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

  One Day After Never

  Book 1 in the Second Time’s the Charm Series

  by

  Whitney Walker

  One Day After Never

  Book One of the Second Time’s the Charm Series

  Copyright © 2019 by Whitney Walker

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. If you would like to use material from this book, prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for the support of the author’s rights.

  Published by Serendipity Stories

  Whitney Walker

  www.whitneywalkerwriting.com

  Cover design by IF DESIGN | Ida Fia Sveningsson

  Edited by Ella Medler | https://ellamedlerediting.yolasite.com/

  One Day After Never is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. The author’s use of the names of real places, events, or public figures are not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work. In all other respects any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-7341895-0-6

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7341895-1-3

  Dear Reader –

  Thank you for sharing in the journey of Peyton and J.T. gracing these pages! I’ve known the twenty-four characters in the Second Time’s the Charm series for five years as they came to life in my head, and I can’t wait for you to meet them! I wrote in five different countries, countless coffee shops, the hair salon, and several doctors’ offices. Mostly, my writing was squeezed into fifteen-minute increments of time from which I could barely tear myself away to do real-life. None of my female characters are morning people, because how I could write something I don’t understand in the least? Nonetheless, because of you I’ve been writing at 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. as long as I can remember! You are worth skipping the snooze!

  I owe this to all of my tribe who have lifted me up, cheered me on, listened, and shared my life. I’m all of the characters and so are those who have made me who I am. It’s my give-back to anyone who might need to get lost for a while in a story, a change in perspective, the guts to take a risk, or to realize they are exactly where they belong.

  Why did I write this book? I had no choice.

  I was trying to stay sane (relatively speaking, of course, since I am still an aspiring unicorn). One day, people began talking in my head and movie scenes were playing. I literally couldn’t focus on anything else, like people. My job. Everyday responsibilities. Sleep. Driving (think 2014 before your phone and car understood your voice!) I typed on my phone at every red light. No crashes. Plenty of honks while I finished a sentence. Or three. I literally ran from a couple of yoga classes to grab paper and start writing down the words. One story became two. Two became four as my own story has unfolded.

  This book is for you if...

  You’ve ever dreamed of a second chance or a do-over. If you have ever learned a hard lesson and wished you could share what you learned so just one other person wouldn’t feel alone. And, of course, this book is for you if you are an unapologetic, hopeless romantic and believe that true love always deserves a fighting chance!

  If you love the book…I’d be forever grateful for a positive review! And I’d love you to join the amazing women in our tribe! Subscribe at https://www.whitneywalkerwriting.com/ and you will be invited to join our Facebook group. You will also be in the know for new release details, receive exclusive content and have the chance to win merch! I am happy to sign books or do a video chat with your book club. Contact me at [email protected].

  If you didn’t…tell me why at [email protected]. I’d love to know how to keep making better books. And I’d greatly appreciate if you remember Mom’s rule if you have nothing nice to say when it comes to a review.

  Until next time –

  Fight for Love!

  XO Whitney

  With gratitude to my beautiful, inspirational co-conspirators who’ve taught me everything I know.

  And to…

  Liz G. – for helping me realize I was in good company on the bathroom floor, what life could be after I picked myself up, and the community service project that followed.

  Gabby B - for the gift of knowing there is no more valiant pursuit than fighting for love over fear.

  Joe – for a years’ worth of asking for a chapter that had yet to be written.

  Anya & Laura – for believing in the dream written on the napkin.

  Amy M. – for little hearts in the margins from the very first chapter.

  Amy D. – for the gifts of just the right books at just the right time.

  Tina – for your “quotables” and being the cheeriest cheerleader a girl could ever ask for.

  George – for defining true love, letting it unfold, and giving me the safest place I’ve ever known in your arms.

  …and of course, my dad. Your belief in me has kept me going as long as I can remember. And to the woman who started it all, because she said I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up and she was always right. Thanks, Mom.

  …and to my two beautiful babies, everything I do, I do for you.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 2 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 3 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 4 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 5 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 6 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 7 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 8 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 9 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 10 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 11 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 12 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 13 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 14 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 15 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 16 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 17 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 18 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 19 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 20 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 21 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 22 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 23 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 24 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 25 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 26 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 27 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 28 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 29 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 30 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 31 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 32 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 33 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 34 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 35 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 36 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 37 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 39 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 39 | J.T.

  CHAPTER 40 | Peyton

  CHAPTER 42 | Peyton

  Hi, it’s Peyton

  Afterword

  About the Author

  NOVEMBER 6th

  CHAPTER 1 | Peyton

  S unshine and snow, 90210 glitz and glamour, and a new dream to chase were all good reasons to leave my hometown 313 for the 405 of Los Angeles. I was sure I was trading up and Detroit couldn’t compete. Everything I had known to age twenty-one had ended when I boarded that plane. I never planned to return. Even though the captain of our airplane had just welcomed us to Detroit, I don’t feel welcome here. The only thing that could bring me back is another ending. With it, I’m forced to endure another beginning. As an orphan. I suppose this is a little overdramatic, sinc
e I am an adult after all, but blame the three years and four months I’ve spent in L.A. where having a flair for over the top reigns supreme.

  The frosted glass doors to baggage claim slide quietly, curtains opening to reveal characters in a first act. The scene features the crowd of people waiting to greet incoming passengers, my mind comprising their backstories. There is, of course, a man with a plastic-sleeved single rose, looking anxious. He is probably hoping the real version of the digital woman he has gotten to know matches the image conjured up in his head. Could she be the one?

  Then, a formerly good-looking, now unshaven and dark-circle-eyed dad is smoothing the hair of two toddler girls, a mostly matched set of twins. The blond curls of each girl are fastened with a little pink bow on the right side, an impressive accouterment. I guess he hopes to impress their mother, returning home from her first weekend away without them. They each have a red balloon tied to their wrist with white ribbon, but they are a bit deflated. It’s likely that is how he feels since he didn’t quite get to shaving, but the brownie points for the barrettes and balloons should outweigh. I bet he can’t wait to tag out! Maybe her life will change with his newfound appreciation for all she does.

  A middle-aged woman, left hand locked in solidarity with the man next to her, holds a sign in her right hand featuring a picture of a young man in camouflage. The poster headline reads ‘God Bless the U.S.A. & God Bless Sam.’ I wonder if his name predicted his destiny. His life is on that sign. He looks strong and handsome, as expected, has a dog and a motorcycle from the pictures that are there to greet him. He also has a new baby. Next to the couple stands a young woman with an infant in her arms. I guess it’s a boy but it’s hard to tell in the red, white, and blue starred and striped one-piece outfit. Hopefully, Sam doesn’t need to be reminded of what is here for him. Silently, I say a little prayer that the Sam they know is coming back, beginning his life as a father. New babies and new mothers shouldn’t have to contend with new wounds. Old wounds are enough for any couple.

  An elderly woman with a cane squeezes between me and the woman next to me, who has also stopped to observe the crowd. She hobbles with a hurried step toward a dingy blue jean overall-clad, gray-haired man as he moves forward toward her. Her cane clatters to the floor and he swoops her up in an embrace of young, new love. They are lost in an infinitude of moments, he cradling her as his most prized possession, gently but firmly, burying his head into her neck, taking her in. They hold each other close while the world goes on around them, claiming space in their own little one.

  I contemplate all the love in this tiny area of reunion and introduction. Whether old love or new, romantic or familial, just waiting for reciprocation. This scene depicts what each one of us wants and needs. Someone waiting for you, as if you are the most important person in their world and they are grateful for your arrival. I fear that love may never show up for me with a sign, a hug, or a kiss.

  I make my way to the luggage carousel just as the black rubber jerks to life with a protesting groan. The first generic black suitcase drops down the ramp with a resounding thud. Each bag crests over the top and makes its way around the belt until greedy hands sweep it away. I am thankful mine is among the last to make its way out—more time to avoid facing my new beginning.

  Crossing the threshold of the funeral home, I am greeted by a signboard in the center of the walkway. It’s rather undignified. All the days of one’s life are summed up in white plastic letters pushed into the lines of the black signboard, cocked slightly left on a tarnished metal stand. I feel the need to straighten it as I walk past. My fingers trace the letters forming her name, Caroline Rhodes Jennings. I pull my hand away before I get to Parlor 1, with the arrow pointing right. My mother doesn’t even have her own sign. Gertrude Ross, Parlor 2, is listed below. Gertrude is the name of someone who has lived fully, not the name of a young woman.

  The sign might as well say WELCOME, ORPHAN, because that’s what the letters spell for me. My eyes follow the arrow to the right, and I summon all the courage I can to step through the doors of Parlor 1. My senses are overloaded. The smell of death, or more like the attempted cover-up, is indescribable and overbearing. Eyes assessing, moving from left to right, I take in the mismatched and antiquated furniture, sad that this pathetic space will be intermingled with so many last memories of family members. Music playing in the background reminds me of the haunted mansion ride at Disney World. Creepy is the only adjective I can put my finger on. There is no choice but to urge myself forward.

  Move one foot, Peyton.

  Right.

  You’ve got this. Now the other.

  Left.

  Been doing it since you were one. Twenty-three years.

  I am not practiced at this, having been to only one funeral prior, and it was held for a neighbor, who was very old, and not someone I was close to. However, I don’t believe one hundred funerals prepare you to walk through doors where your mother awaits you.

  In a coffin.

  Whom you hadn’t bothered to see in years.

  And you didn’t even know was ill.

  I steady myself on the first chair I can, hand sliding over the wood across the top while my fingertips caress the smooth velvet seat back. I gaze the length of the room toward her coffin, my breath shallow. It’s taking everything I have to hold back tears and concentrate on breathing.

  Oh, God. I want to turn around and run in the other direction but’s too late. One foot over the threshold, I’ve made eye contact with my grandmother, with no time to prepare.

  She is barreling toward me with open arms. One hand on each of my shoulders, she pulls me into an awkward hug. Affection is delivered at arm’s length. Pushing herself back away from me, head tilted in pity, she simpers, “Oh, Peyyyyy-tonnnn.” Even if this is a genuine attempt to comfort me, she is the last person I would allow to do so. My grandfather stands behind her. Nothing new there, just like his stoicism. “Aren’t you so pleased with the arrangements?”

  I am not an awful person, grateful they had handled the details, but I know what she wants to hear, and I am an actress. “Oh yes, Grandmother, thank you so much. It’s exactly what I would have done.” Hardly.

  “It’s been so long since we’ve spoken, but I guess that will change soon enough.”

  I don’t see how my mother passing away will change the fact that I want nothing to do with them.

  “You are almost twenty-five now, aren’t you?”

  We are flanked by a wall of bodies marching toward me shoulder to shoulder, soldiers coming to battle. My relatives have made an obligatory appearance at this visitation. As I search face to face, features I recognize as my own cause a small bit of bile to splash the back of my throat. Genetics or otherwise, I don’t want to share anything with these people.

  My “aunt”, also known as my mother’s spoiled little sister, emulates her mother, fingers curling into my upper arms. “Oh, Peyton, we’ve been so worried about you and your mother!” Hardly, take two. If they had been worried, things would have been different.

  The equally spoiled little brother turns to me, then his sister. “How long has it been? I think Christmas… gosh, what, five years ago? Or was it six? It was a wonderful Christmas if I recall.”

  “Oh yes, aren’t they all, Will?” They laugh as if it’s a private joke and they have forgotten me. No sugar-plum memories of Christmas bliss for me.

  “Why, you are all grown up now, Peyton,” Will continues. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you on television or in a movie yet, have I? You aren’t another one of those starving actresses, are you? Or, wait, are you a waitress so you get free meals? You don’t look like you are starving.”

  A memory of my mother surfaces. I hear her voice in my head, “If you don’t have anything nice to say—” I should keep my mouth shut. He answered his own question anyway. “I should go,” I say instead. It’s time for the inevitable. “I haven’t been inside to see my mother yet.”

  If only she were alive to
protect me.

  NOVEMBER 7th

  CHAPTER 2 | Peyton

  S ometime in the middle of the night, I wake in my bed of sixteen years, a double bed pressed against the cold, drafty wall. It is nothing less than startling and I sit up straight, the unfamiliar surroundings teasing and haunting. Slowly, I lie back into the pillow, eyes darting around the small room.

  Against the wall, hand puppet shadows dance in the glow of moonlight and eerie creaking has my head whirling towards each sound. It scares the shit out of me. I talk myself off the ledge, out loud, though no one else is present to hear. “Scared of trees, Peyton? Seriously?” Returning to L.A. can’t come soon enough. No trees to see from the third floor. Pulling the bedspread up to my chin, as if it will somehow protect me, I sigh deeply. Sleep is going to evade me now. The only reason I fell asleep in the first place was that my body couldn’t take another minute of crying. Luckily, at least for the moment, tears are evading me. Maybe I have hit the quota on tear production for the day. Or possibly for a lifetime.

  Pulling as much oxygen into my lungs as I can, I work to quiet thoughts jumping feverishly in my head. More tears spring from the corners of my eyes, running down the side of my face into the pillow. No quota reached. I squeeze my eyes tightly, a dam to the impending flood, and feel my eyelids sore and swollen. Tomorrow will be a ban-the-mirror day. Moving my jaw side to side I notice it is sore, surely from all of the clenching I’ve been doing.

  I replay the events of yesterday. My best solo act yet. Today will offer no reprieve. Today I will brave the unbearable. I shudder, thinking of the hours that spread before me. But then, I think of the other people who had come to pay their respects. Hundreds maybe? I relive the receiving line, speaking the words “Thank you for coming” again and again for hours. Who were all those people? My mother touched so many and I didn’t know. Countless former students and colleagues from throughout her thirty years of teaching spoke endearingly.