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

by Whitney Walker

  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.

  J.T. looks away from me to his right, giving me one more second to attempt to compose myself, before his head slowly swivels left toward me. When our eyes meet, he squints a bit, as if questioning what he is seeing, but I don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth tilt up slightly when he catches my gaze. I lift my arm in a shy, awkward wave. He repositions his backpack slung over one shoulder and turns toward me with his suitcase rolling behind. The way he moves is strong and powerful, yet his demeanor is so calm and demure I can’t reconcile the two in my head. Two opposing sides of him, and I am waiting for the real J.T. Walker to please stand up.

  He stops in front of me, lets go of his suitcase and shoves both hands into his pockets. The cold exposes my deep exhale as the cloud of my breath hangs between us. My mind, still processing how beautiful he looks, is too busy to compile the words I have come here to say. Luckily for me, he fills the awkward silence that resembles the exact moment I had left him in the night before. He still wears an inquisitive expression when he finally speaks, softly, with a kindness I don’t deserve, “Why in the world are you standing out here in this freezing cold?”

  I’m really being held up by a hunk of metal, but I am grateful to still be upright. “I owe you an exclamation.” Then, rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I correct myself, “I mean explanation!”

  I have to look away from his intense gaze that peers too deep. I get to hear his amazing laugh. “Exclaim away.”

  “I’d like to blame the cold for freezing up my lips or tongue or something, but you probably already know it is you that is making me forget how to speak. Oh, and breathe. And then there is the little matter of my heart that apparently has forgotten how to beat normally after twenty-four years. So, there’s that.” I turn my head back to face him. A captivating smile rewards my honesty.

  “So, you’re saying there’s a chance?” His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he is afraid to put that question into the universe.

  “More than a chance, J.T. I owe you an apology. I know it sounds ridiculously cliché to say it was me not you, but…” My words trail off because my breath won’t come to push more out of my mouth. He is standing so close now I can smell his absurdly divine smell of masculinity. I want to put my hand behind his neck and thread my fingers into that hair and pull him close enough to feel the roughness of his stubble against my face.

  “What, Peyton? It’s okay to tell me. Really.”

  His tone is so comforting I could have spilled every fear, want and need I’ve ever had, including wanting and needing his mouth against mine right this moment. Still, I bite my lip, hesitant to speak, as I can predict what this good guy is going to say. I make fists with my hands and hug myself against the cold and shiver.

  “Okay, you’re killing me, Peyton,” J.T. says moving forward, pulling his hands from his pockets and placing them on my upper arms, rubbing slowly up and down to warm me. Moments later, he unzips his coat, his warm hands unclasp mine and pull them unto his chest, laying them flat and covering mine with his much larger ones. The warmth I feel with his touch radiates throughout my body and I feel my cheeks flush pink. I barely hear my voice as my two favorite letters breathlessly gasp from my lips as he steps even closer, “J.T., I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you like that last night.” My cheeks flush warm with a crimson blush, eyes drifting to the pavement. “I really wanted you to kiss me.” I cringe, recalling how I had pulled back from his pursed lips and closed eyes, knowing how the rejection must have hurt his pride. “It’s just that I—” Why is this so hard to just spit out? “I have a boyfriend. In L.A.”

  Immediately, his chest is moving away from mine while he releases my hands, zips his coat and returns his hands to his pockets. I knew he would react this way. He looks at me sideways, as if maybe, like last night, I am going to say, “Gotcha!” as the punchline to a not-so-funny joke.

  Ascertaining I am serious, he speaks hesitantly, “Okay then. I am really glad that nothing happened last night.” He glances back toward the door, looking as if he’d like to escape through it about now. Turning back toward me with the same curiosity as when he’d first seen me standing here, he asks, “But you just said there was more than a chance.”

  I lean toward him, his magnetism impossible to resist. “There is, J.T. I don’t know how much time I will need, but before I met you, I’d already concluded the relationship needed to end. There are just some…” Hesitating, I search for the right word, “Complications.”

  He smiles, looking genuinely relieved. “Well, you’ve got nearly three weeks. I mean, you can have more than three weeks, but I’ll be way out of pocket for about three weeks, so I won’t be around to bug you. Though I’d be lying if I didn’t say I am not going to spend more than a little time thinking about you, Peyton.”

  It is my turn to look back questioningly at him now. “What do you mean three weeks?”

  “Tomorrow I’m leaving for Africa. I work for an NGO.”

  WTF? I’d had a whole date and hadn’t asked what he did. I realize that he asked most of the questions last night and I rudely hadn’t even asked him about his work. Self-absorbed should be my middle name. I quickly try to process what I know about him. United is his second home, and the comment at the funeral about his saving the world and fixing the broken. Fixing the broken. Like me.

  I know a dictionary of movie-set terms and acronyms like PA and AP but I have no idea what an NGO is, let alone what it means he would be doing in Africa.

  Probably because of my incredulous expression, he bails me out of my cluelessness. “NGO is a non-governmental organization. A non-profit not run by the government. I’ve got chickens to corral, wells to build, and businesses to start. Well, me and the team of people I am taking. And we’re delivering t-shirts. My roommate Zach started a shirt-for-shirt business, copying off those famous shoe people, so my roommate Owen and I decided to incorporate delivering those into our trips. It’s incredible.”

  The way his face lights up with passion for his work makes me fall just a little bit harder. “Wow, that’s really cool, J.T.”

  “Speaking of cool, it’s freezing out here and you need to get warm. And unfortunately, I have to go. I really appreciate the fact that you showed up here today. It was a great surprise, and I’d be full of shit if I didn’t say that I wasn’t a little bit devastated at the end of what I thought was a fantastic date last night.”

  It is inevitable that a smile overtakes my whole face. I lean forward and throw my arms around his neck. I feel the warmth of his whole body surround me and strong hands on my back. Oh, to be held like this. He whispers into my hair, “I hope your complications aren’t too complicated.” Shivers cover me from head to toe. And they are not from the cold.

  Our lips meet in the briefest encounter, soft and tender, the exclamation point on the best embrace I’ve ever collapsed into. Cupping my face with both hands, he quietly says, “I hope to see you soon, Peyton Jennings,” and my heart melts. I hope so too, J.T. Walker.

  NOVEMBER 11

  CHAPTER 7 | Peyton

  Y oga on Tuesday has my limbs in new poses and my head in new places. For the first time, I keep my eyes closed for the majority of the practice and actually manage to spend more time focused on my breath than on my crazy. My only point of yoga contention had been my brain arguing with the teacher stating that everything is temporary. I don’t want what I am feeling about J.T. to be temporary. On the contrary, I wan
t to hold on to the flutter in my belly and skip of each heartbeat every time my phone buzzes. J.T. texted last night, saying:

  very much hoping three weeks is enough…if not, save my number 

  I returned his text:

  will be counting down the days…!

  I am counting down the days to see him again, but I am also on borrowed time to dissolve my relationship with Kyle. It isn’t going to be easy, and the days left may not be enough.

  Because I rock yoga class, I feel brave enough to visit my mother’s grave. I navigate the long and winding road through the cemetery slowly and carefully, taking in the variety of headstones and grave markers.

  Just when I round the last corner before my mother’s grave, the tears well. The mound of dirt rising above the ground still shows the slightest bit of brown through the snow. Approaching the grave, I brake, stopping the car to catch the tears that are falling. It takes both of my hands. My chest aches. I close my eyes and lean back into the headrest, thinking of yoga and pulling in a long, deep breath just like they tell us to do every class. Breathing makes it possible to get through anything.

  Opening my eyes again, I see movement. My head instinctively jerks toward a man entering his car and pulling the door closed. My view of him is obstructed by a tree, but he appears to be leaning forward into the steering wheel, matching my pose of a minute ago. I look back toward my mother’s grave and see a wreath of the seasonal evergreen I’d been admiring on others’ graves. Pulling forward, I see the crested mound and dirt footprints glaring against the white. My eyes follow each step as they lead, as I suspect, to the car where the man sits.

  I jog towards the car. The man still crouches over the steering wheel, and fearing I’ll give him a heart attack upon approach, I stomp my feet as I get closer. He turns toward the noise and his eyes widen. He recognizes me.

  He opens the door and stands before me, tall with a slender frame for a male. I take in the square shape of his head and angled, rugged jaw. His lips stretch wide and flat, and he has a deep cleft in his chin. A hint of gray tinges the hair just above his temples and the ends of his high arched brows. His eyes are a rare hazel with just a fleck of brown, and kind. They match my own, looking tired and weary.

  I am sure it is the man from the funeral home.

  He wraps his arms around me. I feel safe in his embrace, as I do in J.T.’s. How do strangers keep rocking my world like this? Shocked and surprised at how my body reacts, my arms lift and I find myself in the unlikely position of hugging back.

  We hold on to one another, connected by the unexpected bond of sorrow, until I step back, unable to wait another second to find out if indeed this stranger is who I think he is. “Jack?” I ask without hesitation.

  He looks down as if embarrassed I’ve had to come to the conclusion on my own, and outstretches his hand to shake mine. “Yes, Peyton.”

  It seems odd to shake hands after the hug we’ve just shared but I take his hand anyway. “Nice to officially meet you, Jack Mannington. Though I know your name, I find myself at a distinct disadvantage. I believe you may know me much more than I know you.”

  Again, all he can muster in response seems to be, “Yes, Peyton.” Awe fills his eyes as he peers intently into mine. It appears he is as ill-equipped for this meeting as I am, regardless of his one-up in knowledge. Finally, he asks, “How do you know my name?”

  “The Bible. In my mother’s bedroom.” Realizing I’ve placed too much emphasis on the word mother, I look directly at him and ask, “Your bedroom?”

  He lets out a soft laugh. A kind and gentle laugh that reminds me of J.T. “Yes, it was mostly our bedroom. I inherited my parents’ house as well, so I spent some time there, but I preferred to spend my nights with your mother. With Caroline.”

  His eyes well with tears and his voice breaks as if on cue when her name crosses his lips. He blinks hard and I see his Adam’s apple bulge and rescind as he swallows. “I hope you are not angry. I would have loved for her to move in with me, but she wouldn’t give up her house. She said she wanted a place for you to come home if you ever chose to.”

  I’ve just learned more about my mother in this ten-second exchange than in the past year of my life. The grief is overwhelming. I cover my mouth with my hand to hold back the tears. He cups my shoulder with his hand. “It’s cold out here and we’ve got plenty of time, and better places, where we can—” He pauses as if to search for the right words. “Get to know one another.”

  He turns toward his car, the door still open, and leans into the driver’s seat. Rummaging around, he stands back up having produced a pen and piece of paper and is writing his phone number using his other hand against his bent knee as something solid to brace himself. “Here is my number. I hope you’ll call,” he says pleadingly. “If nothing else, would it be okay if I came to get my things before you go back to California?” He stops for a moment before finishing with, “I assume you are going back to California?”

  I am not sure if he wants me to stay or hopes I am getting the hell out of here pronto, but I am too cold to stick around and read between the lines. “Of, of course. I’ll call you.” I stutter a bit, maybe from the cold, or maybe from trying to process what has just taken place.

  Sliding into his seat, he closes his door, gives a friendly wave in my direction and slowly pulls away leaving me standing there alone, shivering in the cold.

  I spend the next few hours contemplating what has happened today with J.T. and Jack. How it felt to let my heart open, if only in the slightest, to virtual strangers. I feel vulnerable. Is this a good idea or am I playing emotional roulette, with regret sure to land after the winning spin. I’d like to skip the potential heap of devastation but the scrap of paper calls to me from the counter. Only ten numbers in Jack’s handwriting are written on the paper yet it seems to hold so much more.

  I circle around the paper over and over again as I clean the pantry and cupboards of the kitchen, boxing up food that I can donate to a local food pantry before I leave. What secrets might Jack hold about my mother? Had she taken her secrets to the grave? I know I won’t hold out long with these questions lingering.

  I put an unopened box of cereal into the eleventh brown box and glance over the organized chaos. It hits me. What if Jack might actually want—or worse yet, need—this food? What if I am giving away something that is actually his? I pick up my phone and dial the number on the paper, swiftly hitting the call button before I can reconsider.

  “Hello,” Jack answers smoothly, putting me at ease.

  “Hi, Jack. It’s Peyton. Peyton Jennings.”

  “Peyton,” he exhales audibly, like the weight of the world has just been lifted from his shoulders. “I was hoping you’d call.”

  “Would you like to come over for dinner, Jack?” I surprise myself extending the invitation.

  “I’d really like that.”

  “I know you don’t need directions,” I say lightheartedly, with a small laugh to break up the tension. “How does 6:30 sound?”

  “It sounds great, Peyton. Do you drink wine?”

  “Only red or white.”

  It is his turn to laugh. “You sound like your mother. She wasn’t fussy about her wine either.”

  Another fact I didn’t know. How many more similarities that I’ve not taken the time to appreciate do we share? How much more can Jack teach me about the woman I barely knew? I might even come to understand myself.

  I start watching for Jack’s arrival ten minutes before I am expecting him. He isn’t used to knocking on his own front door. It would be awful to make him feel a stranger in the house he probably knows as well as I do. I open the door as soon as I hear his car door close. He takes the porch step in a comfortable, easy manner, like he’s probably done many times before, but then straightens and hesitates.

  Am I the cause of his trepidation? Or is it coming back to a house without Caroline? I can control one of the variables in that equation. “Pretty sure this is more your house th
an mine, so I’d feel pretty silly saying make yourself at home, Jack.” My outstretched arm tells him to lead the way past the door into the foyer.

  He steps forward and to my left, stopping in front of the coat closet. Opening the door, he reaches for a hanger. A tear slips from the corner of his eye when he stretches forward and brushes his fingertips down the sleeve of a woman’s black wool dress coat. He doesn’t bother to wipe the tear away. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, giving Jack some space to grieve in the house that is no longer inhabited by the woman he clearly loved.

  When he silently enters the kitchen, I am peering into the refrigerator, assessing its contents for what I can make for us. Not one, but two bottles clink onto the counter. I look over my left shoulder toward the sound, and Jack, wrapping each hand around a bottle’s neck, says, “Red and white. I think I am going to need both of them. The question is which first?”

  I tuck a bag of frozen veggies under my arm while pulling a bag of shrimp from the freezer. Holding both toward Jack I ask, “Okay?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll go with white for the seafood.”

  I retrieve a box of rice from one of the boxes I packed earlier and get to work. Everything in the kitchen is where I remember, or in its logical place, of course.

  Jack stands before me with two glasses of wine. I take one and bring it to my lips, breathing in the fragrance and taking a long, slow sip. It is good wine. My L.A. consortium has taught me to appreciate the differences between the cheap stuff I buy and what my friends and Kyle buy.

  I scoop stir-fry onto two plates and move to set them on the table in the kitchen. Though muscle memory tells me to sit in the chair closest to me, my designated seat at the table, I stand back to let him choose, not knowing which place was his. He is motionless, staring at the plates, hands still affixed to his sides. I panic a moment. Does he find it unappetizing? Then I realize his eyes are closed to hold back welling tears.