SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION

by ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA®

  His fingers tightened on her arm briefly, but he stayed silent and she wondered if their window had passed. If they were only reconnecting for the night before moving onto the next job.

  Several minutes passed before he finally spoke. “I think I scared myself there at the end. Do you know how intimidating you are? You’ve got all those degrees tacked onto the end of your name, and you have that natural born intuition that makes you a hell of a partner. We were great together, but I was always afraid that you’d see me fail and that I couldn’t live up to the kind of man you deserved.”

  “Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she said, lifting her head so she could look him in the eyes. “I wouldn’t have stayed with you if I hadn’t wanted to be there. But what I wanted didn’t seem to be the same thing you wanted.”

  His look was serious as he slid a piece of her hair behind her ear. “And what was it you wanted that I couldn’t give you?”

  “Not that you couldn’t give me,” she corrected. “But I wanted all of you. I wanted to know that what we had was it. That our future would be together, no matter what.”

  “You wanted marriage?”

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “But I wanted commitment. I needed the words. And I needed to know that our futures weren’t going to be a shallow grave in some foreign country and that we’d leave our children as orphans for someone else to raise.”

  “You wanted children?” he asked, his face going pale.

  Miranda shook her head and closed her eyes, wondering why she’d decided it was important to communicate at this moment.

  “No, never mind,” she said, resting her head against his arm again, her body stiff.

  “No, Miranda,” he said, putting a finger beneath her chin and lifting it so her eyes met his. “Don’t stop now. I want to know. I never thought you wanted those things. You always seemed so focused on your career and the writing you were able to do after our finds. I never wanted to take that away from you. To make you feel like I’d try to keep you from your dreams because I wanted marriage and family.”

  Her body relaxed into his and they lay in silence for several minutes, each in deep thought.

  “So where do we go from here?” she finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m on vacation. I don’t suppose you need any help finding the Fountain of Youth?”

  Miranda grinned and continued the exploration of his body with her hand, and then she rolled on top of him and looked into his eyes as he slid deep inside of her.

  “I thought you told Damian you were ready to retire?” she teased.

  “How about I semi-retire?”

  “Semi-retire?” Her gaze flitted back and forth between his expression and what he was doing with his hands.

  “You know, avoid the dangerous jobs. More of a consulting partner.”

  “As it turns out, I could use a good partner,” she said.

  He grabbed her hips and then rolled them, so he lay on top of her, and she gasped as he hit somewhere magical inside her.

  “A good partner?” he said.

  “Great,” she gasped as he started to move. “I meant great partner.”

  “That’s better,” he said, silencing her moan with his mouth and riding them both to ecstasy. “Much better.”

  Liliana Hart is a New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly best-selling author of more than fifty titles. After starting her first novel her freshman year of college, she immediately became addicted to writing and knew she’d found what she was meant to do with her life. She has no idea why she majored in music. Liliana can almost always be found at her computer writing, working on various projects with her own real-life hero, spending time with her children, or traveling all over the world.

  “I DON’T THINK THE fetal pig was gonna have such a great life, hon.” Jerome glanced at his battered watch. Time to go.

  Keisha side-eyed him and shifted her backpack from right to left shoulder. She’d turned thirteen in October, so she knew everything now. “It’s barbaric.”

  Kids streamed into Walton Academy around them. A couple nodded or waved, other black kids mostly. He knew that tuition and tradition put private schools out of reach for a lot of New Yorkers who weren’t from rich, white families. Being a private school black kid made for some weird dissonance. He knew that from personal experience.

  Knife-slim in her red coat, Keisha crossed her arms. “Mom wouldn’t have made me cut up some pig.” Now she was stalling for guilt and rewards. She was right, though. If her mother had been there, some savory bait would have been dangled to get their daughter into the building before homeroom started. They both knew it. Fetal pig or not.

  But her mother had been gone for almost three years, sick for two before that.

  Keisha glared at him.

  Powerless, Jerome shook his head and frowned at the sidewalk. Even from the grave, his wife had the last word. Olivia had always been better at negotiation.

  “Then skip school, Keesh. You’ve got rehearsals anyway. Your call.” His hands shook ‘til he hid them in his pockets. “Fine by me.” A lie and they both knew it.

  She stilled, one eyebrow up. She didn’t get many days off during the holidays. In general, October through December meant racing from Brooklyn Heights to school in the Village, then up to Lincoln Center so she could spend her downtime as a very acrobatic mouse in The Nutcracker.

  “The fetal pig won’t know the difference. You can always come to work with—”

  She rolled her eyes at the idea of spending the day at the gym.

  “—me.”

  “Dad. You’re nasty.” Just like that she was gone, floating through the crush at the door. When had she gotten so tall?

  He blinked and called after her slim form, “I’ll be here at three to run you to rehearsals.” But she’d vanished through the doors.

  The river of students began to thin out now, stragglers racing to beat the bell.

  As he walked upstream, a glance at his watch told him he had time for the gym. He could make it to Wall Street to hit his back and legs before his first client. His life in four words: medical school, personal trainer. He wondered about that other life, the one where he’d returned to his residency and become a dermatologist, where his folks still respected him.

  No point regretting. He knew better: second chances were sucker bait.

  A chill wind picked up. Snow tomorrow. New York’s weather had gone bananas these past few years: hurricanes and flash floods.

  If Olivia hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have been standing there in front of Walton in the cold. If Olivia hadn’t died, he’d have been home washing up the breakfast dishes while she ran to her agent’s office. If Olivia hadn’t died, his daughter would have laughed and high-fived him before she’d left the house to ace biology and dance the lead, instead of a mouse.

  “Jug?” A deep voice called out to him, one he knew better than his own.

  Jerome froze.

  “Is that you?”

  Sure enough, there he stood, seventeen years later and more handsome than ever, Wendell Stuart Farley, Wince to his friends, and Jerome’s closest ally for most of the years that mattered. Pinked by the cold air and wearing a faded tee under a brown leather jacket. Same wavy hair that always needed a cut, same crooked grin, and square chin. Rough around the edges and squinting at the madhouse, same as ever. His partner in crime, once upon a while ago.

  Jerome made himself smile in reply. A knot in his gut and tension rippled through him like a rock tossed into a pond. Not today, Satan.

  Wince uncrossed his arms and took a hesitant step toward him, ignoring the kids surging toward the doors. He wasn’t the same lanky boy he’d been. His chest stretched the faded shirt and laugh lines framed his eyes. Gray in the dirty blond now. He’d gotten as muscular as Jerome. We’re men now. “Man, you look fuc
king great.”

  Jerome nodded, numb. “Thanks. You, umm … You do too.” He could feel himself overreacting like a freak. Right in public, in front of all these parents and kids. Once burned.

  “Fifteen goddamn years.” Wince didn’t act awkward or hesitant.

  Jerome nodded again, robotic. Seventeen. A rushing in his head. Time travel sucked, except he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was right where Wince had left him. Thank Christ, Keisha was already inside facing her pig.

  “Long time.” Jerome smiled, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. They hadn’t seen each other since that night in the emergency room.

  For one second, he imagined the road not taken. That the past seventeen years had been a weird hallucination. That he’d never given up medicine or fought his folks or gotten married or had a daughter. At the thought of Keisha, he paused; she was worth everything. Plenty of stupidity in his past, but his family was the one good thing. Coming up on three years since Olivia’s funeral and he still missed her laugh and sass.

  Wince gripped his arm casually, an old gesture. “You look good, man.”

  “Thanks.” Jerome had always been vain about his skin, but some guilty part of him knew that Wince had a thing about his darkness and so, even at fifteen, he’d done everything in his power to amp what the Good Lord gave him. To this day, he baked in the sun whenever he could steal the time. His wife had made him lotion up so he wouldn’t get ashy; on lighter skin it wasn’t noticeable, but black as he was, it was part of his daily ritual.

  Wince rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet, as if he might jump into the sky. “Great to see you, man. Wow. Fuck. I just moved back into the city last summer. I had no idea you still lived here. I had no idea you had kids.”

  “Just one.” Jerome sighed. Of all places, this had to be where Wince snuck back into his life and screwed him up again. “Kid, singular.”

  “Same. For my sins.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Flip, c’mere. Come back.” A nervous glance. “He hates being late.” Wince must’ve gotten married, too. Only natural. It had been a long time.

  “Dad, c’mon.” Sure enough, a boy turned at the front door of the school and jogged right at them, slamming into Wince’s leg. “I gotta go.” A mini-Wince stood at his hip: jackass grin, dirty blond hair, even the same damn cowlick. All of nine years old. The boy looked up at Jerome warily, maybe at his size, maybe his blue-black skin, maybe sensing the panic Jerome was suppressing. “Hey.”

  “Flip, I want you to meet my friend.” Wince ruffled the boy’s shaggy gold hair. “This is Jerome.”

  “Hi.” Flip gave a quick grin. “Hello.” The homeroom bell rang somewhere inside, distant and mechanical. The last stragglers dashed past them for the door.

  “You gotta go.” Wince crouched in front of the boy. “What are we doing today?” He held up his hand.

  High-five from his son. “Kicking ass, taking names.” He even sounded like Wince at that age. The resemblance was truly freaky. Flip bolted inside while his dad waved behind him. Parenthood.

  Wince had a kid, too. And a wife. And a life that went on beyond the emergency room at seventeen years old. Why not? They’d both grown up and lived their lives.

  Of all the times he’d imagined this meeting, all the scenarios he’d cooked up and confrontations he’d scripted, this had to be the worst place and time possible.

  Jerome wanted to flee. He already felt like an invader here; the last thing he needed was humiliation in front of his daughter’s fancy school and all these nosy, white parents.

  How on earth could Wince afford the tuition?

  As it was, Olivia’s insurance account had dwindled, and he’d started thinking about moving into a smaller place to keep Keisha going to school with her friends. She didn’t mind being one of eleven black kids in a class of ninety. She didn’t mind that they commuted two miles from Brooklyn or lived in comparative poverty when her friends spent spring break in Bermuda. She was proud and fearless, like her mother. He refused to go to his folks; he’d find a way.

  “Here we are, huh? Respectable and everything. Twenty years later.”

  Jerome shrugged. Seventeen, but who was counting?

  “Man.” Wince smiled again. “I guess I coulda called. Later on, maybe.”

  Jerome scowled. No. “Calling would’ve been weird.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. It would. I still should’ve. Or written when it was safe. Your parents made it real clear.” Another wary pause between them. “You look great, man. I swear you got blacker. And bigger, I think. You’re so jacked.” He thumped Jerome’s shoulders and squeezed.

  “I do. I’m a …” Awkward. “I train people. At a gym. I’m a personal trainer.”

  “Oh.” Doubly awkward. “I figured you’d be a doctor by now.”

  “I am. I was.” Jerome studied the concrete. “Life got complicated.”

  Wince blinked at him. “Truth.” He wasn’t leaving.

  He could almost hear Olivia urging him to Talk to the man, Jerome. “My parents had some problems when I was doing my residency, and I came home to help and I dunno … I never …”

  Shrug, as if Wince wanted to put him at ease. “Well, you look amazing.” He crossed his arms. “I need pointers. Hey, you wanna grab some coffee?”

  Yes. Jerome shook his head, wondering what Mrs. Wince might be like, and then wishing he hadn’t wondered. No reason to mention Olivia’s passing. He wasn’t hiding behind his wife’s memory, was he? Ugh. “I’m gonna be late.” He has a kid.

  “Train?”

  “The R.”

  “I’ll walk you.” Wince herded him toward the corner, not actually bumping into him but steering him with his presence the way he had since they were in high school. He even walked with the same loose, dorky shuffle. Time travel again. They could have been headed to the library or to the principal’s office.

  “Thanks.” Uneasy, Jerome tried to get Wince back on track. He just needed to survive another five minutes, and they’d be done and over and nice to know you. “What about you?”

  “Eesh.” Wince grimaced at the winter clouds and hunched forward as he walked, like the memory was too heavy to carry. “Yeah. Well, after I got expelled … so, juvie for a stretch. You knew that. After the wreck. Then a little prison for flavor. Got out, ditched my folks, and knocked around. A lotta drugs, because … reasons. I dunno. It was there. A couple of shitty tattoos I don’t remember getting. Then by accident, I fell into music. Bands, y’know.”

  “You were in a band?”

  “No! Well, I was, but mainly as scenery. Downtown Clowns. Pretty boy pop punk. I pretended to play guitar mostly. They wanted someone to freak the crowd and set fire to their pubes. You know me: professional troublemaker. That I’m good for. Right?”

  Jerome chuckled. “And you applied.”

  “Bullshit. I was recruited.” Wince smiled, big and bright, like they were still kids sneaking out to drink on the roof of his apartment building.

  Back in school, how many times had he asked Jerome, What the hell am I good for?

  Me. You’re good for me.

  Wince faced him again and sighed. “Oh man. Fun gig. All that tail. Money eventually. Record label kept me out of court.”

  They reached the corner and started snaking across a wide-open farmer’s market sprawled across a church plaza. In three minutes, he’d be safe. “I can’t believe you were in a band. White boy rhythm and all.”

  “Hand to God. And then we found a real guitarist, and I sort of tagged along for kicks until our manager quit and I took over.”

  Jerome choke-laughed. “Wait, what? You managed something? A band?” No way in hell.

  “You could call it that. It just sorta happened.” Wince pushed his hand into his thick hair and scratched his scalp. “Made sure we got paid. Set up the venues. Fought with the label once we got s
igned. Kept the other guys clean-ish. Off hard stuff anyway. They figured I was crazy so they, I dunno, listened.”

  They snaked past stalls piled with bread and onions and fresh honey until they reached Union Square. “Never in a million years …”

  “I know, right? But after my folks, what did I care? Nothing scared me. Nothing grossed me out. Turns out I’m a perfect stiff for pop bands. Now the label sends me out to break new talent. I’m respectable, Jug.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Tell me.” Wink. “But it pays great. How the hell else am I paying for private school in Manhattan?”

  Right. “That’s amazing. You finally figured out what you were good for.”

  You’re good for me.

  Wince smiled again, and for ten seconds they were boys sitting on a window ledge, a hundred feet above the city, sorting out their escape plan.

  Jerome could see Union Square up ahead and the entrance to the R train. Fright or flight, mofo. He wanted to run away, and he wanted to let Wince kidnap him.

  “Here’s you.” Wince paused at the top of the subway stairs. His dirty gold hair gleaming in the cold sunlight, his joker’s grin teasing at the question that neither of them had the stones to ask.

  Do you remember the two of us?

  Jerome held out a shaky hand to shake.

  Wince took it, but then pulled him into a quick hug, pressing their chests together for two impossible seconds. One breath, two breaths. And he still smelled great and felt better. And for two seconds, they were seventeen and anything was possible.

  Once burned.

  Wince muttered against his chest. “So great to see you, Jug.” And then he was gone, walking away before Jerome could respond or wipe his eyes.