Undefeated (Unexpected Book 5) (7 page)

He nods, then heads upstairs, rushing back within minutes holding two guitar cases and a frame.

“Are you a musician?” I ask him. His jaw tightens and he slams the door behind him without an answer.

Touchy.

I
lean against the wall watching AJ play the piano. The melody she plays is different from anything I’ve heard before—a new composition? It’s soft and peaceful. What I’d give to play the way she does. Her long fingers travel from one side of the keyboard to the other. So far, this is my favorite time of the day, when I get to listen to her play. It’s been a few weeks since I arrived at this house. The adults are nice to me, but they are pushing me to start doing some schoolwork and to help them with some of the household chores, too. The chores don’t bother me, but the school work . . . I can’t do any of it. Everything is too hard to understand and if they learn that I’m stupid, they’re going to kick me out of here.

If only they were as understanding as AJ, everything would be okay. She explains what I don’t understand and makes sure that I’m not left behind. One day I’ll do the same for her; take care of her. That’s why I have to learn to play all the instruments that they have in this house, because I’m going to be a musician, like her father Chris. I’ll play in big places and make a lot of money.

“Porter.” AJ stops playing and turns slightly to watch me from her seat. “I didn’t know you were here. Why don’t you bring your guitar? Maybe the two of us can play something fun.”

I nod at her and she flashes that smile that I like so much. Rushing to the room where I’m staying, I grab my guitar and head back to the piano room.

Unfortunately, I’m intercepted by Gabe who gives me a stern look. “Porter, have you finished your assignments for the day?”

I shrug at him, because I refuse to tell him that I can’t read.

“Porter?” AJ calls out as she approaches us. “What’s taking you so long?” Then her attention moves to her father. “Hi, Daddy. We’re going to be in the music room.”

Gabe frowns, leaning his head closer to me. “When you’re done with her, go back to your room and finish your school work. It’s important. I understand that you have to adjust,” he says, lowering his voice. “It’s a process for everyone, but you have to be willing to become part of the family. Work with us, Porter, I have faith in you.”

AJ’s smile makes me want to do it, become part of the family, work hard, adjust. No one has ever had faith in me before she did.

S
ince I could walk, I’ve been fascinated by nature. Plants, animals, and the weather. Curiosity, love, and passion pushed me into choosing a career that I love, instead of studying something practical. Botany fit like a crystal slipper, the future I envisioned for myself. Because at eighteen I believed that after I graduated, I’d work for some big company and help them create the ultimate crop to feed the entire world.

Instead, at twenty-two and only weeks after my graduation ceremony, I became Mrs. Leonard Brooke. Six months later, Harper Ann Brooke came into the world. Leo landed a job at one of the most prestigious global aerospace, defense, security, and advanced technology companies. To this day, I don’t know what he did within the company, only that he had a classified position and was one of the head engineer physicists in his department. He earned a generous salary, and that’s how I became a stay-at-home mom dedicating her life to her children and garden.

If only I’d have known that my life would take such an abrupt turn, I’d have . . . I let out an audible breath, because I really have no idea how going to the past will fix my present. For the past week, I’ve been applying for different jobs. There hasn’t been a call back from any of them. My half-page résumé has my qualifications, but I have zero job experience.

“Open yourself to the possibilities,” Aunt Molly said earlier during dinner. “Something will come along. Have you considered changing careers? It’s never too late to find a new passion.”

Passion?

It’s not about Passion; it’s about training. For the past seven years, I’ve mastered the art of cooking, laundry, ironing, scrubbing, reading, and whatever else my children might require. I’m passionate about it, but I don’t see myself offering my services as a childcare provider. Looking at my checking account, I ponder my next move. Without the outrageous mortgage payment, I have more time to find the right job. Not sure about finding a home. Moving out would be the smart thing to do, Harper begs for her own room every day. Daughter’s begging aside, staying is the best for the three of us, as my aunt isn’t charging me any rent. She said that her tenant is paying for that until I can find something that will let me be independent.

I sigh, thinking about the tenant. Mr. I-Hate-Talking puzzles me. He works a block from here at the convenience store next to the gas station. The high-end furniture he left in this house is classy and brand new. How could he afford it when his job only pays minimum wage? At night, I hear his music as his fingers gently lick the strings of his guitar. There are no lyrics to the heart-wrenching melodies he plays, but I feel like every word must be about someone he loved and lost.

I’m curious about him and I want to study him, discover what’s behind those coffee color eyes. And that’s exactly why, instead of being tucked in bed and reading a book or watching some old movie on Netflix, I’m outside waiting for him to appear. That’s the beauty of the famous scientific method. You observe your subject, ask questions, and then research before establishing a hypothesis. I just want answers and this little research should be solved with only the first steps.

The creak of the back door startles me, but I remain sitting on the steps, waiting. “So how long are you planning to stay outside?” His rough voice cuts through the silence of the night. I shrug because I didn’t think about time and it isn’t wise to disclose my motive. “Look, I need some time to unwind before I try to sleep. Can you do me a solid and head back to your house?”

I take that as an invitation, because so far I haven’t thanked him for letting me live in his place.

“Thank you, for . . . you didn’t have to give up your house for us.” I fight the stutter. Shit. What happened to my voice? It’s his eyes; they create a strange discomfort inside me.

“How’s the job hunting going?”

“Huh?” I perk up, how does he know? “Molly told you?” He presses his lips and nods. “No one wants to hire a botanist with zero experience.” I let out a loud breath. “To think that I left Colorado searching for a new life. Escaping the memories.”

His eyes close for a few moments and as they open, he takes a seat right next to me. “Were you escaping memories or someone?” A soothing voice takes over.

“Both.” I pull my legs to my chest holding them tight. “My husband died two years ago. My high school sweetheart. The man I thought I’d spend my entire life with . . .” I squeeze my eyes tightly holding back the tears. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about this, how we planned to spend an eternity together. From everything I’ve read, there’s not one piece of advice that has worked yet. “How do you teach your heart to beat again, your lungs to breathe and find a new way to live?”

He shakes his head. “You just do,” he responds. “With one foot in front of the other, one exhale after the last inhale. It’s hard and takes time, but you learn to be with yourself and the memories. The good ones that will drag a smile out of you during those moments when you can’t breathe. They become your oxygen, the energy that carries you to the next day.”

“You lost someone?” As I turn my neck lightly, our gazes meet. “Did you lose your first love too?”

Porter remains stoic, his eyes fixated on the moon. I wonder who he lost and how long he has been grieving for her. A girlfriend, a fiancée, his wife? Maybe she died in some terrible accident, or worse, he cared for her while she slowly died from some terminal illness.

Communication might help him open up. With that in mind, I tell him what happened to Leo. “My husband had a meeting in LoDo—that’s downtown Denver.” I look at the sky, to gather enough courage to continue. “A homicide detective arrived at my front door around four in the morning. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. Did you say goodbye to her?”

His hand fidgets with a dark guitar pick and his eyes finally leave the sight of the moon. Yet, there’s no answer. Nothing breaks the silence of the night.

“How did you lose her?”

He rises from his seat, takes a half-turn, and leaves me without another word.