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

by Whitney Walker

  My heart was just ripped from my chest.

  A quick assessment of my life in the last sixty days says the universe is cruel. How else can you look at my mother dying and my boyfriend’s mother—whom I didn’t know until I didn’t want to know—almost dying at the hands of my ex-boyfriend? But the joy in between! How can life be such an eddying mix of happy and hell?

  There is no doubt I am presently in hell. Maybe this is the true definition, and heaven means we don’t have to do people problems anymore? I can’t imagine a place worse than where I am against this wall, rejection stinging my soul.

  The silver lining is that no tears come. I may not have any left after yesterday, or maybe I’ve just surrendered to hell. I don’t know where to go or what to do next.

  I just stand against the wall and will myself to keep breathing.

  I have no idea how much time passes as groups of students and doctors on morning rounds file past me down the hallway in focused conversation. Not one person stops to ask what I am doing standing there. I don’t know what I would say so I don’t mind seeming invisible.

  My phone rings in my purse clutched tightly against my stomach, startling me. I need a distraction from my misery so I answer the unknown number.

  It is never a good idea. I have the sinking feeling everything is about to get worse. How is it even possible?

  I am back in the same conference room I was in yesterday. I hated it then. I hate it more now. It is stifling and this is insufferable. Only one thing could make it tolerable. Being wrapped in J.T.’s arms. And it will never happen again. Once again, I feel completely alone.

  Now the tears come. I want to scream at God, the world, or anyone who will listen. Instead, I straighten my bracelet. I remember what J.T. had said. Love is all you need. I had hope for love with him. Now, all I have is a metal written word on my wrist.

  “Are you Peyton?”

  A beautiful blond woman with sympathetic eyes and a kind voice enters the room, filling it with compassion.

  I wish I wasn’t right now. “Yes, I am.”

  “As I said on the phone, my name is Amy, with Gift of Life. I’m here with regard to Kyle Nixon. First, let me say I share your heartbreak. This isn’t an easy situation. I know it’s difficult to face losing someone you care about.”

  I am ashamed. My heart is broken, but it isn’t about Kyle potentially losing his life. It’s about losing my potential for true love. I would worry about going to hell for my evil thought but have already established it’s too late. It’s found me.

  For. The. Love. Of. God.

  We are interrupted. Officer Fitzpatrick’s frame fills the doorway, but I can see behind him two people he is escorting as he had me to this very room yesterday.

  It’s the Nixons.

  I can’t do this.

  “Peyton, how are you holding up?” he asks.

  My heart is pounding. I feel sick to my stomach with the sight of Kyle’s parents. I’m afraid if I open my mouth to answer vomit may spill out. I close my swollen eyes and shake my head. He pats my shoulder in kindness. I slump into my chair as my shaky legs no longer want to keep me upright.

  The Nixons shake hands with Amy and take seats across the table from me. Neither makes eye contact. Why am I here?

  “Let me reiterate how sorry I am for your situation,” Amy starts again. “I realize what a difficult time this is, and these are difficult decisions to make. I am here to help, and my team of counselors is here to help. We find it best to bring all interested parties together to keep you informed. So just to be certain, Mr. and Mrs. Nixon, is there anyone other than Peyton, who I understand is Kyle’s girlfriend, who should also be here?”

  Amy turns to me when she says girlfriend. I look toward Mrs. Nixon and see her conceal a grimace with a handkerchief she pulls from her purse. She dabs at her eye, but I don’t see tears welling, nor is her makeup the least bit marred. There were plenty of tears when it was all about her at the restaurant.

  “Oh, I am not his girlfriend any longer. I probably shouldn’t be here,” I say, maybe with too much enthusiasm.

  Mrs. Nixon jumps in quickly, lowering her handkerchief and turning to Amy. “Oh, she should definitely be here.”

  Because I clearly wanted to leave, she will make me pay. Why would she want me here?

  “Kyle made the choice to be an organ donor, as evident by his driver’s license in police evidence. It is an admirable choice.”

  “If only we all made admirable choices, perhaps we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We all have to suffer the consequences of others’ poor choices. Kyle’s never hurt anyone before.”

  Now I know why she wanted me here. What other opportunity would she have to place the blame squarely on my shoulders? Her eyes are daggers from across the table directed at me. Yes, he made one admirable choice but let’s pretend his choices to board a plane to Detroit, abuse drugs, and shoot a woman don’t have consequences beyond measure? I press my lips together tightly to form a straight line. I might bite my tongue off preventing words from escaping.

  Amy carries on, mediating as necessitated, “Again, we are all here to understand the good that can come from this through the gift of organ donation. We have a short window to make some decisions about how to proceed should his condition remain unchanged. It’s what Kyle wanted.”

  What Kyle wanted was me. They may have been Kyle’s choices, but I am the reason for everyone’s suffering.

  DECEMBER 31st

  CHAPTER 35 | J.T.

  T oday I wake up praying yesterday was only a nightmare. Since I haven’t slept in two nights, I know it wasn’t. I am sweating, probably leaving a bodily imprint in the leather where many others have kept vigil before me.

  I’ve had shitty days. I’ve skipped a decade of my birthdays and the Christmas holidays. Why not add New Year’s Eve to the list?

  Such a short while ago I was counting down the days to spending the evening, and all night long, with Peyton. I’d envisioned the moment I’d see that dress again first on her, then on my bedroom floor. I had the playlist ready to make love post-midnight.

  Weeks of anticipation dashed in one second. The second I realized her crazy ex-boyfriend had nearly killed my mother.

  I’ve had time to process this fact. And the fact that he is still alive, though barely, in the ICU just seven floors below us. If he wasn’t already in a hospital bed, I would have put him there myself.

  How did I spend the last—longest—one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes of my life? Pacing and praying in this room. I feel claustrophobic, like the walls are closing in. It could also be my heart, closing down. Trying to clot itself to close a gaping wound. There are no sutures, tubes, bandages, IVs, medications to treat the problem I have. A whole hospital of paraphernalia and people who save. Of course, there isn’t a damn thing anyone can do for me.

  I am so grateful my mother is alive. I am so grateful I can be by her side. I am grateful Ellie is here as well. But I have another fourteen hours to kill in a hospital. I won’t see midnight nor toast to a happy new year. Sometimes, gratitude just isn’t enough.

  JANUARY 1st

  CHAPTER 36 | Peyton

  G ratitude. I have to stay there or I will not make it through another hour. I can’t be grateful and angry. I can’t be grateful and heartbroken at the same time. I can’t be hopeless and grateful at the same damn time. Alexandra had given me that wisdom. It’s so damn hard.

  Kyle is still alive and seems to be slowly returning to the living world but isn’t out of the woods, and the permanent damage is still to be determined. Alexandra is healing but due to a complication isn’t going home as expected today. We’ve arranged to get together in her hospital room, Cassandra and Liz included, to pretend that noon on the first of January has the same significance as its twelve-hour earlier counterpart. A New Year’s midnight makeup toast. None are placing blame on my shoulders. Liz had called me yesterday to tell me this. For a complicated reason, she said the inc
ident had done her a favor. And she said that Cassandra had learned about forgiveness the hard way. For this, I am grateful.

  The tiny hospital room is crowded, with all of us gathered around Alexandra’s bedside. Liz has snuck in the contraband in a large purse, while Cassandra holds four champagne flutes. She sets them gently on the food tray that has been swiveled in front of Alexandra, while Liz and I unwrap the protective white tissue paper.

  “Please just let me unwrap my own glass.”

  It’s the closest thing to a whine I have heard from Alexandra. “I’ve still got five good fingers, and no one will let me lift one of them. I feel useless. It’s making me crazy.”

  By no one, I know she is referring to J.T.

  “Well, I can’t do anything. Moving is excruciating.” Liz has been attempting to open the bottle but is cringing with each turn of the little metal basket that holds the cork in place.

  “Can I help?” I ask, and she relinquishes the task.

  “I can’t decide if I love it or hate it. I might have an excuse not to vacuum or load a dishwasher for months. There are silver linings in everything.”

  “Hey you two, this too shall pass!” Cassandra offers.

  “Thanks, Cassandra,” Liz says, laying her hand along her forearm. “I appreciate you trying to cheer us both up.”

  I notice Liz and Alexandra share a look.

  I use a washcloth from a moveable cart near Alexandra to keep the cork from exploding across the room. The loud pop echoes. I fill the four glasses.

  “I shouldn’t drink this on pain meds,” Alexandra laughs, “but I am going to.”

  “I shouldn’t either,” Liz adds, “but I am as well.”

  “Well, that makes three of us,” Cassandra says raising her glass.

  I am the only one without physical pain needing medication. If only they knew my heart was broken like their bodies. There is no pill for my pain, however.

  Liz lifts her glass to meet Cassandra’s already raised one. “Let’s get to it, ladies. Happy New Year. Auld Lang Syne.”

  “To A Happy New Year,” we all say together with varying intonation. The chime of crystal sings out loudly in the sparsely decorated room.

  “I just toasted to Auld Lang Syne and have no idea what it means,” Liz says. “I probably shouldn’t admit to not knowing, but I have no clue.”

  Soft laughter breaks out amongst us, minus Cassandra, I notice. Maybe she could only muster one round of cheeriness.

  “We should Google it.” I pull out my phone and read aloud, “The song, traditionally sung to celebrate the New Year, poses the rhetorical question whether it is right that old times be forgotten, and is generally interpreted as a call to remember long-standing friendships.”

  Alexandra raises her glass again. “I know it’s not exactly what they mean, but to long-standing friendship among us. We need each other for this one.”

  Never would I have imagined. I meet her glass first, repeating the phrase. I need these women. None seem angry with me the way I fear the L.A. girls will react with whatever happens to Kyle. I may be a decade younger than Cassandra, and Liz and Alexandra are old enough to be my mother. There is something to learn from the experiences of these women. The others raise their glasses to meet ours.

  “Shall we drink to forgetting the old times?” Cassandra proposes. An odd toast, but the meaning is implied in her swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’m not sure I want to forget all the old times,” Liz chimes in, with a bit of a mischievous look, “but I’ll drink to forgetting some.”

  We clink our glasses again. Our eyes lock. Silence falls. The shared experience is fresh and raw. We all want to forget what happened in that studio.

  Alexandra is the first to smile, like she has moved past the past. She raises her glass again, the sun reflecting in a rainbow that envelopes us. “We’ve got this, girls. To do-overs. Together.”

  “To do-overs, together,” we echo in perfect unison, hopeful smiles spreading across our faces.

  Quiet conversation and a few more laughs follow, but not for long, as everyone’s ailments call for rest. The others begin to file out. I linger, hoping for just a little time with Alexandra.

  “Peyton, can you stay?”

  I am so grateful she has asked. “Yes, of course,” I reply, giving Liz a gentle, hurried hug and moving to her bedside. Alexandra covers my hand with hers, over the cold metal rail. “Peyton, I want to apologize for Joe.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, Alexandra. I understand. I just… well, I hoped that maybe with what he’d been through he would be able to forgive me.”

  Alexandra looks taken aback. “He told you? About Tim?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised based on the way he talked about you at Christmas. I already knew there was something special about you from class, I just didn’t know that my son and I shared the same fondness.”

  She smiles. It’s weary; she is clearly growing more tired. “It’s going to be hard for him. It seems like he should be able to understand. Time often has a way of working things out. I’m hopeful. Please try to be patient. Have faith.”

  She’s in pain and tired, but still sharing her wisdom. I admire her grace.

  “Forgiveness takes time, Peyton, but love wins. Somehow, love always wins.”

  “Thank you, Alexandra,” I say with a careful hug to her good side, knowing I’ve just heard her quoting Ellie.

  The doorway fills.

  J.T.!

  I don’t know if I am thrilled to have my breath taken away with the sight of him, or devastated I didn’t make a quick enough escape.

  Freshly showered, his messy blond hair is still damp and tussled in its painfully sexy way. I ache with longing to run my fingers through it. He wears a just tight enough long-sleeve black t-shirt that leaves me remembering what it feels like to touch him. Lay my head on this chest. Entangle my limbs in his. I can feel him. Taste him. Smell him. I now know why someone would sell their soul to the devil in the name of love. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him to walk in here and sweep me into his arms.

  It doesn’t happen, of course. His eyes narrow to angry slits when he takes me in.

  “It’s time for you to go.”

  His tone is cruel.

  “Joe!” Alexandra reprimands but he seems unfazed. Resolute. He steps backward out of the doorway to make room for me to pass by. Our bodies are inches apart as I slide past him. Just grab me and hold me, J.T.! I have to will my hands to remain at my sides. I need to feel him under my fingers. I need to feel him against my lips! But no, I avoid looking him in the eyes. Still, his burning hot glare pierces me. I blink hard to hold back welling tears.

  I feel fragile to my core. This take-two is too much. I am in the same hall as yesterday, against the same wall, with shallow breath and quivering legs I can’t trust. Find gratitude. Cinderblock to hold me up.

  I hear Alexandra’s voice through the open door. I am adding eavesdropping to my list of transgressions.

  “Joe, I’m asking you, for everyone involved, to try to let this go. I’ve just told Peyton to have patience with you, hoping you would come around. Don’t push her away. Have I taught you nothing about love and forgiveness, Joseph Jacob?

  His retort is insidious. “I’m Joseph Trouble, remember? I know what you have taught me, but love doesn’t always win, Mom. This isn’t some romance novel. It’s real life.”

  My heart shatters into irreparable shards.

  “You are wrong, J.T.,” she says definitively.

  I close my eyes and imagine their matching steely eyes in a staredown.

  “Come here.” Alexandra transforms to complete compassion.

  There is silence in the room, and I picture the man I thought I was falling in love with being held against Alexandra’s slight frame with one good arm.

  All I have left is faith. I say a silent prayer. Please, God, let love win. And get me the hell out of here.

&nb
sp; Unsure how it took me so long to conclude that God is my last hope, I’m carried to the car by an unknown force. I think of one of the little plastic cards my mother has on her bedroom mirror. Something about footprints in the sand. A picture shows two sets dwindle to one. I remember it quoting Jesus as saying, “It was then I carried you.” I feel the tiniest sense of peace.

  My phone rings in the car console. A picture of my roommates covers the screen. It’s Jenna calling. Might as well know where I stand.

  “Can you Facetime?”

  “Sure.” I’m not yet moving, and it won’t kill my data to do one call. I am wasting gas, however.

  The girls fill the frame, each taking turns saying hello. They still have the remains of last night’s makeup and hairdo. I smile wistfully. They probably haven’t been to bed yet.

  “Pey! We missed you last night. I’d say it was epic, but that wouldn’t be nice to rub in. Plus, well, it wasn’t the same without you. We called you at midnight!”

  “I know. Thank you.” My phone had been off for hours by 3:00 a.m.

  “I think I am still drunk. Peyton, are you drunk?” Hayden giggles a high-pitched squeal.

  We are living in different universes at the moment. Meredith smacks her, and the screen image goes gray and bounces as the phone falls from her hand. Meredith fills the picture and in an unlikely moment of mothering says, “Peyton, sorry. My God. Obnoxious much? Happy New Year. I’m sorry they are babbling on about parties and drunken stupors.”

  She pauses, probably trying to decide what to say to the pathetic girl she knows has nothing to celebrate. “I’m guessing it’s not so happy over there? You know we have been trying to get hold of you, right?”

  An eager Jenna jumps in, “Brad told us what he knew. It wasn’t much. His dad—” She realizes she should not finish the sentence. I know where this is going. Brad’s father is a very successful attorney in L.A. One of those on retainer for many a superstar who are in need of connections to absolve misdemeanors and felonies alike. Of course the Nixons have hired him.