One More Time Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Kat Pace

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Copyright

  The Loft

  Seattle-Tacoma Airport

  Home

  Beach Bonfire

  Rays for Days

  Volleyball Pier

  The Sandbar

  Back Bay Party

  Champagne Island

  Tide & Thunder

  The Last Party

  Labor Day Carnival

  Halloween

  Thanksgiving Eve

  Thanksgiving

  The Blackest Friday

  Lunch & Lattes

  Benefit Light Festival

  Arrival

  The Rave

  Boozy Brunch & Boards

  New Year’s Eve

  Valentine’s Day

  Star Resorts Miami

  Havana Nights' Style

  New Normal

  Memorial Day Weekend

  Tenfire

  Fort Night

  New Year's Eve 2021

  About The Author

  The Loft

  The moon wakes me. Its light pours through the full-length windows in my studio. It’s judging me, judging the naked man in the bed next to me.

  I hope the moon isn’t keeping count.

  3:00 AM

  The alarm clock on my bedside tells me I have four hours until I need to be up for my flight. I know what you’re thinking. Alarm clock? What year is it?

  I stand and stretch on my tiptoes. My eyes scan the floor for my strappy bralette and equally strappy panties. Really, we may as well not bother wearing underwear at all.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror propped against my wall. My platinum hair rivals a rat’s nest –even more so when I flip it into an actual nest of a topknot. My thin frame is finally starting to show some muscle definition. Thank you yoga. Thank you mom and dad for the money to start my yoga studio.

  Moon follows me into the small corner of my loft I call a kitchen. I flip the switch next to the sink and a dim light flickers on. I grab a glass from the sink and fill up the coffee maker. Again, what year is it?

  Tabloids litter the counter, courtesy of the roommate I never see. I flip through the pages absentmindedly noting which celebrity is now on drugs, what’s the newest reality show, and which type of accessory is trending this season. Spoiler alert. Totes are in.

  I scamper back across the room to my bed, leaving a coffee aroma trail in my wake. It’s not a very long trail, all things considered. It’s a corner loft in an old converted warehouse. It’s going for the modern industrial chic but still kind of rustic at heart vibe. Suppose it should be disconcerting that I have a ~vibe aesthetic~ in common with my loft. Still, as a millennial I suppose I could be facing graver problems.

  I hop into bed and plug in my phone. It died sometime last night between the fifth and tenth tequila shot. I don’t blame myself. I blame the naked man next to me.

  Speaking of which.

  “Hi, babe. Is it morning?” He grumbles sleepily.

  Babe.

  I wonder if he knows my name.

  Couldn’t blame him. I don’t know his.

  “Not morning. Coffee?” I ask.

  “No coffee. More sleep,” he says.

  I smile to myself. No coffee. More sleep. Sounds like a saying on some basic bitch T-shirt. Sounds like a saying on a trendy tote. If I think this loud enough in my head, then some consumer driven spyware on my phone is likely to hear this nonverbal thought and turn it into a reality. I can’t be the only one this has happened to before. Mark my words. Be on the lookout.

  My phone buzzes with life. I prop it against my bare leg so I can easily read through the 17 messages from Trix.

  Hey girl! Can’t wait to see you.

  When does your plane land?

  OMG. OMG. OMG.

  Emmy Lou! Where are you!

  You better be dick deep right now girl.

  Trix! I laugh into my coffee. I can’t even read the rest. Trix is too much. It’s why I love her. She can be that overdramatic, too-extra girly girl that guys still love enough to call a dude’s girl. We’ve never shared this trait. I still have more in common with my loft.

  I glance at the ancient alarm clock. 3:13. It’s already 6:13 for Trix. Her night is over. I wonder if she too has consumed five to ten gulps of empty regret masquerading as tequila shots. I pull up the keyboard on my mini screen to type my response.

  Trix! Can’t wait to see you too.

  I land at 11 AM your time.

  OMG WHAT?

  You know I was ;)

  Wow. Emoticons. Add it to my time capsule arsenal of alarm clocks and coffee makers. You’d never know it was 2019.

  Trix will answer as soon as she gets my message. I know she will. She can’t help herself. As I scroll back to her ‘OMG. OMG. OMG’ my mind finds an eerie calm. I could guess 1000 things but I know the only piece of gossip that would cause Trix to freak like this. My gut knows it.

  I spend ten minutes surfing the social scene via my portable internet box of a phone. It’s quality time secretly stalking people I don’t care about. Who from high school is pregnant. Who got what new job. Who got engaged. Spoiler Alert: 500 people got engaged.

  I guess that’s what happens at my age. 26. What else do you do for a quarter life crisis but get engaged? Fucking whacks.

  3:20 AM

  My bag is packed with the essentials. Bikini, shorts, headphones. Face potion aka make up. Self-esteem. Only thing left to do is get rid of my mid-summer’s night companion. I glance at him sideways. Brown shaggy hair and cute ass dimples cover his face even when he’s sleeping. Not bad, Emmy.

  Coffee isn’t helping my nerves right now, so I may as well have another cup. No more sleeping tonight. I cross my room and turn on the shower. The steam in the bathroom smells like my essential oils. Zen-ing me out right now.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I count these deep breaths as I do my best to hold onto the last trace of that eerie calm I felt earlier. I know what Trix is going to tell me. I just don’t know if I’m ready for it.

  Seattle-Tacoma Airport

  7:30 AM

  My small rolly bag doubles as a mobile seat. I’m at my gate waiting to board. Starbucks iced coffee in hand and headphones hanging around my neck. Go time.

  Moon left me in the warm, comforting hands of Sun. It’s beaming through the large airport windows casting light off the ice cubes floating in my venti.

  Trevor! That was his name –the cute boy with the sleeping dimples. He was super nice. Asked when he could buy me more shots. Had to tell him I was going away for a few weeks. Hardly lingered long enough to finish his coffee.

  The way I like my boys.

  The phone vibrates in my back pocket. I turn it over to see the caller ID.

  “Hello? Trix?”

  “Emmy Lou! How are you?” Trix screams on the other end of our thousand-mile call.

  “Teresa Angela Barr, it’s not even 11 AM. Are you drunk?” I ask. She hates when I full name her.

  “Way, actually. I blame brunch,” she says, like this is clarifying something obvious. “But this can li
ke NOT wait. GUESS WHAT!”

  “Trix, I’m boarding! Can’t you tell me in person?” I ask her, because I still fear her confirmation on what I already know to be true.

  “Emmeline Lou Rhodes, this is CODE X!” She shouts at me like she’s trying to physically send me her words over the phone. I roll my eyes at my full name.

  Code X was something we made up in elementary school. It meant top-notch news, crucial end-all and be-all news. Usually it wasn’t. Nevertheless we agreed Code X meant you had to drop whatever you were doing and listen. Full-naming each other was also something we made up in elementary school. Both are a reminder of how far back our friendship goes.

  “Code X. OK. OK!” I shout back into my sparkling phone case.

  “He’s back, Emmy Lou,” she pauses. She doesn’t need to say the name. I heard his name in the way she said ‘he’s back’. I heard *read* his name in between the lines of her drunken text messages last night. “Brooks is back.”

  “Holy Fuck!” It’s all I could say before I walked through the security door, listening to the gate attendant tell me off for holding up the line.

  My mind goes blank and my body goes numb. Ever get that weird shaky would-rather-black-out-than-stay-awake feeling? Like feeling your stomach turn into an actual black stone pit? Black stone pit isn’t even dramatic enough to convey the feeling I just got hearing Trix say his name.

  Yes, this is about a boy. You’d maybe think it was a murderer or otherwise extremely dangerous convicted felon the way I’ve gone on about my gut-feeling. But no. It’s just a boy from high school. Well if you’ve ever experienced the pain of a broken heart, you can understand why the dangerous convicted felon may be preferable.

  Jay Brooks. THE OG one that got away.

  Solely because I pushed him. OK, we pushed each other but he started it. It remains above reason. Hindsight is not always 20/20, but retrospect is always a bitch.

  He’s exactly what you’re probably thinking. Tall. Hot. Bit of a dick. At least that’s how he was when I left nine ago. Social media gives me unsolicited updates on what he’s been up to. College in North Carolina. Semi-pro Lacrosse. A parade of hot blondes on his media page. Living the lax bro lifestyle.

  Don’t feel too bad for me though because it works both ways. My pages let him know I moved to the west coast. Do yoga. Frequent the hipster bar scene. And promote animal cruelty-free products to my weirdly above average social media following.

  ON MY OWN DIME. Not like one of those insane influencers we all can’t stand but secretly want to be. OK, I do get like free water bottles and yoga mats from promoting local places, but that hardly counts. Not when what’s-her-face celebrities make 10k for showing up at a new restaurant in LA.

  Anyway, we like each other’s pictures. Big, right? Leave the occasional comment here and there. Dutiful like all other millennial exes that vow to stay friendly.

  It’s the extent of our let’s stay in touch agreement. Sometimes even liking a picture is asking too much of myself.

  Jay Brooks.

  We dated through most of high school. He was my first crush and first kiss. First everything if you count whatever it was we did after prom. Poorest attempt at sex you’ve ever seen. Guess that’s how your first time is supposed to be.

  Makes for a good story now anyway.

  He gave me life. He was everything I thought I ever wanted –what the movies and the media and basically all of society made me believe I wanted. The friendship that blossoms into romance –that hometown love that every single country song raves about. I was young and naïve and emotionally invested. We were one pick-up truck and small town road away from getting married.

  It was everything. Until it wasn’t.

  We wanted to stay together through college and all that unrealistic shit. Be that power couple you hear about –the one that has it all.

  We swore we’d last.

  SPOILER ALERT:

  We didn’t.

  He left one month after graduation to move to NC and start his lax bro lifestyle training. OK it was technically just lacrosse training for college, but still.

  It was two weeks after that we called it quits. One guess why. While I was still stuck with the rest of our high school friends, trapped in our quiet town, Brooks was living college life. We slowly… drifted. Here’s the kicker: I believed it was a mutual drift, a decision we both made together. It wasn’t until after that I found out about her. That’s the real reason we broke up.

  It hurt at first. Fuck did it hurt. I was basic. I couldn’t let it go even though I knew it was better for me. Better for both of us to move on together in separate directions. I mean, that rat bastard cheated on me, on us. He cheated on our fucking life together.

  Shoulda been hella easier to hate him.

  It got bad. The loss. Kinda felt like I threw part of myself away with him. Or he took part of me away. Both? Doesn’t really matter now. I was worried about ever seeing him again. Knew I’d fall again. Knew I’d get hurt again.

  Three. That’s how many times I’ve gone home over the last nine years. Once for the holidays. Once for a funeral. Once for a summer visit –and only so my mom would stop hounding me about it.

  First visit home freshman year I almost saw him. Came back from UCLA. I wasn’t ready to see him. So I vowed never again. My parents visit me for the holidays now. A perk of being the only child. Sometimes they fly me out to meet them wherever they decide to go. Christmas in New York. New Years in Vail. Christmas in L.A. New Years in Bahamas. I almost prefer it this way.

  Fuck.

  On the plane now. Wedged between a middle-aged woman wearing too much perfume and a 12-year-old boy that’s alone. Where’s your parent, kid?

  Here I am, a single 26-year-old, business owner, girl-power enthusiast, and I am giving myself a private mental health check. A pep talk to get myself through a visit to my hometown. I am a bad TV movie waiting to happen.

  No going back. No going back.

  It’s OK. I’m only home for two weeks.

  It’s been nine years. It’s OK.

  How hard can seeing him be?

  He’s been living in NC, moved there after school. At least that’s what his many media pages lead me to believe.

  Trix was essentially dying over the phone. She couldn’t contain herself while telling me that Brooks showed up back in town last night.

  Why now?

  Why does he choose the SAME WEEK to return home? It’s like he knew I’d be home. Why do I smile when I think this? Because I relish the idea that he did this just to see me? Can I really be that pathetic?

  Aren’t we all?

  Home

  The first thing I see is a DO/AC ad plastered on the wall outside the parking garage. Bitch, I’ve done AC.

  It feels strange being here, the same but different. The air tastes the same. It’s got that East Coast Traffic City Smog Ocean type of air. I wait ten minutes too long for my ride to show up. I watch the car drive away in the wrong direction on my app map. No time for this. I have an hour to get home, meet my mother for a late lunch–early dinner before meeting Trix.

  Of course I’ll need to listen to my mother go on and on about how many guys she wants me to meet. How many of her friends’ sons, nephews, and ex fitness coaches would just be great for me. Don’t get me wrong; she never berates me for my singlehood either, unlike most millennials’ mothers. She just never gives up hope.

  Then there’s Trix. Damn, why did I agree to the bonfire? I don’t even know what I’m walking into! She tells me it’s some type of summer reunion BS for our year and the year above us. Who knows how many people will be there. How many of them I haven’t even talked to let alone seen in the better half of the last decade.

  I don’t want to misguide you on this spirit journey into a heaping pit of nostalgia. I did not hate my high school experience. Quite the opposite in fact. I loved it. Truly, they were the good old glory days. In this kind of small shore town where everyone knows everyone it’s
hard to hide. In the open, it’s easy to find where you belong. My group of solid friends –not exactly the popular clique. We weren’t all jocks and cheerleaders on the Homecoming Court. Well, not all of us.

  Course we weren’t chemistry club or chess club nerds either (though I openly admit I can throw down the dabble at chess). Never too late to learn strategic planning and thinking five steps ahead. Never know when you’ll need to be a master manipulator.

  No, we were us. We were the group of friends who were all weirdly attractive. We all weirdly made-out with each other at least once or twice. That is until senior year when the coupling up started. Trix Barr and Travis Scott. Meg Andrews and Nate Johnson. Emmy Rhodes and Jay Brooks.