Young Love

by Alyson Santos

  “What?”

  “I guess it’s good I renovated the second floor.”

  Epilogue 0 + 1 = 1

  Five years later…

  “Evie, no! Stop throwing oatmeal.” I rush to the table, just as the three-year-old is about to launch another spoonful of breakfast at her brother. Seriously, how are mushy grains so fun to play with?

  “It’s stuck!” Ian whines, tugging at the goo in his hair.

  Crap. No way they’re getting to preschool on time.

  A teenager whizzes past, book bag nearly knocking me against the counter.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I say, grabbing the strap to pull him back.

  “Jace said I can get a ride with Lyla.”

  “Really…” I don’t try to hide my skepticism. “And how long has Lyla had her license?”

  “I don’t know. At least four months.” Aiden taps his fingers on the granite with impatience, just like his brother does.

  “Hang on,” I say. “Keep an eye on the twins.” I move to the foyer and shout up the steps. “Babe, did you say Aiden could ride with Lyla?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Just checking.”

  Aiden wears the smirk of a smug teenager—also like his brother. “Love you, Sienna,” he adds with a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “You better. Be safe. And no loud music! Or fooling around in the car!”

  “Or talking or breathing. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  We share an amused look before he moves toward the front door.

  “Oh hey!” I call out. “Remember, you’re going to visit your mom today after school.”

  “Got it.” He waves and disappears, just as Jace comes thundering down the stairs.

  “Wow,” I say, stopping short.

  He laughs. “What do you think? Do I look like a 2nd Degree Sensei?”

  “Um, a hot 2nd Degree Sensei.”

  I pull him in for a kiss. Not nearly the one I want when we’re interrupted by more shrieks from the kitchen.

  “What’s going on in there? Do I want to know?”

  “Oatmeal war,” I grunt.

  He tries to hold in his smile, and I smack him. “What? Sorry, but that’s hilarious.”

  “You know what’s not hilarious? Cleaning oatmeal out of Ian’s hair.”

  “Eh, just slick it back and call it gel.”

  I snort a laugh and shove him toward the kitchen. “Come grab some food before you go.”

  “I have time. Want me to stick around to help?”

  “Nah. We’ll be fine. Just remember to be home in time to take Aiden to see your mom. Oh, also, can you watch the kids for a couple of hours on Sunday? The ladies and I want to look at that Woodland Avenue building for our permanent studio and gallery.”

  He nods. “You got it. When’s Carol coming by again? Monday, right?”

  “Oh, no. Didn’t you see my message? Carol isn’t our caseworker anymore. It’s… hold on.” I scroll through my messages. “Ted Leonard.”

  “Ted Leonard? Really?”

  I give him a look. “Be nice. Two more months until the hearing and things will get much easier.”

  “Hope so. They’ve been promising that since we got the twins two years ago.”

  “Yes, but they’ve finally terminated parental rights.”

  He sighs and plants a quick kiss on Evie and Ian’s heads. “Can’t wait until you squirts are officially mine,” he says to them. They respond with grins that grow into gales of laughter when Daddy erupts into his famous villain roar.

  “Miiiine. Allll miiiine,” he draws out to even more excitement from his miniature audience. By the end, maybe even I’m chuckling.

  “Bye, Daddy!” Evie calls as Jace grabs a bagel and travel mug of coffee.

  “Bye, Princess. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy!”

  Ian is still too distraught about his hair to bother with emotional farewells.

  “Have a great day, babe,” he says to me. “After we get back from the hospital tonight, we’ll review for your test tomorrow.”

  I groan. “I’m trying not to think about that. I’m so nervous.”

  “You’ll be fine. Then I’ll be able to say my smokin’ hot wife is a Black Belt.”

  “It does have a nice ring to it.”

  He smiles, aqua eyes bright and alive. “Very nice. Just remember, don’t hold back.”

  My turn to smile. “Never.”

  I stand at attention in the back row with the other silver belts. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I let my gaze flicker over to Jace for encouragement. Aiden and his “no-way!-we’re-just-friends” friend Lyla are out in the lobby chasing the twins around so Jace can be in here to support me.

  Am I ready? Absolutely. I’ve worked my ass off to get here. Fought through pain, setbacks, and plenty of moments of self-doubt, but my man wouldn’t have let me quit even if I wanted to. Not once did I consider it.

  I’ve continued training with Sensei Stan, while Jace accepted a full-time position as an instructor at CBMA. The money isn’t great, but the reward is priceless. I’ll admit to sneaking into the waiting area of his school to watch him in action when I can. The kids adore him, and there’s no doubt he’s exactly where he belongs.

  Which brings me back to this moment and the useless role of doubt in my life. Fear, yes. Nervousness, yes. But not doubt. If I don’t succeed today, I will be back, and I will get there tomorrow.

  You got this, Jace mouths to me. I return a quick twist of the lips and pull in a steadying breath. Then, one last glance at my wrist out of habit:

  Don’t hold back.

  “That wasn’t so hard, right?” Shihan Miller says in my ear as he ties my new belt around my waist.

  “No, sir,” I reply with a grin. It was brutal. My ribs ache, I still feel like my lungs are going to explode, and my right ring finger is sore from the dislocated joint we had to pop back in halfway through the sparring rounds.

  I thank him and turn to greet my fellow Black Belts.

  “Sienna Porter,” he calls out. “Sempai!”

  Cheers, whistles, shouts, for me, ring out from my new family. And loudest of all, a glowing thirty-year-old who believed in this moment long before I did.

  I meet his gaze through the crowd, nearly bursting with the desire to run into his arms. He nods in a subtle bow that I don’t miss. I bow back.

  My waist feels secure with its new adornment. I look down at the symbol of everything I fought for and finally let myself smirk again.

  Sienna Porter: Black Belt.

  That wasn’t so hard, right?

  The twins are in bed and Aiden’s staying over at a friend’s house (“not Lyla!”) tonight. Jace sits in a pile of first-aid supplies while I’m sprawled out in underwear and a sports bra on the bed beside him.

  “Will you stay still?” he grunts.

  “Ow!” I giggle-groan as he cleans a cut on my cheek.

  He rolls his eyes. “I watched you take two consecutive back fists to the face today, and it’s the cotton swab that’s knocking you down?”

  I laugh, then cough through another groan. “Quit making me laugh.”

  “Not my fault you’re so fucking adorable.”

  “Ugh. I look like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”

  “You look like a badass.”

  I grin and use my bruised knuckles to grip his shirt and pull him down. “How does it feel to be married to a Black Belt?”

  “Probably not as good as being in her right now. Can we finish this up please?”

  I snort a laugh and smack him. His smile fades, aqua eyes searching mine. “Seriously though, it feels amazing to be married to a woman who fights for what she wants. Who doesn’t give up and who’s willing to sacrifice no matter what.”

  “I learned that from someone else,” I say, chest swelling from more than Erika’s elbow and straight punch in round three.

  “We make a pretty kickass team, huh?”

  I n
od. “Aiden, Evie, and Ian are some lucky kids.”

  He leans back, thoughtful. “Evie’s already a trooper. You think she’s too young for a bo staff?”

  “Jace!” I laugh, tackling him into the mattress. All injuries fade away with this man so close. I trace the perfect curve of his lips through his smile, the way his eyes accept my love and reflect it back to me. Who would have guessed that the sun god I first saw in my driveway would one day be the father of my children, my partner in life, my champion, my best friend, and my mentor? Who would’ve thought that boy I fought so hard to resist would be the man who’d reset my life?

  I may be the expert with numbers, but Jace Beckett is the one who taught me their importance.

  One: the number of lives we have.

  Zero: the number of regrets we can afford.

  Excerpt from

  NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK

  NSB Series, Book 1

  Night Shifts Black

  Copyright © 2016 Alyson Santos

  All Rights Reserved

  Day One.

  I’d be lying if I said I don’t notice him enter the restaurant. We all do. It’s impossible not to.

  He isn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything. In fact, I can’t describe a single trait I haven’t seen before. He’s not particularly tall, nor is he memorably short. His hair is messy in an intentional kind of way that makes you think he cares a little, but not too much. At the very least, he used to care and old habits die hard. He’s dressed similarly, casual, but uncomfortably so, like this is his one pair of jeans in a closet full of suits. Although really, his jeans are too expensive to count as jeans anyway. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days but it suits him and makes you pretty sure it’s an intentional look. No, it isn’t any of that.

  It’s the way his eyes scan the café. The chairs, the walls, the ceiling. The way what should be a very confident young man cowers in the entrance, the cold air blowing in behind him, interrupting our breakfasts with his personal drama. Stan Hemford even mutters something about moving in or moving out, but I don’t worry about Stan. I can only stare at our intruder’s clenched fists and the way they mirror his set jaw. He’s here, but he doesn’t want to be.

  And then, his eyes seem to find what he’s looking for.

  Me.

  I almost choke on my tea as he begins his approach, and my brain launches a frantic index of the last few years, trying to piece together why I’d have any role in this person’s life. Maybe he kind of looks familiar, but I don’t think I know him. He isn’t the type you’d forget so I believe myself. In a brief moment of absurdity I even consider the possibility that this is a real live hit. But he doesn’t look like a hit man, at least not what a girl who’s spent most of her life in a rural Pennsylvania town imagines a hit man to look like. He looks more like the guy who would hire the hit man. Actually, he looks like the actor who would play the guy who hires the hit man. A hit man? That’s my working theory? I swallow.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins with an obvious accent, which is actually the first thing about the scene that doesn’t surprise me. Nothing about him fits here, at this place, in this moment. It’s all so foreign that, for a split second, I feel like I don’t fit either.

  “Can I help you with something? You look lost.”

  His eyes change again, filling with a heavy sadness. Fear, maybe. No, terror. I don’t move. Everyone is watching us.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not lost. I was just hoping I could have your chair for a bit.”

  “My chair?”

  “There are many others available.”

  “True.”

  There’s one right across from me. I really don’t have a good reason not to move, nor can I imagine denying the simple request with him looking at me like that.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I push my saucer across the table and stand with great ceremony. He stares at me in shock, maybe a hint of amusement, as I skirt around him and drop to the other side of the table.

  “This ok?” I ask, and when his lips twist into a slight smile, something beautiful happens to his face. But it’s gone so quickly I actually feel sad.

  “You’re very literal.”

  “You’re the one who interrupted my breakfast.”

  He nods but doesn’t apologize, and I suspect he suddenly forgets about me. He’s far away now. I watch his face as he studies the chair, his eyes tracing each detail. The chipped paint, the frayed fabric of the seat. He reaches out and touches it, tentatively at first, and his fingers caress the back, gliding over the bumps and cracks. I fight my instinct to say something, to interrupt the awkward encounter between this stranger and a piece of cheap diner furniture. The defensive humor slips to my tongue, but catches on my lips. Again, it’s his eyes. There’s something there. Something deep. Something shattered. I’m not even sure he’s here to sit.

  After a long pause, he bites his lip and backs away.

  “Thank you,” he mumbles before breaking for the door and disappearing with the same impact with which he arrived. The audience is glued again, and I hear Stan mumble something about punks and hippies.

  I stare after the stranger as well, maybe even with a little regret that I hadn’t been more memorable. While it’s clear I’m not part of his life, I’m suddenly afraid this odd event will make him part of mine.

  My server approaches with an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry. I should have warned you.”

  “Warned me?” I ask, still watching the door as if he’ll return and explain the mystery so it doesn’t explode into something that will haunt me after I leave.

  “Yeah. It started on Monday. You haven’t been here since. Third day in a row. Same time. Same table.”

  “What do you mean? What started?”

  “What you just saw.”

  “He comes in and stares at this chair?”

  She shrugs. “Basically. Just stands here and looks at it. He touched it today. That was new, I guess. What are we gonna do, though, right? It’s not like he’s breaking any laws. Just acting weird is all. Can’t arrest a guy for being weird. Well, unless he’s naked, too. You think I’m kidding, but that happens. At least this one is just weird.”

  Weird? That word seems dissonant to me. Part of me can’t help but wonder about the weird naked guy, but just a small part. The rest is still invested in our current, clothed weirdo. No, not a weirdo. The name just doesn’t work. I would need a lot of words to describe what I’d just witnessed in those brief seconds, but “weird” isn’t one I’d choose.

  “He seemed so sad.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. We get all kinds in here. None of my business as long as he doesn’t disturb the guests. Sorry if he bothered you.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “You want a refill?”

  I nod and instinctively study the vacant chair across from me.

  Day Two.

  I never eat breakfast at Jemma’s two days in a row, but I knew the second I left yesterday that I’d be back. I’m not a nosy person by nature, but I am an observant one. And I certainly can’t ignore things the way a lot of people can. I sense I’m exposing myself to a world I might regret, but judging by the amount of time I’ve spent reviewing every detail of that strange encounter, I’m pretty sure I’m already stuck in it.

  So I go back. Request the same table. Settle into the chair across from the important one this time. I’m grateful I have a different server, Darryn with a “y,” so he doesn’t recognize what I’m doing because I’m embarrassed for some reason. I don’t want anyone to know why I’m here. No one except the stranger, anyway. I need to know why he’s sad. Why he’s afraid. Why he’s ok being weird when he’s clearly not. I need to understand the chair.

  I was very intentional in my decision to leave his chair open when I sat on the other side. I wonder if he’ll notice. I order my tea and pretend to study the menu, but really, I’m watching the door, waiting. It’s the wrong angle to view the door from th
is side, however, so I’m forced to scan the rest of the restaurant with each peek. I notice a few other familiar faces around the room and can’t help but wonder if they’re waiting, too. Stan is here, still too close to the entryway so he’ll be cold when the stranger enters and hesitates in the opening.

  He’s a little later today. Just a couple minutes, but enough for me to think that he’s not some kind of obsessive sociopath who times his fixation on a rigid schedule. This chair routine is part of his day, but it’s not the only part of his day. I take some comfort in that, although I’m not sure why. This has nothing to do with me.

  Like yesterday, the hostess doesn’t even ask him if he’d like to be seated. She knows why he’s here and watches with a vigilance that’s ready to call for help if necessary. Her hand seems poised to reach for the phone as he does his search.

  And that’s when it occurs to me that he’s not searching. He knows where to go. He knows what he will find when he gets there. He’s not looking. He’s bracing.

  He starts toward my table again and then stops abruptly. I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed, upset, or pleasantly surprised to discover my obvious intrusion into his life. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday, but different enough that I realize this casual style may be new to him, but it’s now permanent. As I study him with the same intensity he studies me, I also notice he’s younger than I first thought. He’s been aged, but not by time. If I had to guess, I’d say mid to late twenties. I’m terrible at guessing, though, so I decide not to.

  “You’re back,” he says quietly.

  I still can’t interpret his reaction.

  “So are you.”

  I motion toward the chair. “This might be my table, but you can have the chair.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oddly enough, he doesn’t even look at it today. In fact, he sits at the neighboring table as though he’s completely abandoned his mission. I’m disappointed, and again, startled by my strange reaction. I suck in my breath and grip my teacup.