Undefeated (Unexpected Book 5) (5 page)

I
f anyone asked which author would write my life’s story, I’d answer Charles Dickens, without hesitation. For the past month, I’ve been dreaming of Leo’s ghost. Sometimes, he’s in the background, while I sob for his loss.

“Move on, Kenzie,” he repeats over and over again.

An easy phrase to say. He’s asking me to perform a miracle. Forget our future, our promises. The vows we told each other. He left me without a word, a goodbye, a hug. One last kiss. Am I supposed to accept that I was cheated out of our happiness? Why me? I was a good person, wasn’t I? There’s nothing left for me to bargain, to get angry at, or to give in exchange.

I peer between the blinds, toward the foothills where everything is still. Nothing changes, only the seasons. Couldn’t that be us? Leo and I staying together in one place, forever. Our only time together is in dreams.

“How can you ask me to move on?” I whisper, gripping the hem of my sweater, holding myself tightly so I don’t fall down.

“Would you?” I release the blinds, looking around the dark room. “Would you move on if I had been the one to leave you behind?”

It happens in an instant, like a stroke of lightning hitting me on the head, a surge of electricity travels through my entire body. The answer. A sob escapes me and the tears begin to stream. The only way out of this cycle hurts almost as much as it hurt to lose Leo.

Moving out.

For my kids’ emotional health, my own, and our financial future—we have to go. Maybe far away so I can begin to heal. Look beyond what happened inside the walls of my home. I don’t have much money to continue the lifestyle we’ve had for so many years. The house expenses are costly while my income is zero.

Whether there’s a life beyond what I planned, I know that my children have the right to a better life. The one Leo and I had imagined for them, with some adjustments. In order to do so, I have to pump some life into my heart and my soul. Maybe I can’t continue waiting for him to come home.

I have to accept it, he’s not coming home.

Grieving is a process, a set of phases that one follows until we learn to live with the pain, the loss. Until we remember how to breathe. There are no rules on how to get to the point where the hurt is bearable. No timelines. My lips draw up in a small smile as I place one of Leo’s physics books inside the
for Finn
box. Maybe Leo knows the mathematical equation that will provide me with an accurate answer on how long the pain of losing him will last. It’s been more than two years and breathing is as hard as leaving my bed. I’m years away from reaching a place where I can imagine a world where Leo and Kenzie aren’t one. But I made the promise to my children, to him, and to myself that I’ll find a way to speed up the process.

Shit, I clear the tear I feel slipping the moment I find one of the love letters I wrote to him inside of another one of his college books. One of the thousands I wrote while we were apart. He went to CU Boulder; I was at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. Separated by an hour drive didn’t sound bad when we received our acceptance letters, but damn, it was a long distance when neither one of us owned a car. It was a small obstacle that didn’t matter, our relationship survived the four years, and after, we swore never to be apart for more than a day. Until now. Seven hundred plus days without the man who made my heart skip every time he entered a room.

My first love, my only love.

This week has been as painful as the first few nights without him. Each time I set an item that he owns—that he owned—away, I lose him all over again. Deciding to pack at night or while Harper is at school and Finn is next door was the best. They shouldn’t see me break down over and over while trying to gain . . . what is it that I’m trying to find? Myself, my courage, a new way to live? All of the above, or whatever might happen during this new phase. Opening my barely alive heart to the unknown frightens me, but I have to do the right thing.

Goodwill’s truck is coming tomorrow to pick the items I’m not planning on keeping. I’m keeping a few things for myself and some of Leo’s most meaningful possessions for the kids to remember him by. Things that their father cherished while he was alive. Shit. I don’t realize that I’m crying until I notice the droplets hitting the books I’m packing.

Everything of his reminds me of who we were, who we became, and what we lost that tragic night. The little pieces leftover from my shattered heart are trying to rebuild the mess inside me, but it’s impossible. There’s nothing but an empty body and I’m tired of fixing the pain with pieces of Band-Aids that fall off with a small gush of air.

“Two more days, Mackenzie,” I tell myself while taping yet another box of books closed. “Portland should change everything. A different life where your kids can see you smile again.”

S
plitting the eighteen-hour drive from Colorado to Oregon was either the best idea, or the worst. Day one is over. We stopped in Ogden, Utah, for the night. Luckily, the hotel I booked had a pool, affordable rates, and a McD’s next door. By nine o’clock, the two kids were fast asleep, neither one protesting about us three sharing a bed.

To beat the traffic, I woke up at five. Shoving Harper and Finn inside the car, I drove along I-84 until Boise. We had breakfast at Denny’s. After, I drove to a small park where the kids ran a few laps and played on the swings. An hour later we continued our way to Portland, we had six hours to go before we arrived at my aunt’s home.

“I’m hungry,” Harper reminds me for the millionth time that we hadn’t stopped for lunch. “Mom, you’re killing me.”

My drama queen makes an appearance. Taking the next exit, I drive to the first gas station, parking next to the pump. After a couple of calming breaths, I shut down the car engine and take the keys out of the ignition. Turning around I give her what I hope looks like a pleading face and not an annoyed one. “Let me fill up the tank and then we’ll have lunch.”

“You said that millions of miles ago,” she protests.

I press my lips, avoiding any further discussion with my little hungry girl. Walking around the car toward the pump, with my debit card in hand, I hear a bell ding. I halt, my eyes lift, and I spot him opening the glass door of the convenience store. A tall man, with broad shoulders, dark blond hair, wearing a leather jacket, and a devilish smile directed at me comes out.

“Howdy,” he grins as he approaches the bike parked on the other side of the pump I’m using.

The man owns the place, the streets. Maybe the entire city. The smile never leaves his lips, not even as he takes his helmet from the seat and adjusts it over his head. He mounts the bike and pulls his aviator sunglasses off his collared shirt. They look like they were made just for him as he slides them onto his face.

“Have a safe trip.” His full lips move, his deep voice sounds, and I realize that I hadn’t moved since the moment he open that damn door. He’s handsome, in a Charlie Hunnam way.

As his bike pulls over and leaves the premises, I feel normal. Not the widow that mourns for her husband. More like the old Mackenzie who would enjoy when a guy gifted her a smile even when she was married. Because there’s nothing wrong with receiving a smile from a stranger. It’s, in fact, uplifting to share those around. Maybe moving on won’t be as hard. It doesn’t mean that I’ll forget, or that I’ll find someone else. It only means that I can let myself live again.

I’m standing in front of a gorgeous Victorian style home, along with a gorgeous guy who is staring back at me. The house isn’t as big as my aunt described it, but we’ll make it work, at least for now. We’re only staying temporarily until I find a job and a place for us to live in. I double-check that the number is right, three forty-eight, and my eyes land on him again. He might be in his early thirties, with short dark hair, perfectly sharp cheekbones, firm angular jaw, and a perfectly straight nose. A pretty face that maybe one of those plastic surgeons could’ve designed for a Hollywood actor. His deep melted-chocolate-brown eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, stare down at me. He’s about eight inches taller than my five-three, and under the gray t-shirt he wears, there are some lean well-defined muscles.

Not bad, but instead of ogling the Portland-welcome-committee, I ask the obvious, “Um, I’m looking for 348 North East Holman?” I show him the printable version of Google maps I have.

He narrows his gaze at the paper and points at the letter A I overlooked, then shows me the letter B right below the big numbers on the wall. “Next door,” he says with a low voice, turning around and leaving me standing in the cold.

What the hell, and what door?

I glance over to the driveway where I parked my car to make sure that the kids are still asleep and push the keyless remote to lock it and set the alarm. I then pull out my phone to verify with my aunt that she gave me the right address and find out where the heck the entrance to her house is. But Mr. Few-words comes out of the house wearing a jacket and a cap before I can call her. He tilts his head, signaling me to follow and walks across the driveway.

Chasing behind him I stare at the fine ass wrapped up by a pair of loose jeans. My head tilts from side to side appreciating the male form in front of me. Oh, shit, wait. I halt in my tracks. Why am I eyeing this man? I’m a married woman and Leo wouldn’t appreciate it if . . . I lift my left hand looking at my bare fingers. Right, moving on from Leo and Kenzie. It doesn’t mean that I’ll jump into bed with the first hot body I notice. Only that I have to push away the guilt from looking.