Until Then

by JL Rizzo

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

Even death can't part us.

I have known her my whole life.
But she has never met me.

Now I only see her one day a year.
She has no idea why.

We come from two different worlds.
But we have one thing in common.

Death.  Heartache.

Love.

Summer Perry has the perfect life.  Talented, intelligent, rich, and worldly famous.

Crew Evans has traveled the world and met success beyond his wildest dreams.

They only speak once a year...at midnight...in the cemetery.

Until one day it becomes more.  And the truth is unraveled.

Time isn't precious.  Time is cruel.

Can they save their relationship before it has even started?

Release date: February 17, 2020

Publisher: J.L. Rizzo

Print pages: 305

Sample

1.

Summer

11:45pm

If I screamed at the top of my lungs right now, not one person would hear me.

I could scream anything.  My name.  The color of my shirt.  What I ate for dinner.  FIRE!  No one would hear me.

I’m all alone.

But the souls might hear me.  If I screamed loud enough.

I like that they don’t answer back.  They just listen.

Walking in a cemetery in the middle of the night is comforting.  You’re alone but not really alone.  There’s no judgment.  No competition.  No conflict.  

Just crickets.  Which is unusual to hear in February, but given that it’s been uncharacteristically warm, not entirely unexpected.

The ground is moist beneath my feet as I curl the grass with my toes.  Something my father taught me.  Earthing is healing to the body, he used to say.  I wonder if he would think it was healing as I walk between the weathered grave markers.

Not much has changed in the last seven months.  A few new headstones.  Some new landscaping.  But ultimately, it’s all the same.  Which is good, I guess.  You can always count on a cemetery to be consistent.

But as I walk toward the grave, something seems a bit off.  From a distance, it looks cleaner, almost shinier.  There are three fresh flowers lying at the bottom, obviously picked from nearby bushes.  The other headstones I pass are dusty and hugged with weeds.    

Who’s been here?

I came to the cemetery straight from the airport.  And my mother would never have done this.  So, who the hell was it?

I glance around and scan the grounds.  It’s well-lit for a cemetery, with in-ground lanterns every few feet.  It’s easy to see if there are other visitors.

But no one’s here.  I’m alone, as I expected to be at 11:45pm on a weeknight.

Could have just been the regular maintenance crew.

Standing over the grave, I take my usual spot in front and wait for the day to seep into tomorrow.

Soul sucking.

Samuel Perry.

I’ll never, ever get used to seeing that name.

Pulling my knees up into my chest, I attempt to stop the burning pain in my stomach.  Folding my arms over my knees, I rest my chin and inhale a painful breath.

 

11:51pm

“Hi Dad,” I whisper, fluttering my eyes to hold back the tears.  “It’s me.”  I brush my fingertips across his name.  “I’m sorry I haven’t been here sooner.  Since we moved to New York, Mom and I have been quite busy.  But I’m sure you know that already.”  Guardian angels like my father have saved me on more than one occasion while driving on the streets of New York City.

Terrifying.

“School is going well.  I like my classes, and I’ve been working hard, like you taught me.”  I shrug my shoulders.  “I don’t really feel like I fit in there.”  I feel a pang of regret and disappointment confessing that to him, as if I’m saying it to his face.  I always try to imagine what he’d respond.  It’s a hell of a lot harder doing it this way, since I know for a fact that he would be more comforting if we were face to face.  

“I like the people, though.  Some are funny and quirky; some are reserved and observant.    It’s a good mix.”  I pause.  “They’re talented, Dad.  Really talented.”  I think about Goodwin, who makes me laugh, a lot.  He’s brilliant with a saxophone.  

“Mom is fine.  She’s staying busy as usual.”  I take another breath and shake my head.  “Actually, why should I lie to you?  Mom’s still a mess.  She can’t get out of her never-ending nightmare.  She still feels terrible.  And she’s trying to make up for it every day…to me.”  I pause, hoping my mother is managing these 30 hours without me.  “I still don’t understand why she thinks she owes me anything.  I’m not the one who demanded orange juice in the middle of the night.  She still refuses to drink it.”  Memories start to flood back from those two days.

Music in my ears.  Garage door shuffling.  Car engine moving away.  Lights fading.  Silence.  Phone ringing.  Mom screaming.  Mom running.  Mom falling.  Mom silent.  Mom frantic.  Headlights.  Sirens.  Hospital room.  Whispering.  Sobbing.  Silence.  Aching Silence.  Deafening Silence.  Silent silence.

I suck in a breath to find my next words.

“I’m taking care of her, though.  As best as I can.  She’s safe and smiles occasionally, but once she sees me catch her, she stops and resumes her mood.  I just let her be.  Everyone handles things differently.”  I shrug.  “Besides, she tells me not to worry and shuffles me off to class.”

The flowers at the base of the headstone are pretty.  They’re pink and remind me of my old house where the hydrangea bushes framed the front steps.  Actually, they were my hydrangea bushes; my grandmother and I planted them the summer before she died.  I took care of them for years until the day we moved.  I even cut off a few and pressed them in some thick books to take to New York.

I pick them up to see if they smell the same.

Of course they do.

 

11:55pm

“Dad, New York is so different from here, from home.  But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve made some friends.  Not like the friends I had in high school.  I actually feel like I’m part of a group there.  I’m in good company, for the most part.”  A tear swells and falls down my cheek, remembering the moments my father had to parent me in high school.  God, I wish he were here.  

I’ve never been one to mesh well with other people, let alone have friendships or relationships.  The people in school usually stereotyped me on both sides of the spectrum - freak who didn’t speak or girl who was too talented to be spoken to.  So I was often alone, which I secretly loved.  I didn’t always know how to deal with who I was or who I was supposed to be, especially at 16 years old.  Trying to explain my feelings to anyone else seemed damned near impossible.

So I didn’t even try.

I stuck to the things that I did best.  And despite my parents’ gentle coaxing, I didn’t explore friendships.  If people wanted to talk to me, then fine.  I’d answer the same, boring, unimaginative questions over and over, and they’d be on their way.  And I’d get back to doing what I was doing before they barged into my life.

“I miss you, Dad.”  I let the tears run freely, just for today.  “Sometimes I can hear your voice and sometimes I dream about you, but it’s so hard to wake up from that.  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.  And Mom is completely useless.”  Tears stream down my cheeks.  

My hero.  

“I wish I could feel you hug me and hear you tell me that I’m doing fine.  I wish I could see you smile at me again, touch your forehead,” I choke out.  “That’s all I’d need to keep going confidently.  Because sometimes I feel like I’m in over my head.”

I drop my head and let the quiet tears fall to the grass, feeling the stab of loneliness burn into my soul. 

After I inhale an unladylike sniffle, I take notice that the crickets are extra-chirpy.  And loud.  And getting gradually louder.  I look in the direction of the louder ones when I notice a shadow creep across the grass.

What the hell?

I quickly twist around and see a guy standing there with his hands up, as if I’m about to shoot him.

Where the hell did he come from?

He freezes when I face him and the entire time I stare him down.  We lock eyes for a few moments, almost challenging the other to say the first syllable.  He lowers his hands to his pockets and takes a deep breath, staring at me the whole time, never breaking eye contact. 

I’m not one for casual conversation, so I stay quiet, waiting for him to explain himself.

With my eyes, I let him know that he’s invading. And I wonder if he was eavesdropping on this very private moment.  I might seem like a bitch, but I don’t care.  I covet my privacy.

He doesn’t say anything at all.  I can see the shadow on his face as he blinks a few moments, his face stoic.

It’s an uncomfortable silence.  And he’s not taking the hint to leave.

My defenses start to rally, and I turn around so that I’m facing him a little more squared off, looking up at him more annoyed than ever.  

 He slowly walks closer to me, getting taller as he nears.  I feel my heart rate speed up and mentally plan my attack strategy but don’t move a muscle as he fills my line of sight.  When he stops in front of me, he slowly pulls his hands out of his pocket, as if not to alarm me.  Then he holds out a cloth handkerchief, an offering.

A handkerchief?  Who carries these anymore?  

Keeping my guard up, I look at the handkerchief then back at him and simply shake my head no.  He holds it out for a moment longer then tucks it back into his pocket.

Taking a small step forward, he lowers down one knee to the dirt, crouching in front of me.  Maybe he’s trying to make himself less intimidating.  Maybe he’s trying to get a better look at me.  Either way, I want him the hell out of my space.

He stares at me again and arches an eyebrow.  I don’t look away.  I won’t be intimidated by this guy.

“Cancer,” he finally says.

What?

“Excuse me?” I ask without hiding my vexation.

The invader takes a deep breath, and a few seconds later responds, “I lost my Mom to cancer.”   

Now I know he was eavesdropping.

I liked it better when I thought he was just here to attack me.

“So?”  I know I’m supposed to be nice and sympathetic to him also losing a parent, but I’m still hung up on the fact that he’s interrupting my time with my father.

 

11:59pm

My reply must take him by surprise because he stands up tall again.

“I was walking through the cemetery, and I heard you talking.”  Even his voice is stoic and quiet, like he doesn’t want to disturb the departed.  “I’m sorry I bothered you.”  He turns to walk away when my father’s voice rings in my head.  Always be kind, even when you don’t want to.  People will remember how you make them feel.

Christ.  Why does that have to pop into my head now?

“Wait,” I say after him.  He turns back to me, standing almost smaller, as if gravity just pushed him down a few inches.  

Standing up to put myself on even ground with him, I hate where my thoughts lead me.  He’s younger than I first thought, with dark hair and warm eyes.  His features give me pause, something that’s never happened to me.  He’s cute, really cute.

I hate that I find him cute.

 

12:01am

“Can you just give me a minute, please?” I ask him.  He nods his head.

I turn back around to my father’s headstone and crouch down.  

“Dad, it’s 12:01.  It’s time.”  I take a deep breath and let my eyes fall shut.  Then I say  a  prayer for my father, who I tragically lost on this minute two years ago.  My life changed forever this minute two years ago.  I’ve had a huge hole in my heart since this minute two years ago.  My future became dark on this minute two years ago.

Please let me know that you can hear me, Dad.  I need you every day.  I need to hear your voice.  Please, Dad.  Please tell me I’ll be ok.  Please tell me I’m not alone.  Please tell me you’re still with me.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

Listen.

Pause.

The sudden, cool, gentle breeze that rustles the leaves and whistles through the trees is all I need to hear.  It sends chills up my spine.  

He’s here.  And he’s listening. 

Dad.  

“Thanks, Dad.  I miss you every day.  I’ll see you soon.  Until then.  I love you,” I choke out.  Breathe, Summer.  

I stand up.  Kiss my fingers and press it gently to the headstone, full of love and loss for my father.

When I turn back around, I see that guy still standing there.  He’s standing straighter now.  And he is in fact very cute.  I feel the sudden need to apologize for being so snarky before.

“I’m sorry about before.  I just —”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Summer,” he interrupts.  

He knows my name?

My breath stops my thoughts, and I swallow the angst that’s building up behind my throat.

“How do you know my name?”

He takes a small step forward and shrugs his shoulders.  “I live in this town.”  He takes a noticeable breath.  “I know who you are.”

  I wish that him saying those last words didn’t provoke any emotion, but the spark that just ignited in my stomach begs to differ.

He knows who I am.  I have to understand that sentence better.  Because there’s a lot to know about me.  And depending on what he’s referring to will decide if I want to keep talking to him or run away.