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

by Whitney Walker

  “Yes.”

  “Can I drive you to the airport?”

  “That would be great, but I need to leave at seven o’clock. In the morning.”

  “Okay, no problem, Peyton. Good thing I am a morning person. Could you do me a favor today?”

  “Sure, Jack. What is it?”

  “Two things actually. Will you think about coming back for Thanksgiving? It will be awfully hard without Caroline, and I have a family I’d love you to meet. And…” He hesitates, looking nervous. “This is your house now, Peyton. I’ll get with a lawyer about the paperwork. I understand if you want to sell it for the money. But in the meantime, would it be okay if I stayed here a few nights a week?”

  Two questions. That’s all he asked. But they are loaded questions for me. A family I’ve never had? Could his kids become the siblings I’ve always wanted? And, I have a house? That I can sell and finally stop just getting by and having to take money from Kyle to keep up the expensive California lifestyle?

  He has only asked me to think about it, thankfully, so I answer, “Sure, Jack.”

  Thinking is not something I am particularly fond of, but Jack has raised a tsunami of thoughts. Should I sell this house for the money? Would I be selling Jack’s home? How does Jack know it is my house? Is there a will I don’t know about? Could there be an inheritance? Not so practical questions rage a war as well. Why did my mother keep Jack hidden from me? Does my family know something I don’t and that is why he had avoided being caught at the funeral home?

  I need yoga. It will give me an hour to evade being swallowed alive and drowned.

  “Hey, Peyton!” Lynn calls out as soon as I walk through the door. I almost feel like a regular.

  “Hi, Peyton!” Another cheery voice I don’t recognize. I turn in the direction of the sound to find Liz on approach.

  “Oh my gosh, Liz, it’s so great to see you,” I gush, closing the distance between us. “I’m so glad that I get to thank you for yoga in person. It’s been a lifesaver!”

  “It always is. I am so glad that you took me up on the offer. I’ve been thinking about you. You survived the funeral?”

  “I did. It was tough, of course, but I’m leaving tomorrow, and I am sad about going back to L.A.—not something I expected. I am going to miss this place.” I look around wistfully. We start to head down the hallway to class together.

  “I’m glad you like yoga. I’ve been practicing for thirteen years and it’s still hard for me to keep away the crazy. I’ve almost quit a few times because of these damn quotes.” She laughs, pointing up to the wall.

  “That’s good to know. I was a little overwhelmed by the quotes, the people, and the poses, but my first class was with Alexandra and she convinced me I was good to go because all I had to do was breathe.”

  “Some days I am not even sure that I have the breathing part down, but I do love Alexandra. She makes me think I can conquer the world,” she says, laughing again. “I need to buy her coffee or wine or something and soak in her wisdom. I wonder how she got so smart.”

  “No kidding. I hope when I grow up I can be just like her.” It’s my turn to laugh, recalling, “Once, a woman said to me ‘one day after never’. That’s pretty much what I think about my chances. But hey…” I stop at the Gandhi quote that reads “The future depends on what we do in the present”. “I believe our next line was that a girl can dream.” We laugh together.

  On my mat, I contemplate the fact that though I have more questions than answers, I’ll be leaving Detroit with new friends in Liz and Jack, and the dream of falling in love. My present is pretty damn good.

  Returning from yoga I head immediately to the shower. Wrapping my wet waves into a towel, I flip back my head and proceed to cover myself with a second towel around my body, tucking the top over itself to hold it in place. Rounding the corner to my bedroom, I stop dead in my tracks, paralyzed by the vision before me. The bed is made for the first time since I’ve been sleeping in it. Neatly spread across the duvet cover is a quilt. A handmade, work-in-progress, quilt. I wait for my breath to catch as I feel the now-familiar formation of tears. A piece of paper lies upon the colored patchwork. Picking it up with trembling fingers, I read the message.

  Peyton –

  Meant to give this to you last night. Sorry for the sidetrack. Your mother loved working on this for you. I know the story for every shirt, just in case you can’t recall. Hope you like it. Maybe you can finish it?

  J –

  I pick up the soft fabric in both hands, mesmerized by the purple and green chevron-patterned background, solid purple border, and the story of my life in t-shirts across the top. The first I see is a patch of yellow displaying a sheep. It’s from a summer farm camp I attended at nine. The second is an even smaller shirt, probably size four! It says “Lake Michigan. No Salt! No Sharks!” with a white heart over the outlined state. I don’t remember the trip, but it must have been significant for my mother to have saved this for twenty years. Those two are the only ones affixed to the quilt backing, but I pick up the perfectly sized patchwork of squares Jack has laid out that my mother hasn’t lived long enough to attach. One by one, I live the memories that surface with each high school play shirt, the royal blue, pink and orange soccer team swatches of cotton, and my first Michigan State shirt. Worn more times than I could count, the green is a faded resemblance to the real MSU green of the original shirt color.

  Peering into the rectangular wicker bin that held the supplies to complete the task my mother had begun, a patch of yellow and black catches my eye. I clear away what I assume is extra fabric. Quilting for Dummies stares up at me. Clutching the blanket tightly to my chest, realizing I am more sentimental than I once thought, I determine this is now my most prized possession.

  Seven painstakingly long hours later, with only a few minutes for breaks, my fingers are sore and eyes crossing in the waning sunlight. Compelled to finish just one more square before packing my things, I drape my nearly finished project back over the bed where it laid incomplete earlier. My heart and soul did some pretty fine work with the help of You Tube and the Dummies book. My last connection to my mother and my childhood is splayed before my eyes. I climb under the cover, feeling a sense of peace and accomplishment I have not in a very long time.

  NOVEMBER 13

  CHAPTER 9 | Peyton

  I settle into seat 24C to return to California on Thursday morning, my angst rising on par with the altitude. I might need the little puke bag. I am one thousand, nine hundred seventy-five miles from my California chaos. Days ago, I thought my lifestyle was glamorous. Minus the big break I still had faith would come, I thought I was living the dream. I hang with the rich and famous at the coolest bars, ride in fast cars and yachts and shop on Rodeo Drive. My life is the stuff rock songs sing of and tabloid magazine covers sell. What more could a girl from Detroit raised by a single mother really want?

  Jack had been right on time this morning, as promised, and even brought me a coffee. He’d sent me off with a long, comfortable hug and an invitation to return at Thanksgiving, even offering to buy my plane ticket.

  He sent me on my way with the hope that I could realize a dream I consider more elusive than Hollywood success. The chance to have a real family.

  Fueled by the rage of my mother denying me the family experience, I birthed the dream to prove I didn't need her or anyone else. And for all intents and purposes, my L.A. friends serve the role, albeit we are a dysfunctional family. Jenna has held my hair on more than one occasion while puking before I rally. I’m good at that. Hayden is always good for retail therapy when I don’t get a callback. Meredith can change any bleak situation into laughter with a ridiculous joke or one of her crazy good impersonations. And they all offer plenty of “motherly” advice such as wear the red shoes with that outfit and yes, your butt does look fat in that dress.

  And in fourteen days J.T. returns home.

  Damn you, Detroit, for turning my life upside down.

 
When the plane lands and my phone blinks back to life, I re-read the text Kyle sent just before I was getting out of bed. “Text me when you land.” It felt bossy and demeaning, the hair on my neck bristling at his lack of emotion, excitement to have me home, reminder that he would pick me up, or any other word, phrase, or emoji that would have indicated he gives a shit about me. Maybe he had forgotten his offer to pick me up. He might not even crawl out of bed, like a vampire, until the sun is setting.

  But, because I am back in California, and I do what Kyle tells me to do, I return his text. “Landed.”

  Surprisingly, my phone buzzes immediately. A single smile emoji? What does that mean? The passengers next to me are standing so I return the phone to my purse and file out behind them.

  Stepping forward toward my rapidly approaching bag, I grab for the handle. “I got it.” I know the voice. The bag smoothly lifts off the conveyor as I step left and it’s placed at my feet as arms encircle my waist. Kyle pulls me close to his muscled warmth, lips pressed into my hair against my ear. “I missed you, baby.” His hand reaches around my back, grabbing a handful of my ass. His lips crash into mine, a hard, wanting kiss. This is reentry.

  I use my purse strap sliding down my shoulder as an excuse to break up the public display of affection, reaching down to heave it back up. From behind his back, Kyle produces a dozen long-stemmed white roses tipped with pink. Whoa, not what I was expecting! Isn’t this exactly what I thought I wanted? Someone to meet me at the airport, to kiss me, with flowers? Once again, in a moment I have everything I thought I wanted, why am I not elated?

  Kyle’s eyes canvass my body from head to toe. “You look good, baby.”

  I can’t return the compliment. He has dark circles and sunken cheeks. “Did you eat while I was gone?” My question should have been filled with more concern than annoyance, but I don’t hide it well.

  His eyes look right, avoiding mine. “Well, it’s definitely better when you are looking out for me.”

  Even remembering to eat is hard when you spend all your time drunk or high. And sleep goes by the wayside when life is one long day-and-night party. He leans into my neck and bites me. I tuck my chin, pushing his face out of the way.

  “Let’s go,” he says grabbing my suitcase in one hand and my hand in his other. “I parked illegally.”

  He leads me outside to a day much warmer than the one I left behind only five hours ago. It feels like a lifetime.

  Kyle pulls into a lucky parking spot right in front of my building, opening the trunk to grab my suitcase. I am pulling my purse from the backseat when my door opens as well. Of course, he chooses chivalry now. He closes the door behind me as I look for my key in my purse.

  “The girls are here; you don’t need a key.”

  How does he know this? I press the elevator button and the doors slide closed. Kyle’s body is instantly close, both hands on my breasts as he forces me against the wall. “Ow!” I exclaim as the motion catches me off guard and the metal rail around the middle of the elevator sides digs into the small of my back. His hands slide under my butt and he lifts me until my weight is resting on the metal railing and my arms are around his neck, holding myself up. I can’t concentrate on kissing him back. The position is uncomfortable. And I know this is foreplay.

  Saved by the bell. A chime indicates we have reached the third floor. The doors open, revealing an awaiting pair of women, Jenna and Hayden. “Pey!” Hayden squeals throwing her arms around me before I have even fully crossed into the hallway. “Don’t hog her, Hayden!” Jenna leans in and gives her signature kiss to each cheek while holding my forearms. She pulls back to look at me but continues to hold on. “How was it? Are you okay?”

  Not exactly okay. My lips form, “It was fine. I’m fine. Thanks.” I can’t exactly discuss J.T. or Jack for obvious reasons, and what else can I say? Luckily, I don’t have to say anything else because Hayden and Jenna assume the places in the elevator we have just vacated. Hayden holds the button to keep the doors open. “We will see you later. We have plans tonight so rest up!”

  “Thanks for hitting the road, girls.”

  “Like you gave us a choice, Kyle,” Jenna jokingly scoffs. “But thanks for buying! Have fun, Pey—” Apparently, I am not the only one Kyle bankrolls to get what he wants.

  We make our way down the hall to our apartment, and I step through the door then head to my bedroom to put my things away. Kyle follows with the luggage. My eyes dart to my bed where a black box is tied with a white ribbon bow. I know the box. Doors, roses, and lingerie. I know what this means.

  Setting my suitcase in the corner, Kyle comes up behind me, and I can feel his hot breath on my neck. I close my eyes and brace myself. He reaches around my front, sliding both hands down my stomach inside my leggings until his middle fingers press firmly on my clit. Pulling his body more tightly into mine, I can already feel his desire mounting against my backside. I don’t want this right now. Can I get away with claiming jet lag from Detroit to California?

  He growls into my ear, voice raspy and desire-filled, “How about you open that present over there and show me just how much you missed me.” Forcefully, he grabs my hand, limp alongside my right thigh and presses it hard into the bulge of his jeans. “Aren’t you a lucky girl to have all this,” he points to the box on the bed with his free hand then presses my hand into his erection again, “waiting for you?”

  Lucky girl is not exactly what I am thinking.

  I know acquiescing is the only possible outcome that won’t end in disaster, so I comply and move toward the unopened gift. Untying the ribbon, I slowly lift the lid of the box and push back the red tissue paper. Not surprising, inside is black leather, skimpy and skanky. It’s a harness of sorts, with a strappy ouvert and more straps around the waist and thighs connected front and back with a metal o-shape ring. This needs an instruction manual. Wrist cuffs are connected via leather strips to a neck cuff that looks to tie with a lace up in the front, perfect for choking. The leather bralette is studded, which will require concentration not to hurt another person who might be sliding skin upon skin. What if he wants me to hurt him for something he has done?

  I turn to face him, noticing how dark his eyes are, large black pupils dominating the blue that had captivated me at one point. “How about I call you when I am ready to model for you?” A second later, he is gone.

  Happy he took my bait, I take a moment to breathe. I need a little space to ease back into who and where I was when I found out I had lost my mother. Before I met seemingly kind and tender J.T., and before Jack entered my life.

  Kyle’s eager voice is impatient outside the door, “Does it fit? Come on, you’re killing me! I picked it out myself.”

  “Ready,” I call out and hear the doorknob turn. “As I’ll ever be,” I say in a hushed voice knowing in moments his tongue and teeth will be tearing me apart. Mind, body, and soul.

  NOVEMBER 20

  CHAPTER 10 | Peyton

  O ne week post-Detroit visit and I’ve settled back into life as I knew it. Kyle starts filming a new television pilot tomorrow and I have thankfully gotten three extra shifts, one lunch and two dinner, at Conundrum. It’s now the flavor-of-the-week restaurant because of star sightings post iCloud nude scandal, and Kim Kardashian’s visit during her crazy internet-breaking antics.

  I spent my three nights off at Kyle’s house, no closer to cutting our ties than upon touchdown, but was happier sleeping in my own bed the three nights I worked. He seems like he would get along fine without me in his life. When I work he goes clubbing, and with me, he goes clubbing. Except on Monday night, when we’d gone together to a party with his new cast members. We’d stayed out way too late and I’d drank way too much. I didn’t work until dinner, so we’d made our way into the sunlight—after three Advil—just after two o’clock.

  Nothing seems to change day after day. Late nights and afternoon wakeups. I wonder if Kyle could ever be happy watching a movie or T.V. at home, and maybe even cook? T
onight, however, he’d have an 11:00 p.m. curfew for tomorrow’s taping, and I’ll probably get carry out with one, or all, of my roommates. I hope that no one wants to go out, but most likely, at somewhere around 11:00 p.m., I’ll be strapping on my stereotypical too-high heels to go with my too-short skirt.

  As expected, Jenna, Hayden, and Meredith are raring to go after our fine-dining experience. Fine dining in our house equals two split salads among four women, nothing but grilled chicken and low-carb veggies on top of the greens, and very little dressing, not surprisingly, ordered on the side.

  Assuming party-girl primping position, we are two by two in each of our two bathrooms. All a similar shape and size, we share a revolving closet, minus the shoes. The girls’ shoe sizes range from Meredith, at a mere size six, to Hayden, who clocks in at a size nine. Luckily, Jenna’s and my feet are a perfect match, though she is tall and slender, with strawberry blond hair that she hates. She spends a small fortune, by others’ standards, to blonde it up and hide the red every five weeks to the day.

  I lean into the mirror, applying pink blush up my cheekbone with a makeup sponge. Black eyeliner swoops up to make my eyes more cat-like than they appear. I start the application process for fake eyelashes that are all the rage. Since everyone is doing it, I can’t be perceived to have plain old normal lashes, but I would be happy to skip them.

  Jenna returns to the bathroom with a shoe dangling from each index finger. “Which do you want tonight? I’m giving you first dibs. Your tits look great in that top, BTW.”

  “Why, thank you,” I say and finish painting my lips red, smack them in the mirror, then lean back to check my outfit against the options she’s offering. My lace skirt has three tiers, one cream, then black, then cream again. It curves tightly over my hips and butt, grazing the very top of my thigh. The tight-fitting black silk tank drapes over my breasts just so, and I found the perfect jewelry to match. A fake black and cream-colored intermingled pearl necklace and bracelet will appear demure and a tease to the slutty outfit. It will keep them wondering.