by Annie Kelly
Titles by Annie Kelly
Until Tomorrow
After Tonight
Just For Now
Just For Now
Annie Kelly
INTERMIX
NEW YORK
INTERMIX
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Annie Kelly.
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INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9780698412262
First Edition: July 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Titles by Annie Kelly
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part 2
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part 3
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Josh
Always.
Part One
Chapter One
So, I can’t be positive, but I think my right eye is glued shut.
I reach up to touch my eyelid, then groan.
Yep. Totally forgot to take my fake lashes off last night. Again. Dammit.
I push myself up to sitting and wince at the immediate pain that pierces through my skull. I definitely drank far more than I should have last night. It’s been a while since I let myself get that crazy, but after such a volatile dinner with my parents? Yeah, I’d needed some liquid healing. Or numbing. Numbing is probably more accurate.
I honestly don’t even remember how I got home.
Slowly, so as not to disturb the already throbbing knife of pain that’s sliced through my consciousness, I pad out of my room to the hall bathroom. I share the two-bedroom apartment with one of my best friends, Carson, but since she started dating drummer Wyatt Sands, she’s hardly ever home anymore. It makes it convenient if I want to bring a guy back after a night at the bar, but the rest of the time? Well, it’s pretty lonely.
Against my better judgment, I flick on the bathroom light as I walk through the door. Big mistake—it feels like a laser. Or a spotlight. Or the sun.
Once my eyes adjust to the brightness, I peer at my reflection in the mirror through my one good eye (that’s still frankly a little blurry). With attempted precision, I pull the sticky fake lashes off of my other eye, wincing when I yank out a few good lashes with it. As it comes free, I manage to blink a few times, then focus.
God, I look like shit. And I have to work a double shift today.
I turn on the shower, adjusting the water all the way to the big red H, and let the small room fill up with steam. Then I go back to staring at my face and trying to remember the events of the night before. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the fun parts nearly as much as the uncomfortable and irritating parts.
I really should have known better than to agree to a dinner with my family. Things have been strained for months. Maybe longer than that. But when Daddy called and said that my sister had decided to go to law school and that the “whole family” was going to Clyde’s for dinner, I knew that was a veiled order. I knew that not showing up could be more painful than going. Which turned out to be wrong. On all counts.
My family is what you’d call “old school,” and I don’t mean this in a kick-ass hip-hop way. I mean it in a “the South will rise again” way. We’re from southern Virginia—or “suh-thun Vuh-ginia,” as my mother would say. Since they moved just outside of Washington, D.C., five years ago, her accent seems even deeper, even more dramatic. When she speaks, it’s thick like honey. Her long drawls were so comforting to me growing up.
Lately, though—well, I hate admitting it, but everything about my parents is grating on my nerves. It’s not just the slower way of speaking. It’s their value system. It’s their expectations. I’m twenty-five years old, and, yet, they still call and demand my presence at dinner. They still want to make decisions for me, like where I should live—not Baltimore—and who I should live with—not Carson.
And they definitely aren’t happy about my decision to work at the BYC—the Baltimore Youth Center.
“I just don’t understand why someone with a master’s degree would be working for an after-school program,” my father said last night as he bit into his filet mignon. I’d had a mouthful of salmon at the time and was tempted to spit it out just to answer him before the rest of my family started chiming in. But I wasn’t fast enough.
“It’s really true, Rain,” my sister, Neely, tsked. “I mean, it was fine while you were still in school, but you could be working at a much-higher-profile job now.”
I swallowed, then shrugged. “I don’t know how high profile a degree in social work is.”
A waiter came around with a silver water pitcher and refilled our stemmed glasses. Everyone ignored him but me. I made sure to make eye contact and say, “Thank you.”
Mom made a little ahem noise, then patted her mouth with the linen napkin. “All Daddy’s tryin’ to say, sugar, is that you’re just too smart to be spending your life with hoods and hoodlums. Just look at the youth of Baltimore. All those riots. You’re better than that.”
I tried really, really hard not to bristle. Not to get indignant. Not to open my mouth, which inevitably gets me in trouble every single time this topic comes up.
But I failed miserably.
“Momma,” I said, falling right into the role she’s cast me in—the petulant child—“they aren’t hoods and hoodlums. They’re kids. When they’re with me, they aren’t out running the streets or causing trouble. They’re getting homework done and playing sports. They are safer at BYC than anywhere else. I’m proud of that.”
She sniffed.
“Well, all I’m saying is that you were raised better than that.”
I could feel the fury rising up within me. My cheeks began to burn and the back of my neck felt hot and prickly.
“Honey, have you heard anything from Phillip? I was chatting with his mama on the Facebook the other day and she said he’s back in the States.”
I swallowed back my anger and shook my head.
“I haven’t, Mom. Phillip and I haven’t talked for over a year.”
She clucked her tongue. “I still think you had a great thing going with him, Rainey. He would have been a fantastic husband. And father.”
I inhaled slowly, trying to come up with something to say to that. Yes, Phillip might have been a good father and husband. He was certainly gorgeous—bred from some kind of male stock that made him both warm and friendly and funny and gorgeous. He was perfect—and when the Marine Corps came calling, we swore we’d find a way to stay together.
It took six months for it to start to fall apart. Six months of distance and the stress of basic training, then a deployment. It was far too much for our relationship to handle, but we managed to keep it together. For a while. When he came home on R&R, I picked a fight with him. He went out and drank too much. I went to find him and, instead, saw him hooking up with a girl outside of the bar.
My parents don’t know that Phillip cheated—they only know that we broke up and that, apparently, he’s back here after an eleven-month tour in the Middle East.
But before I could even manage to respond to my mother’s retort, my other sister, Mamie, leaned in toward the table, flipping her long blond hair over one shoulder. She’s the youngest and she falls into that proverbial slot with perfection.
“As much as I love talking all about Rainey all the time, could we please pause for a moment to discuss the fact that the Miss Northern Virginia pageant is in less than two months and my dress still isn’t properly fitted?”
In a normal world, the people around the table would look at Mamie with eyebrows raised. She might have even been chided for interrupting. But in my family? In my family, an improperly fitted formal dress receives gasps from the female members and concerned eyes from the male ones.
“I thought you called that seamstress in McLean,” Neely said, eyes wide. Mom was shaking her head, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, I can’t believe this is happening. I’ll have to call Helen Crawford. I think she knows a few of the judges.”
I let the conversation swirl around me and I finished eating my meal, trying to release the tension that had entered my entire body. This is the story of the Wallace girls—Neely is the future lawyer, Mamie will be Miss America someday, and me? Well, I’m the disappointment. The one wasting her time with helping children when she could be busy impressing powerful men and finding a husband.
The rest of the night, I managed to stay mum and let my sisters dominate the conversation. I also polished off a bottle of really expensive chardonnay on my dad’s dime. But after we said our good-byes with the obligatory cheek kisses, I’d hailed a cab and immediately texted Carson and our other BFF, Hyacinth.
I’m going out and I could use some backup.
Less than a minute later, two texts ping.
Carson: Where RU going? I’ll meet you.
Hyacinth: Smith’s working late and I was about to open a bottle of wine, but
going out sounds fun!
Which is how we ended up drinking and dancing at Cave, a sexy alterna-club in downtown Baltimore, until almost two in the morning. And how I ended up with fake lashes gluing my eye shut this morning. After dinner, I’d hurried home and switched out my sensible sweater set and demure makeup for leather-trimmed leggings and the glittery lashes I’d been saving for a special occasion. Last night seemed as good a reason as any, and they went with my dramatic cat-eye liner and bright red lipstick. Now, though, the rest of my face looks ravaged by said eyeliner and lipstick—not to mention the potential hickey on the right side of my neck.
I’m really getting too old for this shit.
I strip off my T-shirt and step into the almost-scalding hot water of the shower—the temperature is the perfect cross between feeling like I’m getting truly clean and “holy shit, my skin is burning off!” For a long moment, I let the water coast over my body as I think back to last night. The hickey had to come from somewhere, but I can’t for the life of me remember making out with anyone at the club. In some ways, I wish I could remember it. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten laid—even longer since I’ve gotten laid on the regular. There’s a big part of me that just needs to get off a little more frequently.
As I slide my soapy hands up through my hair and back down my front, I let my fingers linger on my breasts. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose. I try to remember the last time I felt filled with something like arousal. Something like passion. The truth is that the guys I’ve dated lately—even the ones who were halfway interesting—really never made me feel half as satisfied as a night with my vibrator has. When the men you’re seeing become second fiddle to your sex toys, it’s probably a problem.
Unfortunately, any temptation I have to rub one out in the shower has to be squashed. Sure, a good orgasm or two might tamp down the throbbing headache my hangover has taken the form of, but I need to be at work in a little more than an hour and if I have any hope of getting a cup of coffee beforehand, I need to cut to the chase. With a sigh, I shut the water off and wrap a towel around my body. Patting dry, I head back into the bedroom and dig a pair of jeans out of the hamper. Fortunately, I’ve got about a dozen BYC T-shirts and sweatshirts in various places in my room, so I pull on a yellow short-sleeved one with the bright red logo on the front, then snag a hoodie from the back of my door. I grab my makeup bag and make a beeline right for the Keurig.
Man, there is nothing in the world as good as that first cup of coffee in the morning. I mean, an orgasm would have kicked ass, too. But my French roast is pretty fucking stellar.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to peer at the screen. There are two texts from work, which I guess doesn’t surprise me. When my boss, Remy, was promoted, I took over a handful of responsibilities he hated. Morning texts like these—one about the pool water chlorine level and the other about time sheets—are exactly what he was hoping to avoid when he made me assistant director. I tap out a couple of responses and shove the phone back into my pocket.
My commute consists of a two-block walk and a three-mile bus ride. It’s not like I don’t have a car—I do. I just really, honestly like the bus. But no one—and I mean no one—likes that I take the city bus to work. Cyn has offered have her boyfriend, Smith, drive me to work in the mornings in his squad car—he’s a cop. Carson continues to try to drive me to work when she gets the opportunity, claiming that she doesn’t want to drive alone. The truth is that, ever since the Baltimore riots, no one likes that I spend so much time walking through not-so-nice parts of town. It isn’t the few blocks from my apartment to the station—it’s the five blocks from the drop-off point to the BYC.
Today, though, the ride is quiet and the walk to work is even quieter. It’s cold—unseasonably so for the fall—and the number of people who usually loiter in the mornings is far fewer than normal. I get to the front desk just before nine o’clock, but there’s no one sitting there. I frown, then glance past the desk through the window behind it. No one’s even in the office, either.
Shit, did I forget a staff meeting or something?
I pull my messenger bag over my head and tuck it under the back counter, then yank my still-damp curls up into a ponytail. I’ve still got a few fingers tangled in the hair elastic when I walk into the back office—and smack into a wall.
No, not a wall. A flesh-and-blood man.
I let my eyes travel up to the face of said man, and it’s completely foreign to me. The guy’s probably a few years older than me. He’s got hair the color of light brown sugar, but his eyes are closer to maple syrup. He’s handsome. Clean cut.
Man, if there’s a good-looking, clean-cut guy who is going to be working here now . . . well, that could be interesting.
And then he speaks.
“You’re late.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me? Do I know you?”
His lips lift on one side in an almost smile. A not-quite smile.
; “You don’t. But it doesn’t make you any less late.”
And with that, he slides past me and out the door.
Dude. Who the fuck was that?
Completely bewildered, I spin around and follow him into the gym—and stop in my tracks.
The whole day staff is sitting in rows of folding chairs under one of the basketball nets. I stand there for a second and just stare at them. I guess I did miss an announcement about a meeting. In front of the chairs, there are two men standing in suits, alongside my new friend, Clean Cut.
“Thank you, everyone, for joining us,” one of the men in suits says to the group. Quietly, I move to the closest chair and drop into it.
“This meeting wasn’t originally planned for today, so I appreciate everyone making time in their schedule,” the man continues. “Some of you may recognize me, but for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Burt Kensington, the program coordinator for Baltimore City.”
Oh, right—I remember him now. I’d only met him once, when I interviewed for my position. My boss, Remy, had introduced us.
Speaking of which . . .
I glance at the people seated around me—all of the day staff is here except Remy. As his second-in-command, I always know when he’s out for the day. I glance down at my phone. No texts. That’s so weird . . .
“There have been some changes at the city level,” Mr. Kensington is saying. He nods at the other two men standing with him. “That’s why we’re all here today.”
I start feeling sort of queasy—and not in a hungover sort of way. In a “something bad’s about to happen” sort of way.
“Much of our supervisory staff has been switched around to new locations. As of this morning, Remington House, your former supervisor, has been moved to the senior center in Towson.”
There’s a clear reaction to this. We all love Remy. More importantly, the kids love Remy. They’re going to be devastated to learn he’s gone.
