Blue Skies Read online

  Blue Skies

  Copyright 2020 T.L. Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written consent of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover Designer: QDesign

  www.qcoverdesign.com

  Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Editor: Sarah Collingwood

  www.sarahac36.wordpress.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

  Acknowledgments

  Connect With Me

  Listen Here

  The Vamps—Hope

  Kenny Chesney—She Thinks my Tractor’s Sexy

  Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros—Home

  Jon Bellion—Simple and Sweet

  Jon Bellion—Human

  Jon Bellion—Woke the F*ck Up

  Tori Kelly—I Was Made For Loving You (ft. Ed Sheeran)

  Vance Joy—I’m With You

  Jessie J—Who You Are

  Brian & Jenn Johnson—You’re Gonna Be Ok

  Freya Ridings—Lost Without You

  Nothing But Thieves—If I Get High

  Rhys Lewis—Better Than Today

  Lauv—Never Not

  Thomas Rhett—Unforgettable

  Lea Michele—Love is Alive

  Lauv—Superhero

  Kygo, Sasha Sloan—I’ll Wait

  Vance Joy—We’re Going Home

  For my dad,

  who helped me find

  the courage

  to share my voice

  with others.

  Love you.

  Blue

  It’s only temporary, I remind myself while I stare at him. He looks older than I pictured. His hair is more peppered than Mom’s, but it’s mainly the taut lines around his eyes and between his brows that give his age away. So different from Mom’s smooth, radiant skin. I think I see some of myself in him, like in the green hue of his irises, but maybe I’m just digging for similarities.

  “Well?” My dad shifts in his seat, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he focuses on the road.

  My dad. So weird to think of him that way when I only found out about him three months ago. I knew he existed, somewhere in the world, but he’d never reached out to me until then. As my gaze travels over his face, my brow furrows. I’m not ready to refer to him as Dad. Maybe I should stick with Timothy. I silently roll the name on my tongue, but no, that doesn’t sound right either. Too stuffy. Tim though. That could work.

  “What do you think?” he mutters, nodding toward our surroundings.

  Tearing my gaze from him, I finally look out my window. Picturesque two-and-three-story houses blur by as we pass them, shiny SUVs and sports cars nestled in their driveways. One after the other, each house is stacked closely side by side.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It’s . . . different.”

  “Like, good different?” He clears his throat. “Or bad?”

  “Just different,” I whisper.

  Wrapping my fingers around the two birthstones hanging from my necklace, I close my eyes. My heart aches for home already. For rough dirt beneath my bare feet. Endless miles of wild grass and sunshine. The taste of nature in the air.

  I hear a click, then my window slides down, and a breeze cools my face.

  I glance at Tim.

  He gives me a sideways look, then an awkward smile. “Your mom used to prefer the windows down. I don’t know if she still does, and heck, maybe you don’t. I just thought . . .” His voice fades, and he taps the steering wheel with his index finger. “I don’t know.”

  Closing my eyes again, I lean back against the headrest. “Thank you.” My hair whips against my cheeks, tickling my neck, and I smile as I think of home.

  A few minutes pass, then we pull into a wide, stone-paved driveway. I squint at the house. Mom told me Tim is a successful lawyer and that he’ll have plenty of room for me. Still, this isn’t what I expected. Single men don’t usually live in the suburbs. Then again, I guess I wouldn’t know. In our little house in Northern California, outside the Redwood Forest, it’s just me and Mom for miles.

  The engine shuts off, then Tim’s door opens and closes. An uncomfortable silence fills my ears. When the trunk opens and a soft thump indicates my bike hitting the ground, I slip out of the car. He’s propped the bike against the bumper to get the rest of my stuff. I move to snatch up my bags, but he beats me to them.

  “Don’t be silly, Bluebell. I can take your stuff up.” He heads toward the front door before I can respond. “Your bike too,” he adds when I take it by the handles. “You can leave it for now. I’ll come back and put it in the garage in a second.”

  “O-kay.” I stumble after his long strides, entering the house behind him and coming to a hard halt in the living room. It’s so . . . formal. But it’s beautiful too. The ceilings are tall, and natural light pours through all the windows. A curved staircase sits on my left. There’s a fireplace at the opposite end of the room, and, on my right, a rounded archway leads to a huge kitchen.

  My gaze lingers on a leather couch and loveseat—the same type of furniture my mom poured a bucket of red paint over at a PETA convention. She also once left a note on an acquaintance’s decorative fur pillow that said: With our thoughts, we make the world.—Buddha.

  When I wander further inside, I spot photographs mounted on the walls and lining the mantel. There aren’t that many, I guess, but to me, everywhere I look, strangers’ faces stare back.

  My feet drift toward
the largest frame centered above the fireplace, and I pick it up. Tim stands in the middle wearing a burgundy sweater and dark jeans. A bright smile stretches across his face, and both his arms are draped over two other people. The woman on his right beams while she holds his waist with one hand and brushes her dark brown bob behind her ear with the other. My throat thickens as I take in the younger girl on his left. She has dark hair like the woman, but hers is pin-straight, falling to her chest. Her lips are curved, brown eyes glinting in the sunlight, one hand on her hip.

  She looks about seventeen.

  The same age as me.

  “Your room is the first one on the right.” My head jerks toward Tim’s voice. He’s already halfway up the stairwell, but he pauses when I don’t answer, glancing over his shoulder to find me frozen, my fingers curled around the photo frame. His eyes flick toward it, and he fidgets with his collar. “You, uh, okay?”

  I didn’t notice the silver band on his ring finger until now. My grip trembles around the glass, and I don’t know why. Of course he’s married. Why shouldn’t he be?

  I can’t help but glance around the house once more with new eyes. No wonder he lives in a big place like this. He has his own family.

  My words come out quiet. “Is this your daughter?”

  When he avoids looking at me, I tell myself it’s just a question—one I already know the answer to just from his reaction. I also know what Mom would say if she weren’t thousands of miles away right now. She would tell me to focus on the present and find the good standing in front of me. She’d be right too. There is good in this: I have a dad, and he wants to know me. But that isn’t enough to stop the ache from spreading through my chest.

  He has his own family.

  “Her name is Kimmie. She’s my stepdaughter, yes.” He pauses, taking in my expression. After a second, he nods toward the picture. “The other woman, Rebecca, is her mom and my wife of ten years.”

  Stepdaughter. It doesn’t take away the sting. Nodding, I turn back to the mantel and set the frame down, careful to make it as perfectly placed as the rest.

  It’s not easy to keep my voice from breaking, but I pull it off. “They look nice.” With a deep inhale, I try to push the ache away, then swivel and make my way toward him. I offer a small smile before grabbing one of the bags at his feet and continuing up the stairs.

  “Your mom,” he mutters behind me, halting my footsteps. The suitcase rustles as he picks it up and follows. “She didn’t tell you about them?”

  I shake my head.

  A hand curls around my shoulder, and I stiffen. He must notice because he quickly drops it.

  “Bluebell, I’m . . .” He lets out a sigh. “I’m so sorry. I asked her to tell you so you’d know what to expect. But if this is too much, if you want me to rent another place for just the two of us while you’re here—”

  “No.” I face him. “No, don’t do that.” I wanted to get to know him, and this is him, right? When he raises an eyebrow, I shrug and add, “It’s fine. Promise.”

  Wheeling around before he can respond, I make my way to the first door on the right. It’s not latched. I use my shoulder to push it open the rest of the way and step into the bedroom. It’s big—huge, actually, compared to my tiny room back home. The carpet is an impeccable white, and there’s a pine desk in the back corner with a computer. A cherry red rug sprawls from the entrance to the window at the opposite end of the room like it’s welcoming royalty.

  Tim comes in behind me and sets my other bag down. “We were going to pick up a few things, you know, decor and stuff.” He takes a breath and rubs his hands together, then scans the room like he’s trying to see it through my eyes. “But, well, Rebecca was worried that might seem presumptuous, so we decided to leave it plain and let you decorate it yourself.”

  I take another step inside, lowering my bag. “Thanks, but I’m only going to be here for a few months, if that, so . . . I’ll probably leave it how it is.” Turning back to him, I brush a lock of hair behind my ear. I wish this wasn’t so awkward.

  “Yeah, of course. Of course.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay. Well. I’ll let you get settled then. Sunday is usually takeout night for us, so Rebecca and Kimmie went to pick up some Thai food for dinner. They should be home any minute. You don’t mind Thai, do you? We made sure to order yours without fish oil, so it’s vegan.”

  I lift a shoulder. “I’ve never tried it.”

  His brows shoot up. “Never?”

  “Nope.” I chuckle at his reaction, and his eyes brighten enough to light the room. “The nearest restaurant back home is an hour from our house, and there’s definitely no Thai. We usually just eat from our garden or pick up a few things from the local farm stand.”

  Tim huffs out a quiet laugh, scratching his chin. “Same old Susie, huh?” he mutters as though to himself. “Well, I guess I better give you a few minutes of peace before the girls get here.”

  He winks playfully, but a sinking sensation presses on my chest. The girls.

  I nod, and he exits the room, closing the door behind him.

  Letting out an exhale, I look around and take in the white walls. It’s bland, like he said. My room at home is sky blue, and there’s a crooked, burnt orange sun painted on the ceiling above my bed. It’s completely amateur and looks more like an alien egg, but that’s what I get for asking Mom if I could paint it when I was eight.

  I tug at my necklace again as homesickness sets in.

  But I know it will be worth it.

  If there’s one consistent thing about Mom, it’s that she always listens to nature’s call. Heck, she earns a living on the fact, collecting and selling crystals. When the rocks of New Mexico called to her, she warned me this would be a long trip, but I have no clue what that means.

  Two months?

  Five?

  Clearly longer than usual; she didn’t only put me on a plane, but she’s letting Tim enroll me in the local public school while I’m here.

  I clasp my hands, taking a second to clear my mind, then reach into the bag closest to me and pull out the only things I need right now. My abalone shell, my lighter, and sweetgrass. Mom would probably use sage instead of sweetgrass for this, but I don’t want to cleanse all the energy in this room—not when Tim has been here. I just want to cleanse it of anything negative and set the space up for a fresh start.

  By the time I’m done with my routine and I’m standing before the closed window, a familiar rich, cupcake-like scent wafts through the room. Warmth fills me as I breathe it in. The syrupy smell is just one of the reasons sweetgrass is a favorite of mine.

  Flicking the lock on the window, I push it open, watching as wisps of smoke follow the breeze and dissipate above the swimming pool.

  I lean forward and look down at my new backyard. The focal point is the round pool with a small waterfall. Hedges line the perfectly maintained lawn. It’s pretty, definitely my favorite part of the place so far, but the whole area could use a little . . . more. I wonder if they’d let me plant lilacs or sage, maybe lavender. Perfect for the spring season coming up.

  Beyond the pool sits a small guesthouse. A smile lifts my lips as I wave the final remnants of smoke and negative energy outside. The place looks a little like mine and Mom’s with its cottage style and white exterior, except this one’s taller and has longer windows.

  I’m wondering if I’ll be allowed to explore the cute house when movement pulls my attention to its kitchen window directly across the yard from my room. I squint through the sunlight as a figure blurs past once, twice, then stops right in front of the glass with his back to me.

  I gulp, feeling like a creeper while I watch him run a hand through his dark, overgrown hair.

  I’ve only ever seen one other guy with his shirt off, and he did not look like that.

  He grips the base of his neck, his shoulders constricting with the motion, and my gaze trails down his bare, tanned back. Then, he swivels so he’s facing me, and my heart rate sp
ikes, but I blow out a breath when he doesn’t spot me. Instead, he lowers himself to the sink, turns on the faucet, then splashes water into his hair and over his face.

  Warmth seeps into my cheeks.

  I jerk when a dog barks in the distance, and the mystery guy looks up. Somersaults erupt in my stomach as his focus lands on me.

  My eyes widen, but I freeze. I’m the deer, and he’s the headlights.

  His gaze narrows; my throat goes dry. I manage to open my mouth, but what can I say? It’s not like he can hear me anyway. Without thinking, I lift a hand and wave. My cheeks only grow hotter when he just stares.

  I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. Yep, definitely a creeper.

  He keeps his glare locked on me, yanks a rag off the counter, and dries his hands. After a painfully long second, he releases me from his hold and stalks away from view.

  “Bluebell?”

  I jump, pushing off the windowsill and pivoting. Tim stands in the doorway, one hand on the knob. His forehead creases when he takes in my expression.

  “You okay?”

  I nod, my neck tight. “What’s up?”

  He glances behind me at the open window, then spots the sweetgrass and abalone shell. My lungs expand with relief when all he says is, “Thought you’d go for sage.”

  I tilt my head. “Do you smudge?”

  He chuckles. “It’s been a while. But I remember your mom used to prefer sage.”

  I smile. “She still does.”

  “Yeah?” He glances away, rubbing the side of his arm. “Okay, well . . . uh, Rebecca and Kimmie are back. Would you like to join us for dinner?”

  With another nod, I follow him out of the room and down the stairs. My steps turn sluggish as he strolls ahead of me. He moves through the living room and eases onto the couch, beside the woman and girl I saw in the photos.

  For a moment, time stands so still I wonder if I’m breathing. Even their movements lag in slow motion as I watch Tim and his family pick through the food on the table. Distant, unfamiliar voices blur together while they bicker over who’s eating what. Someone’s laughter echoes around me.

  “Bluebell?” Like the flick of a switch, Tim’s face moves in front of mine with overwhelming clarity. His eyes soften. “You coming?”