Always (Carter Kids #1.5) (6 page)

Hope

(Present Day)

"You've done it again!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lied in an even tone, without breaking my stride. I was in the process of wrapping up my latest book, my word count was at 79,989, and anyone who had ever gotten that far into a story knew just hard those eleven little words could be to find. But knowing I would have to address the matter in hand, I breathed deeply, placed my hands on my lap, and leaned back in my chair.

My roommate, Teagan Connolly, stood in the doorway of my bedroom/office with her hands on her hips and her blonde hair splaying out in forty different directions.

"I've read ten chapters, Hope," she told me. "And Jordan's name is replacing the hero in
every single one
." She was holding a stack of stapled sheets of white paper in one hand and a highlighting pen in the other. She sighed as she added, "Hope, it has been seven years – almost a bloody decade – and you're still moping around the place like a pigeon shat on your head."

"One word, Teegs," I shot back calmly, using my shoeless foot to twist my chair from side to side.
"Noah."

Teagan couldn’t talk.

She was in love with my Uncle Noah.

Yeah, it still felt incredibly weird calling him that, but there it was. Back when we were in high school, Noah's mom revealed he was my father's kid brother. Besides, I knew all about the smutty stack of MMA magazines under my friend's bed with he-who-shall-not-be-named's face etched all over the covers.

Teagan's face contorted in pain and I felt like a bitch for my actions.

"I'm going to pretend you didn’t just say his name in my presence," she told me in a shaky voice before slamming the stack of paper and the pen down on my desk. I noticed that her lip was quivering. "Your mom called again," she added. "She wants to know if you got anything
unusual
in the mail."

"No," I lied, shoving the invitation further underneath my keyboard. "Nothing new." 

"Hope, I know about your parents' anniversary party tomorrow night – I got an invite too."

Stopping at the door, Teagan turned around and smiled sadly. "Lee knows you're still hurting over him. She wants to help you, Hope. Maybe you should talk to her about how you're feeling.
Call the woman back
."

I couldn’t talk to anyone about how I was feeling – not vocally at least. The only productive way I seemed to be able to get my pain out was on paper: letting the words spill out and creep across the blank page. Yeah, the page was my canvas and the words were my art. My pen was my paintbrush, and my pain was my story.

I knew I wasn’t behaving like a normal twenty-five-year-old woman. I got that. But I couldn’t.

Not when I'd had my heart ripped out of my chest at eighteen.

The pain Jordan Porter had put me through had caused a rippling effect on my life. Some days I could barely breathe past it, it hurt so badly. It felt like I'd been knifed through my breastbone and the perpetrator had left the blade inside of my body, forcing me to suffer the agony of breathing in and out with something foreign lodged in my chest.

But I guess that's what love consisted of: having a foreign substance invade your heart.

I missed home, my parents and my siblings, but I couldn’t face returning to The Hill. I didn’t think I ever could.

I had watched Jordan Porter walk away from me and that annihilation of my trust had damaged my heart beyond all repair. The pain almost killed me on a daily basis. The not knowing where his head was at, or if anything we'd been through had truly been real for him. It cut me deeper than anything else in my entire existence had could or would ...

"I don’t love you, Hope. Happy now? You were a fucking mistake and I want out. I. Don’t. Want. You."

"I know you think I shouldn’t still think about him," I whispered. "
I
know I shouldn’t."

Throwing my head back, I covered my face with my hands and fought back the urge to scream. "It just won't fade, Teegs. He's in my head constantly and I hate it."

"You're preaching to the converted here, Hope," Teagan replied with a heavy sigh and I knew that if anyone in the world knew how I was feeling it was Teagan Connolly. "Just do what I do and remind yourself that you didn't do anything wrong," she told me. "Jordan – like
he-who-shall-not-be-named
– happens to be a man: and therefore a stupid, heinous, inconsiderate bastard. I'm telling you, Hope, they're all the same …" Her voice trailed off as she looked at the watch on her wrist in despair. "I'm late for work – we'll finish the man-bitching session when I get home, 'kay?" With that, Teagan turned on her heels and disappeared out of sight.

Sighing guiltily, I pulled myself out of my chair and padded over to my bed. Throwing myself down on the mattress, I tugged my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and dialed my mother's number.

Mom answered on the second ring.

"Hope. Oh, thank God you've called, I was getting worried. Did you get the invitation? When I didn’t hear back from you I started to get worried. You know it's tomorrow night, right?"

The obvious relief in my mother's voice made me feel like the world's biggest tool. She didn’t need any more worry in her life.

"Hi, Mom," I choked out. "Sorry I haven’t called lately. Yeah, I got the invite ..."

"Have you been eating? What about your clothes – can you manage the laundry? You know you can come home anytime you want, in fact I could …"

"Mom," I said wearily, cutting her off before she had the chance to over-analyze every damn thing in my life. "Yes, I'm doing my laundry." I sniffed the hem of my old
1D
shirt and cringed. "And of course I'm eating." The half-eaten packet of Oreos lying on my bed was proof of that. "Really I'm fine, Mom. How's Dad?"
That ought to work.

Bringing my father into conversation was a sure way to distract my mother from her examination. Mom and Dad, who were both in their forties, were sickeningly in love. It was truly depressing to me, their daughter, who'd yet to have a serious relationship, yet alone a loving one. They'd gotten together when Mom was a teenager and twenty-six years later they were still going strong; which was great for them, not so much for their kids who had to witness their bubble of love.

Ugh …

"Wonderful." Mom sighed dreamily, and I wanted to puke. "Working all the hours God gave him as usual. The hotel hasn’t been this busy in years."

"That's great," I said honestly. My dad,
Kyle Carter
, inherited a whole bunch of hotels from my great-grandpa before I was born, but lost everything before my first birthday.

My earliest memories of my father were of him working in our backyard, building birdhouses, doghouses and garden fences with Uncle Derek for extra cash. We had been dirt poor until my father won back the hotels when I was eleven.

He was my hero.

His strength was something I would always envy and be in awe of.

"So," Mom said in her soft southern drawl.  "Are you excited about coming home this weekend?"

"Sure," I lied. Truth was I couldn’t stand the thought of going home. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents deeply, they were loving and supportive, but my family was a little full on.

Our home was usually full of drama and testosterone-fuelled noise.

It was exhausting and I still pinched myself, seven years later, when I woke up in our small apartment in peace and isolated calm.

"How are the boys doing?" I asked, smirking to myself, thinking this was another topic I could use to distract my mother. "Causing hell?"
As usual…

"That’s the understatement of the century," she groaned, and I cackled into my pillow. "They're breaking my heart daily," Mom added. "That's why I need my baby girl to come home to me."

Hit me with the mommy card …

"I'm really busy at the moment, Mom." I knew why she wanted me to come home so badly. I knew what was coming up and I knew exactly
who
would be there. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to come home …"

"Hope Sarah Carter," my mother said in her
stern
voice. I smiled thinking about my mother being stern. She was about as stern as tissue paper and as aggressive as a goldfish. "You have to come home." She sighed heavily, and I cringed in shame. "It's our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Please, sweetie."

God …

"Is he going to be there?" I asked quietly.

I knew Mom would feel sorry for me, but I didn’t care about that.

I needed to know.

There was no way I was putting myself in
that
situation again.

"No," Mom replied after a pause. "I suppose he's feeling the same way you are."

I doubt it.

"Fine," I sighed. "I'll book a flight as soon as you hang up." I needed to be done with this conversation. I was not dealing with thoughts of
him
today. I couldn’t. I would either cry or break my phone. Neither option appealed to me; therefore I was getting off this phone before I lost my choice.

"Hope," Mom said softly, in that tone mothers use when they feel sorry for you, but don't want to come right out and say it. "It has been seven years, sweetheart. Don't you think that it's time you try to move on and forgive him?"

"Could you?" I shot back immediately. "If you were me and
he
was Dad, could you try and move on? Could you
forgive
him?"

I knew the answer to that.

Years ago, when my father had been stabbed by some psychotic freak, my mother had sold everything we owned in order to keep him alive on a feeding tube. He'd been given no hope, laid in a coma for more than half a year and still Mom hadn’t given up on him.

According to an old journal of my Aunt Cam's, Dad had treated Mom like shit when they were younger.

Repeatedly.

And she'd forgiven him.

Repeatedly.

Well, I wasn’t my mother, and I wasn't going to be any man's doormat.

"Hope, he was young and confused."

"I don’t care." I did care. I cared too much. That was the whole freaking problem. "I'm done with this conversation, Mom. I need to finish some work. I'll call you later."

"I need you home," Mom said sadly. "Please. Do this for me."

"One night," I whispered. "And then I'm gone."

"Promise me you'll be there, Hopey-bear?" my mother asked and I found myself nodding reluctantly.

"Yes," I said with a sigh. "I promise."

"Good," Mom chuckled before letting out a worrying sigh. "Please don’t blame me for your house guest. That was your father's idea …"

House guest?

"Mom, what the heck are you talking about …" I demanded, but the tone on the other end of the line told me that my mother had hung up on me. Then my phone beeped once, signaling I'd received a text message.

Reluctantly I opened it and groaned ...

* You wouldn’t happen to have a spare bed/couch/bathtub going for your favorite brother? *

"Damn that man," I screamed, shoving off my covers and leaping out of bed, suddenly understanding my mother's plea. I immediately regretted my tantrum when I noticed the few precious remaining Oreos scatter on the floor.

Diving to where one was rolling under my locker I wasn't ashamed to say I rubbed if off with my sleeve and took a vicious bite of it.

I needed it.

With my mouth full of chocolate goodness I stalked through our apartment – which consisted of walking from my bedroom through to my kitchen/lounge – and pressed my finger on the buzzer.

"Well if it isn’t Dad's favorite minion," I snapped. "How much did he pay you to come here?"

"Not nearly enough," I heard Colton chuckle. "Buzz me in. I'm freezing. You can chew me out in person in the
warmth
."

"Fine," I muttered, buzzing him and opening my apartment door. "It's open."

I went and grabbed a hair tie from our poky bathroom and rearranged my hair into a messy half-bun/half-ponytail before grabbing a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

Teagan and I badly needed to clean the place up, but Colton was a bigger slob than both of us combined so I doubted he would notice my crap.

"Love what you've done with the place," I heard my brother say, and I mentally braced myself before turning around.

"The mold is a fascinating addition," Colt chuckled, signaling to a pile of dirty laundry in my overflowing hamper. "And the smell." He grinned and clicked his tongue. "Very new age, Hopey-bear."

"Don't call me that." I shuddered, glaring at the big ape that was making himself comfortable on my couch. "How long are you here for?"

"Depends," Colt replied, casually folding his arms behind his head. "Board that plane with me in fifteen hours and I'll be out of your hair in a jiffy. Or
don't
and I stay and annoy you until you give in and come home." He twisted his neck from side to side and grinned at me. "Feel free to stay, I could do with a challenge. I'm getting bored with my life."