result of wet lashes, and I know she’s having regrets about having just applied mascara. Her preferred expression would be a glare or an epic eyeroll. Instead, she’s stuck pointing her finger at me and releasing a sound that’s a cross between a groan and a huff as she stomps her foot like a frustrated toddler. My smirk transforms to a full grin as she trudges off toward her room mumbling a string of expletives that would make her very conservative mother blush.

  You would think after five years as my best friend she would accept that I don’t celebrate my birthday. I stopped that long before I met her and nothing has changed, regardless of how many years have passed. It hasn’t deterred her from trying to trick me, surprise me, and in general badger me into a celebration.

  “Last chance, birthday girl. I’ll let everyone know we’ll be a little late because you have, in fact, gotten through this birthday blues bullshit and put on your big girl pants. Literally. Get some pants on. Those pajamas have seen better days.”

  I look down at my well-worn pajamas with ice cream cones on them and then back to my roommate, who looks like she just stepped off the cover of a very sexy vampire romance novel. Her long blonde locks are curled to perfection and flow across her shoulders, just brushing the top of her ample chest. The same chest that is pushing the limits of a blood red lacy top while her short black leather mini skirt makes her already long legs look like they’re a mile longer.

  My eyes drop to her shoes and I sigh. On her feet are a pair of black ankle booties adorned with silver studs along the back and red soles. I’m not too proud to admit to dreaming of those shoes. She notices the hearts in my eyes as I stare at her feet longingly and does a little twist and turn with her ankle.

  “I’ll let you borrow these if you come out,” she singsongs, taunting me. Damn her. She knows how much I want to wear those pretties. The only thing my size-two former model roommate and I can share are shoes. I borrow hers as often as I can.

  “Now you’re just being mean. You know I love those shoes, but the answer is still no. Tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow, I’ll allow you to shower me with all the great things you have up your sleeve. I can’t leave the house tonight. It’s my tradition.”

  Lifting my glass to my lips, I take a slow sip as I wait to see if she’ll drop the issue or push one more time. Without another word, she takes the spot next to me on the couch and removes the happiness from my hands before finishing off the last two sips of wine. Laying her head on my shoulder she doesn’t speak and o
nly sighs. I tilt my head to rest upon hers, allowing the silence of the room to wrap us in a hug.

  “I want to celebrate the birth of the greatest person I know. I hate that you have convinced yourself you aren’t worthy of being celebrated. Shitty stuff doesn’t have to happen. Your birthday isn’t cursed, Ally.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve only spent five with me. The seven before those would tell me otherwise. I know you think I’m superstitious and ridiculous, but this is where I’ll be tonight. On this couch, binge watching one of the true crime documentaries that released last week and eating pizza.”

  It’s true. I’m not anti-birthdays or opposed to celebrating me. I don’t shy from crowds or avoid my friends. On any other day. But on my birthday or “the day that shitty things happen to Ally day” as I refer to it, I choose to lock myself away and wait for the clock to strike midnight and the day to end. History doesn’t lie, and unfortunately, my birthday brings nothing but bad juju and a gloomy cloud of doom to my life. It’s why I stopped celebrating after my eleventh birthday.

  My plan for the big one-one was to catch the biggest fish in our creek. My best friend, Andy Nelson, was going to meet me at the end of the road and we were going to spend the entire day doing what we did most days in the summer. Fish, talk about what life would be like when we were grown, and chase lightnin’ bugs. But then he didn’t show. Gone without a goodbye or a note. After that, each year seemed to get worse.

  A broken wrist, a major speeding ticket, and catching my boyfriend cheating were child’s play compared to the year my identity was stolen. I’ve accepted the fact that my birthday is jinxed and no amount of tequila or birthday cake is going to change the possibility of chaos.

  Lifting her head, Didi offers me a sad smile and then wraps her arms around my shoulders. It’s awkward and very confining. I guess that weight training she started is working for her.

  “I love you to the moon and will absolutely take an extra shot for you tonight. But, tomorrow we’re going for brunch, pedicures, and post-birthday drinks. I will celebrate you whether you like it or not.”

  Lightly kicking her backside with my foot when she stands to walk away, I laugh as she jumps and swats at my leg. Putting a little extra sway in her hips, she goes about the apartment we share gathering her things.

  My beautiful white angora cat, Myson, sits upon his favorite perch on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in front of us, observing. He’s a bit of an asshole but I love him just the same. Didi thinks he sits up on the shelf to look down on us as he passes judgment. I don’t think she’s too far off as it appears he actually rolls his eyes before lying his head down on his paws.

  With her silver clutch in her hand, Didi stops at the end of the couch, a single brow raised. How does she do that? Shaking my head, I lift the glass to my lips and frown when I remember it’s empty. Without another word, she looks up to Myson and blows him a kiss before leaning down and placing one on top of my head. “Love you,” she whispers and continues toward the door. The moment the door clicks closed, I rest my head back on the couch and look up at the ceiling.

  I sit for a minute and allow Didi’s words to marinate in my mind and heart. Maybe she’s right. Maybe my birthdays aren’t cursed. I had a fortune cookie once that said “Life is what you make of it. Embrace the good.” Okay, so that was actually two separate fortunes and the word “embrace” was spelled incorrectly but the message was the same regardless.

  Instead of focusing on the fact that I’m perpetually single, more than a smidge over my ideal weight, wearing ice cream pajamas with zit cream on birthday-stress-induced blemishes, and preparing to drink one if not two bottles of wine while I eat an entire pizza alone, I should see the greatness in this night.

  I don’t have to wear Spanx nor do I have to share my wine and pizza.

  That is called “living my best life.”

  “Myson, you love your mommy, right?” His snore is the only response and I’ll accept that as a yes.

  Taking my wine glass, I pad my way over to the small kitchen and double check that my phone is still turned off but plugged in for charging. The last thing I’m in the mood for tonight is my mama calling with another rendition of “Happy Birthday.” I’ve already suffered through two versions, one in English and one in her own version of Spanish. Or what she says is Spanish but is basically her attempting to sing the birthday song from my favorite Mexican restaurant back home.

  Once I’ve confirmed there will be no further Mama Kay concerts tonight, I fill my wine glass to the respectable halfway mark and then look to the bottle. There’s not enough for another glass so I might as well top this one off. When the liquid gold rises precariously close to the rim, I have no choice but to bring the bottle to my lips and finish it off.

  Wiping the dribbles from my chin, I look at the full glass on the counter and for a brief second wonder if this is a good idea. Poor decisions come when I drink too much wine. The last mistake is legally known as Ryan Walcourt. I say legally because Didi and I commonly refer to him as the cheating bastard with mommy issues. Potato, po-tah-toe and all that.

  Since I won’t be leaving the apartment and my phone is turned off, I can’t possibly swipe right tonight so I toss the bottle in the recycling and squat down to counter level and slurp from the glass until it’s safe to pick up without spilling.

  Taking my glass from the counter, I tap the buttons on the stove to preheat the oven and pull the take-home-and-bake pizza from the fridge. Some college habits can’t be broken, and for me that includes pizza and wine for one. Of course, I’ve increased my wine budget in the last few years and my hangovers thank me for it. With seventeen minutes until my pizza crust is cooked to perfection, I take my wine glass and head back to the living room.

  Picking up the remote control, I pull up my account on the streaming app and scroll through the television shows and movies added this week. I pause when I come across the icon for my absolute favorite show of all time. Dawson’s Creek. While completely inappropriate for me to watch at the tender age of six, the angsty teen drama entranced me and is likely responsible for my love of angsty romance novels, love triangles, and the ever so precious friends to lovers trope. The fact that my best friend at the time was a boy and the parallels of the main character of the show and my life weren’t lost on me. My babysitter at the time, Bre, never missed an episode and she would let me watch with her as long as I didn’t speak a word or tell my parents I was watching.

  I contemplate clicking play but hesitate. Memories of growing up similar to the characters in this show, chasing lightning bugs and climbing trees with Andy, tug at my heart. The day he moved away, the first dark cloud lingered on my birthday. I think I’ve had too much wine for this tonight so onward to a nice little serial killer documentary it is.

  Wait just a damn minute, what is this? One of Didi’s trashy reality TV shows about . . . dating men in prison? Is that even a thing? Apparently, it is. Clicking on the icon, I skim the titles of each episode and choke on my wine when I see that there are four seasons, and each has over a dozen episodes. This is nuts.

  Because I’m a bit of a skeptic and have almost finished this glass of wine, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and open up my search engine. Watching the cursor flash, I note the time and that I still have a dozen minutes or so before my pizza is done.

  “Myson, what do I search? I need some keywords.”

  With no response from my feline friend, I just take a stab at the most obvious—meet an inmate online. Holy shit! There are no less than ten different sites on the first page alone. Clicking on the site with the least scary name—Findafriendinaninmate.com—I hold my breath as it loads.

  The home page is basic enough with a simple welcome and navigation bar. What harm could there be in a little perusing? Before I can go much further than the menu, I have to create a profile. Because I have clearly lost my mind, I quickly sign up and include one of my favorite photos of the last year. And just like tha
t, I’m in and free to move about the site.

  With so many options, I decide to play it safe and stick to the section of men seeking friendship. Harmless, I start scrolling. Whoa. The number of men on this site is overwhelming. And depressing. We hear all the time how our prisons are overcrowded and looking at these lists I can see that to be true.

  I need to filter this shit. No way I want to read about some guy with the name “Snoopy” who is looking at 198 years. Instead, I limit the age and number of years in prison as well as the option to eliminate violent offenders from the list. While I’m a huge fan of true crime documentaries and podcasts, I am not interested in the real-life version of that.

  Scrolling more through the list, I stop at a few and click on their profiles. It’s the fifth one I click on that holds my attention. DC1331, age twenty-four, sentenced to five years for trespassing, destruction of property, theft, and evading. Not too bad. I mean, considering he isn’t facing a few centuries, I’d consider his profile worth clicking on. So I do.

  Then I see his photos. Holy hotness. He’s giving me some Brad Pitt in Fight Club vibes and I am here for it. Two of the pictures are of his full body but his face isn’t visible. One of the photos, a side view shows off an intricate tattoo. That must have hurt.

  To the right of the photo is a red box that is flashing and beckoning me to click on it. “Whisper” at the inmate seems harmless enough but I hesitate, the cursor hovering over the box. And then the timer to the oven buzzes.

  “Cheese and crackers that scared the shit out of me!” Myson jumps at my freak-out and leaps from his perch and onto the table in front of me. The wailing timer sounds like it’s getting louder, so I toss my laptop onto the cushion beside me and hop up to retrieve my pizza.

  When I return to the couch, Myson has resumed his nap—on top of my computer. Well, that’s just lovely. Setting the plate of pizza and the can of soda onto the table, I lift my furry child from the computer and shut the lid before moving the device to the counter and settling into my seat. Enough with this nonsense, I’m going to watch an old standby sitcom and pretend I didn’t just fall down the pathetic rabbit hole of finding a “friend” behind bars.