Never Tied Down (The Never Duet #2)
Never Tied Down
Anie Michaels
Never Tied Down
© Copyright Anie Michaels 2015
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Hot Tree Editing.
Cover design © By Hang Le
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
The loud buzzer from the oven startled me, sending my pencil point carelessly across the page.
“Shoot,” I mumbled as I tried to erase it. Math wasn’t my friend and I was already confused, now I would add to it by erasing parts of the equations I’d managed to complete so far. I threw my pencil down on the table and went into the kitchen.
I turned off the blaring timer, then put oven mitts on and opened up the oven door. The scent of baking chocolate wafted over me and I couldn’t help but take a big sniff.
“Yum,” I said, putting the cake on the counter to cool. Then I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the stew I had cooking on the stovetop. Stew was one of the meals I’d mastered in the last two years. It was pretty easy, but it always tasted like it was really difficult to make. Mom always loved when I made stew.
I returned to the kitchen table and tried to finish my math homework.
An hour later, Mom finally came home from work.
“Sorry I’m late, baby. Carla didn’t show for her shift so I had to stay until they found someone to cover her tables.” She ran past me, kissing me on the head before she went back to her bedroom to change. It was her ritual. She always stripped off her waitressing uniform as soon as she walked in the house because it smelled like grill. Like greasy, burned, fatty food. If she left her uniform on, the whole room she was in would begin to smell, so I never got in the way of her dash to her bedroom.
When she emerged from the back of our mobile home, I could see the bags under her eyes and knew she was tired. She left early in the mornings and worked in the bakery at a big box grocery store, then after she was done there, she was a waitress at a truck stop. Every once in a while she had a day off from one of the jobs, but it was usually a weekday, so I didn’t really get to see her. Besides, when she had time off, I tried to let her sleep. She’d been exhausted for two years, maybe even longer.
“Happy birthday, baby,” she said, placing a small box wrapped in paper with colorful balloons all over it and a big red bow in the corner on the table.
“Mom, you didn’t have to get me anything.” I was already feeling guilt wash over me.
“Nonsense, Kalli. It’s your birthday.” She kissed the top of my head again and walked into the kitchen. “You baked your own birthday cake.” Her words fell somewhere between a statement and a question, and I knew from the tone of her voice the cake was upsetting to her. “I was going to make you a cake.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I knew you wouldn’t want to come home from working two jobs and make another cake. It was just one of those dollar store boxes.”
“You made yourself a dollar store birthday cake?”
Crap. I could tell she was getting upset, and that was the last thing I wanted. I’d been trying to make things easier for her.
“Mom, how about we have dinner, then ice the cake together, and we can eat it while we watch Full House.”
“You made dinner too?” Now she sounded slightly panicked. “I thought you were turning nine, not twenty-nine.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mom. It’s only stew. I threw it all in a pot and turned on the stove.” I watched as my mom walked back to the table, sat in the chair across from me, and put her head in her hands. I stood up, went to her, and wiggled my way onto her lap. “I’m sorry I made you sad.” Her arms squeezed around me.
“You didn’t make me sad, baby. You’re such a good girl. I just wish I could have given you a better birthday. Made your cake at least, or thrown you a party.”
“I don’t want any more birthday parties,” I said quickly. The last time I’d had a birthday party my family had fallen apart. I didn’t have any extra family to lose.
“Come on,” she said, patting my back. “Time to open your present.”
I hopped up from her lap and went back to my chair, pushing my homework aside. I lifted up the colorful gift and shook it back and forth. It didn’t make any sounds that gave away what was inside, so I flipped it over and started tearing at the paper. When I could finally see what my mom had given me, I stilled.
“Mom, no.” I shook my head, and put the box down on the table, pushing it toward her.
“What’s wrong? Is it the wrong color? There were a few choices, but I thought red was the color you’d like best. We can take it back and exchange it if you want the blue one.”
“Mom, we can’t afford that.” My eyes darted down to the brand new Game Boy Color I’d seen in the store the week before. They’d had a display set up and I’d spent a half hour standing there playing it. I’d seen the price tag. There’s no way my mom could afford to buy me such an extravagant gift.
Her eyes softened when she heard my words, but she didn’t agree. “Don’t worry about what we can afford. It’s your birthday, and I know you want it.”
“Mom….” I didn’t want to argue with her, or seem ungrateful, but how could I play on a new game system and eat cake I’d bought at the dollar store? Or play on that game system when, in a few weeks, I’d hear Mom cry because she didn’t know how she was going to pay the electric bill? The gift, although I wanted it very badly, would haunt me every time I knew things were tight.
“Listen, last week a few of the girls at work donated their t
ips. So, I didn’t buy it all on my own.”
I could hear in her voice it hurt to admit that and I thought, in that moment, it was probably pretty hard for my mom to accept money from her coworkers. I didn’t want to make her feel any worse.
“That’s awesome, Mom. Thank you.” I went to her and gave her a long and tight hug. When I pulled away I kissed her cheek. “You’re the best.”
“No, nine years ago I gave birth to the best. I’m so lucky to be your mom.”
I hugged her again, feeling like I was the lucky one.
We ate dinner, iced and ate my cake, and my mom sang me an extremely out-of-tune rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Then we sat in the living room and watched Full House. Well, Full House was on the TV, but I was busy playing on my new Game Boy.
That night, as my mom pulled the covers up to my chin, I asked the question I’d been thinking all evening but hadn’t found the courage to ask. Perhaps being in the darkness of my room gave me strength.
“Did you check the mail today, Mom?”
I saw her shoulders slump in the light sweeping in from the hallway. I also heard the sigh that escaped her. Both of those things told me the answer to my question before she said the words.
“I did, baby. There was nothing there for you.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss against my forehead, lingering there. The longer she kissed me, the harder it became to hold back the tears welling in my eyes, and ignore the stinging in my throat. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Kalli. Just because your daddy isn’t here, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
I wanted to argue with her, wanted to shout that was exactly what it meant, but the words were trapped below the lump that had formed in my throat. If I opened my mouth, the only sounds that would come out would be sobs.
“Somewhere, he’s thinking about you and he wishes he could be here with you. But he can’t, baby.”
I knew it wasn’t true. I knew she was only saying the words she thought would make me feel better. I couldn’t fault her for that, for trying to comfort me on my birthday, but I didn’t have to believe her.
I never brought it up again, but every year on my birthday I silently hoped to hear from my father.
I was disappointed every single time.
Chapter One
Made of Glass
Kalli
I heard the sounds of Ella moving throughout the house, heard her sweet voice floating up the stairs as she spoke to her adorable little girl, Mattie. She was a master at the “mom voice.” You know, that voice women use when they’re talking to babies? It’s almost the same tone you use when talking to a puppy, but not as shrill and just slightly more singsong. Ella was saying something to Mattie about their day, telling her that her daddy would be home later that evening, and then I heard a smacking kissy noise and I could picture Ella’s lips mushed up against her daughter’s chubby cheek.
I lay in bed, staring out my window, until I heard the front door close, then slowly climbed out of bed and walked up to the window to watch Ella’s car disappear down the extensive driveway of her Salem home. It was early October and the trees lining her property were turning beautiful shades of orange and red, and the sun breaking through the leaves as it rose made for quite a breathtaking view.
Much like anything beautiful or worthwhile I’d witnessed in the last six months, it only accentuated the pain that was still lodged inside me, making no effort to dissipate. It was just another wonderful sunrise Marcus would never see, that I would witness alone.
I groaned at my own depressing thoughts and decided to make a conscious effort to not be completely morose for the entire day. I’d always been a big subscriber to the idea that one was in control of their own outlook on life. I’d managed, for years, to live through some of the worst circumstances imaginable and still lead a pretty happy life. All those notions were challenged when Marcus died.
Sure, I took the obligatory time to grieve, lived through his funeral and the wake, floating on some sort of removed cloud of distant engagement. Then I landed firmly on the other side of the whole ordeal, putting myself squarely in a dark existence. For weeks I was inconsolable, but I still felt as if that was normal, still felt as though I was owed a period of sadness. I was angry, too. Unimaginably angry. I was also dealing with guilt so heavy it kept me in bed most days.
For weeks I survived simply by the good graces of Nancy and my friends, who’d made sure I never went more than a day without eating, forced me to get up and at least shower, always telling me I was entitled to grieve however I needed to, but still insisting on making sure I wasn’t doing myself harm.
After a few weeks passed, I eventually started feeling better. I was still sad, angry, and full of guilt, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been. It was manageable. That was to say, I was able to pretend for short periods of time I wasn’t completely broken, even though I absolutely was.
Two months after he passed away, I decided I couldn’t be in my house anymore. Nancy had already left, coming to the same conclusion I had, finding it too difficult to be in the house where she’d cared for and loved on Marcus as if he were her own. She told me gently one morning that since I was feeling better, she was moving in with Bob. I nodded, accepting her words, finding them to be just as painful as if she’d hurled something solid directly at my face. I couldn’t expect her to stick around forever, there was absolutely no reason for her to do so, but it was just another loss I’d have to endure and was ultimately responsible for.
It took just one day of being alone in the house for me to realize I couldn’t be there by myself. It was entirely too hard. So I packed a few suitcases, turned off the power to the house, and drove to Portland with absolutely no plan. Luckily, when I landed on Megan’s doorstep she’d welcomed me with open arms, and I’d been drifting ever since. It took a few weeks to find work again, but I picked myself up and pretended to dust myself off.
When I was on set, working, I was professional and efficient, and actually preferred to be there because with each job came new coworkers. Usually I could meet new people and pretend as though I hadn’t lived through the worst months of my life. It wasn’t like my brother’s death was big news, but once a few people from the business found out, it had spread and I’d received condolences from many people I’d worked with in the past. So, finding new people, who didn’t know me or hadn’t heard of my tragedies, was refreshing. It allowed me to pretend to be happy and unaffected for a day, to put my grief to the side and ignore it.
And although I loved my friends dearly, to be around them was to be constantly reminded I was fragile because that was how they treated me, as if I were made of glass.
So, much like this morning, I tried sometimes to keep my distance from them in order to spare everyone’s feelings. I would be eternally grateful to Ella and Megan for allowing me to stay with them when I needed a place to crash between jobs, but I definitely tried to give myself space. They didn’t need constant reminders I was crashing in their guest room, anyway.
After I’d showered and dressed, I was downstairs utilizing the fancy coffeemaker in the Masters’ kitchen when the front door opened and Porter appeared.
“Kalli, good morning,” he said, as he made his way through the open floor plan of his house. “I just forgot some blueprints I needed for a job in town this afternoon.” He paused as he came to a stop at the island in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes on me, fingers drumming on the countertop. I could tell by the look in his eyes he wanted to ask me how I was doing, to check up on me, but he resisted. “How much longer do you have at the shoot you’re working on?”
“Just a few days, then I’ll be out of your hair,” I said with a polite smile.
“You know that’s not why I’m asking,” he replied, his voice tinged with just a little regret, which in turn made me feel like an ass. Porter had never made me feel like I was unwanted or a burden, and treated me with respect and kindness while I stayed with him and Ella.
He was silent for a moment, but then said, “Your being here makes Ella happy and that, in turn, makes me happy. Listen,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “it’s not like you’re couch surfing because you were irresponsible and lost your job. You’re here because you need to be surrounded by people who care about you. And we do. There’s no pressure for you to leave until you feel like you’re ready.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that. But still, I’ll be gone soon.”
“And you’re welcome back at any point,” he said, without hesitation. He smiled the pitying smile I had gotten used to, then continued through the house, heading to his office to get the plans he’d forgotten, I assumed. I took the opportunity to head back upstairs to my room to get my purse and shoes, more than ready to leave the house for the day.
I’d been working nonstop for a few weeks, lucky enough to find jobs that lined up perfectly, leaving little time between them. I was trying to keep myself occupied, to distract myself. When I was idle, my mind wandered and my heart hurt.
That week I was working on an odd job, but it was beautiful, nonetheless. The Oregon Ballet Company was shooting their winter promo and I got to watch ballerinas dance around all day. Obviously, the ballet company had their own costumes made especially for their show, so I didn’t have to figure any of that out, but I was hired to make sure the continuity was good and that everything looked great. Jobs like these could get tricky because the actual costume designer for the company was there, looking over her precious costumes, and sometimes could cause drama.
It wasn’t unusual for a production company to hire a costume manager on top of a costume designer; there were things I took into consideration that she probably wouldn’t. Like how the production crew’s lights were harsher against the costumes than her house lighting, so we had the house add some blue to try to tamp that down. I also noticed, halfway through the shoot, the prima ballerina’s headpiece was switched with another dancer’s, which during the actual ballet wouldn’t have been such a big deal, but in a thirty-second commercial, someone would notice.