We Were Once
Page 1
We Were Once
S. L. Scott
S.L. SCOTT
Copyright © 2020 by S. L. Scott
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-940071-94-7
Cover Design: RBA Designs
Photographer: @ChrisandRuth
Becca Mysoor, Developmental Editng at Edits in Blue
Jenny Sims, Copy Editing at Editing4Indies
Kristen Johnson, Proofreader
Marion Archer, Editor at Making Manuscripts
Beta Reader: Andrea Johnston
Contents
Also By S.L. SCOTT
In the know
Prologue
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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By S.L. SCOTT
To keep up to date with her writing and more, visit her website: www.slscottauthor.com
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CLICK HERE
Join S.L.’s Facebook group here: S.L. Scott Books
Audiobooks on Audible - CLICK HERE
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In the know
To keep up to date with her writing and more, visit S.L. Scott’s website: CLICK HERE
To receive the newsletter about all of her publishing adventures, free books, giveaways, steals and more:
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Prologue
I’ve never died before, but I recognize the feeling.
1
Chloe Fox
“Promise me you’ll protect Frankie with your life, Chloe.”
Glancing sideways, it’s hard to take this seriously. “Um . . .”
My mom hugs Frankie to her chest like the son she never had. “You’ll give him a good home, feed him, and nurture him?”
I think this is taking it a little too far. “It’s a plant, Mom, not a human.”
“It’s not just a plant. It’s a bonsai tree. They’re fickle creatures—”
“Technically, it’s not a creature. It’s a miniature tree.”
“Creature or not, promise me you’ll take care of it, Chloe. This isn’t just a plant. This little guy can provide harmony and calm to your place.”
“Mom, I got it.” I attempt to pry the potted plant from her, but when she resists, I ask, “Do you want to keep Frankie? He’d love New York City. You can take him to Central Park or a show on Broadway. A quick trip to MoMA or the Statue of Liberty—”
“Very funny.” She shoves him toward me. “Take him. I bought him for you.”
“We can set up a visitation schedule if you’d like?”
That earns me an eyeroll that’s punctuated with laughter. “You might think I’m being dramatic, but I can already tell this is what your apartment is missing. I wish you’d let me decorate it more. So, mock me if you must, but that little guy is going to bring balance to your life.”
“It’s a lot of pressure to put on a plant, don’t you think?”
“Little tree,” she corrects stubbornly as if I’ve insulted the thing. Crossing her arms over her chest, she raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “You want to be a doctor, Chloe. Treat it like a patient. Water, attention, and care. The basics.”
Holding the plant in front of me, I admire the pretty curve to the trunk and branches. It’s easy to see why my mom picked this one. “I’ll try not to kill it like the plant you gave me last year.” I set the plastic pot down on top of a stack of textbooks on the coffee table. “But you have to admit that I gave that ivy a great send-off.”
“You did. Right down the trash shoot.” She laughs again, but I hear the sadness trickling in.
“Why are you getting upset?”
The green of my mom’s eyes matches the rich color of the leaves when she cries, just like mine. “I think the bonsai has had enough water for one day. Don’t you think?” I ask teasingly to hide how much I hate the impending goodbye.
She laughs, caressing my cheek. The support she’s always shown me is felt in her touch. “I’ve had the best time with you over the past few weeks. I’m going to miss you, honey.”
Leaning into it, I say, “If
everything goes to plan, I’ll be in the city next year and we can see each all the time.”
“You’ve worked hard. Now it’s time to enjoy your senior year.” Her departure pending, we embrace.
“I enjoy working hard, and my grades still matter this year if I want to get into med school.”
A sympathetic smile creases her lips when she steps back. “I’m sorry you feel you have to be perfect all the time or that you feel medical school is the only option for you. It’s not. You can do—”
“It’s what I want.” This subject was the final blow to her marriage to my dad. They disagreed about a lot, but my schooling and future were the sticking points. I don’t want to relive it.
Moving to the couch, she fluffs a pillow, but I have a feeling it’s only out of habit. “Seeking perfection is the easiest way to find disappointment.” She eyes the pillow, satisfaction never reaching her eyes. Standing back, she swings her gaze my way. “Happiness is a much nobler mission.”
After she divorced my father, she put it into practice. After leaving Newport for Manhattan two years ago, she’s happier than ever. “I know you have big plans, Chloe, but you’re only young once. Go out with Ruby. Have fun. Kiss boys. You’re allowed to do what you want instead of what others want for you. You’re allowed to be you.”
Be me? The words strike me oddly. “Who am I?”
“Ah, sweet girl, whoever you want to be. New experiences will allow you to see yourself through a new lens.”
I sit on the couch, blocking her view of the pillow she just fixed. “Is that why you left Newport?”
“Yes, I wanted to discover me again. In Manhattan, I’m not Norman’s wife, or the chair of the preservation society. I’m not running an eight-thousand-square-foot house or hosting garden parties. In New York, I get to be Cat Fox and Chloe’s mother. Those are my favorite roles I’ve ever had.”
Working with my father might have been great for my résumé, but back home, I’ll always be compared to the great Norman Fox. I’ll live in his shadow if I return to Rhode Island and won’t ever stand on my own accomplishments. So I understand what she means a little too well. She seems to think she was saved. Is it too late for me?
“Do you know who you are?”
“I’m learning every day. All I’m saying is life is happening all around you. Look up from the books every now and then.”
Turning around, she takes one last glance around the apartment. “You need a pop of color in here. I can send sofa pillows.”
I get what she’s saying. She’s the queen of décor and has strong opinions regarding my life. She’d love to not only throw some pillows on my couch but also put a man in my life.
She never understood that good grades are much more rewarding than spending time with boys who want nothing more than a one-night stand. “Don’t send pillows,” I say, grinning.
A sly grin rolls across her face. “You can snuggle with them, or a guy—”
“You want me to date.” I sigh. “I get it.”
“College guys aren’t the same thing as high school boys.” She takes her purse from the couch and situates it on her shoulder as she moves to the door.
I roll my eyes. “Could have fooled me.”
“You just haven’t met someone who makes your heart flutter.”
“You’re such a romantic.”
Kissing my cheek, she opens the door, and says, “Take care of yourself, honey. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” I close the door and rest against the back of it, exhaling. After two months working at my father’s clinic and then staying with her in the city for the past two weeks, I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have time to myself, and silence. Pure, unadulterated—Knock. Knock.
I jump, startled from the banging against my back. Spinning around, I squint to look through the peephole, and my chin jerks back.
A guy holding a bag outside my door says, “Food delivery.”
“I didn’t order food,” I say, palms pressed to the door as I spy on him.
A smirk plays on his lips. Yup, he flat out stares into the peephole with a smug grin on his face. Plucking the receipt from the bag, he adds, “Chloe?” The e is drawn out in his dulcet tone as if it’s possible to make such a common name sound special. He managed it.
I unlock the deadbolt but leave the chain in place. When I open the door, I peek out, keeping my body and weight against it for safety.
Met with brown eyes that catch the setting sun streaming in from the window in the hall, there’s no hiding the amusement shining in them. “Hi,” he says, his gaze dipping to my mouth and back up. “Chloe?”
“I’m Chloe, but as I said, I didn’t order food.”
He glances toward the stairs, tension in his shoulders dropping before his eyes return to mine. “I have the right address, the correct apartment, and name. I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” He holds it out after a casual shrug. “Anyway, it’s getting cold, and it’s chicken and dumplings, my mom’s specialty that she only makes on Sundays. Trust me, it’s better hot, though I’ve had it cold, and it was still good.”
He makes a solid argument. All the information is correct. I shift, my guard dropping. I’m still curious, though. “Your mom made it?”
Thumbing over his shoulder as though the restaurant is behind him, he replies, “Only on Sundays. Me and T cook the rest of the time.”
“Who’s T?”
“The other cook.” He turns the bag around. Patty’s Diner is printed on the white paper. Then he points at his worn shirt, the logo barely visible from all the washings.
“And Patty is your mother?”
He swivels the bag around and nods. “Patty is my mom.”
My stomach growls from the sound of the bag crinkling in his hands, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in hours, and chicken and dumplings sound amazing. Only “culinary cuisine,” as my dad would call it, was acceptable when I was growing up. Comfort food didn’t qualify because anything with gravy instead of some kind of reduction was a no-no.
Grinning, he pushes the bag closer. “As much as I’d love to stay here all night and chat about the mystery of this delivery, I have other food getting cold down in the car. You’re hungry. Take the bag and enjoy.” He says it like we’re friends, and I’m starting to think we’ve spent enough time together to consider it.
I unchain the door and open it to take the bag from him. Holding up a finger, I ask, “Do you mind waiting? I’ll get you a tip.”
As if he won the war, two dimples appear as his grin grows. The cockiness reflected in his eyes doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s more handsome than I initially gave him credit for.
Handsome is a dime a dozen in Newport. Good genes passed down long before the Golden Age run in the prestigious family trees of Rhode Island. So good-looking guys don’t do much beyond catch my eye.
He says, “I can wait.” I pull my purse from the hook near the door and dig out my wallet. He fills the doorway, snooping over my shoulder. “Where are you running to?”
Huh? I look up confused by the question. “Nowhere.”
Following his line of sight, I realize what he’s referring to just as he says, “The treadmill. That’s the point. You never get anywhere.”
“It’s good exercise.”
“Yeah,” he says, his tone tipping toward judgmental. “You’re just running in a circle. Stuck in place.”
“I’m not trying to go anywhere. I’m—”
“Sure, you are.”
When I answered the door, I wasn’t expecting to have my life scrutinized under a microscope. “Why do I feel like you’re speaking in metaphors?”
“I don’t know. Why do you feel like I’m speaking in metaphors?” His tongue is slick and his wit dry, which is something I can appreciate, even when it’s at my expense.
Handing him a ten, I say, “Hopefully this covers the therapy.”
He chuckles. “I’m always happy to dole out free advice, but I’ll take the t
en. Thanks.” Still looking around, the detective moves his attention elsewhere. “Nice bonsai.”
“Thanks. My mom gave me Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
I tuck my wallet back in my purse and return it to the hook. “The little tree?”
Eyeing the plant, I can tell he wants to get a closer look by how he’s inching in. He says, “Bonsais aren’t miniature trees. They’re just pruned to be that way. It’s actually an art form.”
“You seem to know a lot more about it than I do,” I reply, stepping sideways to cut off his path. “Are you a plant guy?”
“I like to know all kinds of things about plants. Mainly, the ones we eat. I wouldn’t suggest sautéing Frankie, though.”
“Why would I sauté Frankie?” I catch his deadpan expression. “Ah. You’re making a joke. Gotcha.” I laugh under my breath. “You’re referring to food.”