Unwritten

by Alex Rosa

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Unwritten

  © 2020 by Alex Rosa

  Editing by Laura Perry

  Proofreading: My Brother’s Editor

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. License Notes

  ASIN: B08C9B7N8K

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  Home sweet home… yeah, right.

  I press my lips into a hard line and twirl my keys around my index finger as I examine the pristine condition of my childhood home, keeping a safe distance out on the dirt driveway. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this much guilt. As I stare at the two-story cabin, I can sense the brick wall that I’ve built around myself over the years slowly start to falter.

  I’d told myself I’d be strong settling my mother’s estate, but staring at the lines of craftsmanship on the wooden details of the house hand-carved by my dad and remembering the days painting the teal-colored shutters that frame every large window with my mom makes me wilt. Every memory makes the hollowness inside me grow, until I don’t feel like a person anymore. Just a floating form of guilt, ready to blow away in the mountain fog.

  When my father died seven years ago, I at least got to say goodbye. Terminal cancer gave us months to prepare—which at the time I had thought cruel—but my mother died without warning. A heart attack.

  The only thing that brings the slightest relief is the soothing scent of the pine forest surrounding the house—they don’t call my hometown PineCrest, Colorado for nothing. That smell has healed me more times in my life than I can count.

  I pull in a deep breath and let the mountain breeze roil over my cheeks.

  But no amount of pines could cover the fact that my mother isn’t going to greet me on the veranda. I wonder if she held it against me that I never came home even once after I bailed on this town for Los Angeles. My eyes drop to the ground.

  What kind of daughter am I? Maybe I didn’t deserve to see my mother one last time.

  I peek up at the house, knowing that my heart never left—here, or this damned town. I’d never admit it out loud, but I couldn’t deny it either. Not even to myself.

  The corner of my mouth twitches; writing about this place was easy. A storybook cabin tucked away in the woods. I couldn’t have picked a better setting for my first novel. Who needs an imagination when this place exists?

  I tug my phone out of my pocket as a new worry shoves its way to the forefront of my brain. I check to see if Janet, my literary agent—and also my best friend in LA—has tried to get in touch with me. She’s always supportive, but just like any job, she has deadlines to keep—my deadlines.

  How am I supposed to come here and mourn my mother, take care of what once was her entire life, and write another book all at the same time? As if writing the follow-up to an international bestselling debut novel wasn’t enough pressure. I gulp, realizing that writing book two here in PineCrest is either brilliant or the worst idea I’ve ever had.

  One thing at a time, Hailey.

  I shake my dirty blonde hair out of my face and stuff my phone back in my pocket. Right now, I have to focus on the issue in front of me. Entering the house.

  Gravel crunches under my feet as I take my first steps toward the sweeping porch.

  I squint through the bright rays of midday sunshine, trying to find a glitch in the home, but find none. How did my mother keep up with the constant, diligent care that the house always seemed to need?

  Suddenly, I’m blinking back tears, knowing that I didn’t have a hand in any of it.

  Deep breaths.

  Now that my mom is gone, I’ll never get to ask all my unanswered questions, or have the chance to talk about my broken heart, or why I left and never looked back. I’ll never get to admit it was all because of fear.

  Her death also means I can’t run away from my problems anymore. So here I am. And at twenty-three, it’s time I make a change. I need closure.

  My heart thumps in protest. “It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper, “Just stay strong and don’t fail me.” Her flailing beats are known to tangle themselves around lots of things, but especially stupid boys with electric green eyes. I worry that having to write about them was enough stress, but seeing them again might damn near send her into a panic attack.

  Remember, one problem at a time… focus.

  The wooden porch boards creak as I walk over them. I tighten my grip on my keys and repeat the motion I had made hundreds of times as I approach the door.

  Meow.

  Spooked and confused by the unfamiliar cry, I spin around looking for a furry four-legged creature, but find none. We used to have a dog. However, Sidney, our Belgian Shepherd, died of old age many years ago before I left. But a cat? We never had a cat.

  Cautiously, I walk around the corner of the porch. My stomach knots seeing the worn wicker furniture lining the wall, along with my mother’s easel, dusty and cobwebbed, leaning against the side door. No cat. Although, I smell something peculiar melding with the pine.

  I wrinkle my nose as my eyes fall upon a food dish sitting on the white wooden railing of the porch. Huh.

  The cat food is still wet, as if it’s only been here a couple hours. How odd. Who put this here? I never considered my mom the cat-lady type, but maybe it got lonely in this large house. The nearest neighbor is almost a mile away. Actually, it’s exactly .7 miles. I’d known the exact distance by age twelve, because my best friend lived there.

  My chest tightens. Nope. I will not think of him right now. I thought enough about him on the flight.

  I make my way to the front door. My hand jiggles the key to the right twice in the lock, knowing this old door has a trick to it—I can’t help a small, gloating smirk when it works. The monstrosity of a house swells with the summer humidity; the door wedges open with a squeak, and I’m overwhelmed by the nostalgic scent, much more intense than the familiar pines outside. I bask in the fact that the wallpaper has absorbed the smell of fresh apple pie and my mother’s floral perfume.

  A tremor shivers through my heart as it hits me that my mother will not be exiting the kitchen to hug me, to tease me, to tell me I need to eat more
. She won’t poke my bum and apologize for not gifting me with her shapely figure. I picture her wide smile and the dainty shoulders that contradicted her large hips. She had a smile I envied ever since I was a little girl. When she smiled, you felt it.

  I stare down the hall as the ghosts of memories float away and I’m left with nothing but silence.

  My eyes slip shut. I knew this was going to be hard. Hell, I’ve been making mental lists of what to be prepared for since packing for my flight from LA to Denver. I went over them continuously during the three-hour rental car drive from Denver to PineCrest.

  Home. Or at least it used to be.

  I drag my fingers over the edge of the couch in the living room, my fingertips loving the feeling of the ivory crocheted throw over the back of it. I glance at the picture frames on the shelf depicting years of family vacations, the vase with fake orchids on the mantel, the overly detailed wrought-iron screen covering the fireplace in the corner, even the untouched piano against the window. Everything is so achingly familiar.

  I try not to panic.

  How long would I have to stay until I sorted things out? I hadn’t been able to write in LA; the guilt had rendered me useless. But how will I get anything done here if I can barely breathe with all these claustrophobic memories?

  The sound of wheels scraping against gravel makes my heart leap into my throat. Who the hell is that?

  I jump next to the curtain, but then don’t dare to peek outside. Am I actually hiding? I listen: a loud, rumbling engine cuts off. A car door moans open. “Oh, Baby Biiirrrddd… is that your fancy Land Rover in the driveway?” echoes from the front yard.

  My heart releases its vise grip on my ribs. Only one person would ever call me Baby Bird, and that’s Brandon Watkins.

  There are only a few faces I wouldn’t fear at this juncture, and he’s is one of them.

  I sprint out the front door and then try to take the porch steps more calmly, but my foot slips on the worn wood, and I stumble. I’m caught before I face-plant into the gravel.

  The warm, woody laughter that barrels into my ears is nothing of what I remember of squirrelly Brandon Watkins, who’d pick a fight with just about anyone if they looked at him wrong just to prove that he could.

  My eyes don’t have enough time to catch up as they collide with a man I feel like I don’t know. His arms come around my shoulders, standing me up straight with ease. If it weren’t for his peculiar bluish-brown eyes, or the nickname, I’d have no idea who this is.

  “Holy shit, Brandon!” slips through my lips. No matter how weirdly grown-up he looks, I’m comforted by the memory of him being one of only two boys who ever allowed me to be my tomboy-ish self.

  I jab both of my fists playfully into his chest, encountering muscle. Wide-eyed, I do it again to confirm the firmness, taking the rest of him in. His shaggy reddish-brown hair is slicked back, and the short, fashionable mustache and chin scruff throw me for a loop, too.

  “Brandon Watkins, are you in there?” I squint. Tattoos peek out from the long sleeves of his gray Henley. “You’re all grown up! I barely recognize you!” When did he get so tall and… manly? This is weird. I try to hide a giggle.

  “You still punch like a girl, Hailey.” He looks me over, letting out a whistle. “And holy shit, yourself. Wait until—” He stops, as if quickly remembering tact. “—wait until CeeCee sees you.”

  My jaw locks in annoyance. I know what he was going to say. More like who he was going to say. “CeeCee, ay?”

  The grin that spreads across his face melts the bit of protective ice encasing my heart. “Yeah, CeeCee. She can’t believe you’re back in town. None of us can. She works at the diner now.”

  My brows shoot up. “She does?” How did my mother not tell me this during our bi-weekly calls? Oh yeah, I never let us talk about home.

  “She’s the manager there, actually.”

  I release a long exhale. “Is it weird that home feels like the twilight zone?”

  “Nah, it’s all the mountain fog,” he tries to joke before stuffing his hands in his pockets, sympathy washing over his face. “I’m sorry about your mom, by the way. I’m glad you’re here, but I wish it wasn’t under such shitty circumstances.”

  My shoulders slump, and he doesn’t second-guess his next move, throwing his arms around me in a tight hug. He’s been here five minutes, and everything already feels a tiny bit better. “I missed you, Brandon.”

  “I’d tell you that I’ve had a phone all this time, but I’ll save the guilt trip you deserve for later. I’m just glad to see you here. Your mom was loved by this town, and even if you were gone, you were always the talk of it. Your mom wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  I squeeze him tighter. “Are you sure nobody hates me?”

  He releases me and sets me back on my feet. “CeeCee might throw a fit at first, but don’t let her fool you. She misses you like hell.”

  I tug at a wavy strand of my hair, twirling it around my fingertip. “We’d kept in touch for a while, but things died off between us. If I remember correctly, it was also because …” My stare collides with Brandon’s wide-eyed recognition.

  “Oh, uh. Me and CeeCee didn’t work out. We are… friendly with one another, now.”

  I shake my head. “I figured you two would make it since you couldn’t keep your hands off each other since middle school.”

  He laughs, rubbing at his chin. “Who knew you’d get me to blush. If you must know, she dumped me, but it’s for the best. I get in trouble when it comes to the women of this town.”

  I roll my eyes, throwing another goading jab at his arm. “I bet you do.”

  “Shut up.” He jabs me back. “Maybe I’m here to tell you the real version of life in PineCrest before you get to face everyone. Save you from the gossip and horror.”

  I release a loud laugh, and it feels instantly good. I decide in that exact moment that laughter will be my goal when it comes to everything here.

  “So, Baby Bird. What’s your plan?”

  “Plan? I wish I had a plan.”

  “Well for starters, there’s the county fair. The memorial for your mom.”

  “What?” I gasp, rubbing my temples. I hate that my stress levels spike so easily.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I just arrived.” I choke back a breath. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t realize how hard it would be, coming home.”

  He nods. “It’s weird for all of us, but know everyone can’t wait to see you.”

  I try to keep cool as my heartbeat picks up speed. “Who’s everyone?”

  He squints curiously. “Are you just going to come out with it and ask about Caiden?”

  My heart jolts from hearing his name. “Forget I asked.”

  “Bullshit.” He laughs. “You both kill me.”

  What does he mean by that? I chew my lip, desperate to ask more questions, but I know they would give me away.

  He laughs again, louder than before. “He’s doing good, by the way—”

  I raise my hands, halting his words. “Spare me, Brandon. I don’t want to hear about Caiden.”

  “It’s all over your face that you want to know.”

  “Let’s change topics.”

  He looks like he has more to say as he bobs on the heels of his thick black boots. The squirrelly look in his eye makes me think he’s teasing me.

  “Fine, have it your way. We have more important catching up to do. I mean, let’s not forget you’re famous now.”

  “I’m not famous.”

  “Oh, yes you are. You’re the talk of the town, as always. Big author. Movie deal. You’re the most famous person to ever come out of PineCrest.”

  My face heat as I ask the dreaded question I’ve been wanting to ask. “You wouldn’t happen to have read the book, have you?”

  He pinks slightly, and it doesn’t suit his burly build at all. “Uh. I mean, I love ya and all, Hail, but—”

  “No-no, it’s fine. I’m glad. It’
s better that way.”

  “You’re not offended?”

  I shake my head. “The fewer people who’ve read it in this town, the better.”

  His eyes tick with a sense of recognition I don’t understand.

  “What’s that look for?”

  He smiles, and I like the fact that his smile is still the dopey one I remember from our youth. He may be a man now, but he’s still Brandon underneath it all, and it’s a relief. “Don’t worry about it. So, back to your plan…”

  I look back at the house and huff. “Going back in there isn’t exactly appealing at the moment.”

  “How about you treat me to a cup of coffee and a piece of your mom’s famous apple pie?”

  I try not to laugh. “I’m treating you to coffee and pie? How does that work?”

  “Oh, that’s because you own a diner, remember? Elwood’s is all yours.”

  “Right.” A shaky smile curves over my lips.

  “Don’t look so terrified. Plus, we need to discuss when you’re going to be inviting your hot friends from LA to our humble town.” He winks as he leads me to his black Ford F-150.

  I expel a skirting laugh, running my fingers through my windblown hair. “Writers don’t have many friends.”

  “What a shame. How about we go reintroduce you to some old ones?”

  I freeze mid-climb into his lifted truck.

  Chortles of laughter escape him. “Don’t worry, Caiden is hiding from you. But you, Hails, I’ve never known you to shy away from a challenge.”

  I finish my climb as Brandon slides into the driver’s seat with ease. “You have way too much faith in me.”

  “Nonsense, Baby Bird. You’ve got your wings now.”

  I don’t even attempt to hide my smile.

  Chapter Two

  When the truck pulls into the parking lot of Elwood’s, my insides won’t stop squirming.

  Brandon is already flying out the driver’s side door. I follow his lead, slipping out of his truck. My feet make hard contact on the asphalt, and I can’t stop staring at the glowing sign that looms above the homely building. It’s just as I remember it. Like my home, it’s exactly how I left it five years ago. My eyes drag over the neon glow of cursive that forms not only the name of this establishment, but also my last name—it all begins to feel like a time warp.