Once: Once Series, #1

By MS Kaye

Her first and also her once.

Jonathan and Rebecca’s paths cross at exactly the right moment, when each most needs to hear what the other has to say.

But Jonathan is three days from entering the priesthood, and Rebecca leaves him to his peace. But he is unable to find peace.

Without each other’s comfort and strength, they must each struggle to forge a new path, with only memories of the one day that changed everything.

But are they able to forget and let go?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781939590800

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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REBECCA

From the outside all was perfect—a peppy cheerleader with straight As—but it was all a lie. And I was no closer to understanding how to fix it. All I knew was I couldn’t take another boring political science or government class. If I didn’t figure out what was wrong with me soon, I was going to end up dropping school altogether, and then my family would be sure to disown me.

Maybe I didn’t need any great meaning. Could I find happiness working the counter at a 7-Eleven or maybe as a waitress at a Waffle House on the interstate? At least I'd be sure to meet interesting people—people who wouldn’t expect anything other than a Have a nice day. Maybe I could live alone with five cats and not have to fake interest in my girlfriends’ boy troubles. Maybe having zero ambition was the cure. Well, honestly, I didn’t have much of that now—secret and idiotic ambitions, but not realistic ones.

The train to take me back to my life finally pulled up, and I stuffed my notebook back in my bag—the notebook that held all, everything and nothing. I had just the small shoulder bag and a duffle with a few clothes, so it was easy to carry everything myself. I hadn’t bothered with the trendy outfits and makeup on this little excursion to Chicago. It was freeing, but I knew I’d fall back into the same old expected habits once I returned. I was a good girl and I always did as expected—on the outside. Despite my light packing, I still caught my duffle in the doorway of the train.

Let me help you.

Someone took the bag from my hand, and I turned to see a man smiling at me, not the usual smile I received from men, but as if he honestly was being a gentleman. And there was something more in his face. Or was it the odd combination of the kindness in his black eyes, and the scar that ran from his eye down the side of his cheek to his ear?

I forced myself to stop looking. Thank you.

After climbing the few steps up into the train, I turned to take my bag.

He didn’t give it. I don’t want you getting stuck in the hall. I may not be there to save you.

I smirked.

His mouth strained as if he was working to stop from smiling wider. Which compartment?

I submitted and led the way, expecting to have to brush him off yet. I opened the door, and then turned, and he relinquished my bag without another word. My hand smoothed across his rough skin, much rougher than I was used to. The guys I knew all claimed to be tough, but most had never truly worked, never manual labor, only football practice. It was funny that football players were supposed to be such tough guys. They always seemed to be the biggest babies.

He walked back the way he had come, and...

Why was I watching him?

I went into the tiny compartment and set my bags on the seat next to me, fully intending to stare out the window at the flat Illinois countryside. Then I pulled my notebook back out. I often wrote sketches of the people I met. I felt like I had to write him down. But what was I supposed to write? I hadn’t really met him, so I decided on capturing his contrasting features.

He had sleek dark hair that had been grown out, not as a result of wanting to change the style but simply because he’d been too busy and preoccupied to bother with the barber—and he definitely went to a barber, not a salon. Eyes black, startlingly intense but soft somehow as if he’d learned much from a hard life.

I couldn’t decide on his ethnicity—white but mixed with...Southeast Asian? Maybe Latino? Or perhaps even Middle Eastern.

His skin was golden from outdoor labor, not dark really, just golden. The labor also shaped his frame, solid but not ripped. He had probably never seen the inside of a gym and would think Nautilus equipment ridiculous, lifting for the sake of vanity when the exertion could be used for some good. He was soft-spoken but had obviously gotten into trouble at some point. What could cause a scar like that?

The train lurched away from the station, and I laid the book on my lap while I wondered if anything I’d written was correct.

I skipped lunch, my eyes glazed from watching the blank farmland, but at least my mind was blank as well for a while. In the afternoon, I meandered out to the public cars to see if I could coax a snack out of one of the waiters. I found one when I entered a lounge area—a tall, gangly boy, an easy target.

Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I smiled pleasantly, maybe a little dully, but it always worked. Intelligence was not a key factor to men.

Excuse me, I said.

He turned, and I saw it was working. Actually, I was surprised. I didn’t even have makeup on.

Um...I fell asleep and missed lunch. I tilted my head and smiled. Do you think...

Sure, he said brightly. What would you like?

Water and fruit?

No problem. He left quickly, and I dropped back to my real facial expression.

Laughter from behind me.

I turned. It was the same man from earlier, seated in the corner by the door. I was about to walk away, faking anger but really feeling humiliation and shame.

Then he spoke. Poor boy didn’t stand a chance.

I hid the shame with annoyance. Do you listen to other people’s conversations often?

Only if they’re entertaining.

I thought about leaving, but I really was hungry so I found a seat a few rows away on the opposite side of the aisle, where I could still see him.

The waiter returned shortly, smile hung from his ears, and I dismissed him as politely as possible. His shoulders stooped as he walked away.

My appetite disappeared. I set the plate on the seat and pulled my knees up to my chest as I resumed staring out the window.

May I join you?

I knew who it was without looking up. Whatever you want.

He took the seat across from me. Aren’t you hungry?

The shame had grown with his proximity. I only shook my head.

He paused and then added in the softest voice, He’ll live, you know.

I couldn’t pull off the dumb, bubbly thing with him so I didn’t answer.

He didn’t push.

The afternoon faded, the horizon a gold backdrop outlining the trees that spotted the fields. The last bit of sun streamed through the clouds, filling the train, so bright that it washed out the colors of the compartment. Everything, even the reds, turned a hazy shade of beige.

I was hyperaware of him and noticed he was now perfectly still. I glanced over to see him watching me. He met my eyes and then quickly looked down. He closed his book.

I’m sorry. He stood and walked away down the aisle.

Great. I’d managed to cause the discomfort of two perfectly nice men already today, and who knew what the evening might hold.

I sat a little while longer, but then the waiter came back and retrieved the plate of uneaten food. He didn’t talk but silently slunk away. I escaped back toward my compartment.

Apparently, it was my day to be a plague. I stopped as I met someone in the hall. Of course it was the man from earlier. I pressed my back to the wall in the narrow hallway to let him pass. He had to brush against me to make it by.

If I’d had room to stagger, I would have.

His scent was like nothing I’d experienced before, not cologne, not even scented aftershave. It was like clean linen and mahogany. The slight contact showed me I was right about his having a solid frame. I’d never felt a reaction like this. My heart pounded and everything turned warm. I’d felt attraction before, but this was more than I was equipped to handle.

Sorry, he murmured. Then he paused to look back.

I couldn’t move.

You should have dinner, he said. You didn’t eat breakfast or lunch.

I looked up. How did he know I hadn’t eaten breakfast?

You didn’t move from that bench at the train station all morning, he said.

I didn’t answer.

With a small smile and the roll of his eyes, he took my hand as if playfully dragging his best friend. I gripped automatically. He led, and I followed. I had no choice. I had to restrain myself from holding with both hands—from stopping and kissing him right there in the hall.

I pulled at my sanity. What was I thinking? Aside from my father, I never let men lead me, which always seemed to annoy them.

The man managed to find us a little table in the corner of the packed dining car. There was no chair for him to hold, but he helped me take my seat in the booth. My fingers dragged across his upturned hand before he slid in across from me. A few seconds of awkward silence passed—well, awkward for me. I was trying to keep my heart in its place.

I’m Jonathan, by the way. His voice was quieter than it had been earlier. It reminded me of the hum of far-off rushing water.

Rebecca.

Becca not Becky, am I right?

How’d you know? I hated being called Becky.

You’re too sweet. Never trust a girl whose name ends in Y. I’ve never known a Missy or Stacey I could trust.

My gaze fell, and I scoffed, Sweet, under my breath.

So, you can control men. He reached across the narrow table to lift my chin. That doesn’t make you a bad person.

I took a breath and tried to smile.

He took his hand away. It felt as though his light touch had left a visible imprint.

So, where are you headed? I asked.

St. Mary’s University.

Where’s that?

Baltimore, he said. Where do you go to school?

University of Virginia.

Isn’t this a kind of round-about way to get there?

I sighed. I needed time to think.

What’ve you decided?

I don’t know. I...I don’t know.

What do you want?

His gentle eyes seemed to pull information out of me. I would’ve told him anything, even the things I wouldn’t admit to anyone else. I want to write, but...

But?

My father wants me to be a lawyer, to take over his firm someday. It’s been his dream since he first decided I was smart enough, and my mother wants it just as much. I’d be the first woman to run it.

But you don’t want it. His tone wasn’t persuasive in either direction, like he was just pointing out facts.

No, but...

His expression was calm, patient.

He’ll disown me, I said. "Everything’s been planned and all expectations fall on me. It’s not only that I don’t want to, but I’m scared that I won’t be able to. You have to have passion to be good at something."

You feel passion for writing.

But I know what he’ll say—I can hear the exact tone of his voice—that I can’t make a living with it, that it’s childish and selfish, that I need to honor my family and use the intelligence they’ve given me for some good.

Can your pencil do good?

I looked at my hands on the table. I think so, or at least in the right hand it can.

He lightly touched my fingertips with his. You have lovely hands. His thumb brushed the patch of thicker skin on my right-middle finger. Written word can transform.

Finally, someone who understood. He seemed to love type on a page as much as I did—his book sat on the seat next to him.

But he can’t see that, I said.

And the money?

I don’t need all the things he thinks I do. I don’t care if I have to waitress to pay the rent. I sighed. But he’d be embarrassed of me. He wouldn’t say it in so many words, but I'd see it in his eyes.

You’re a good daughter, Becca.

I moved to hold his hand, but he drew it back and looked over at the approaching waiter.

What can I get you to drink? Why did it have to be the same gangly boy? He only made eye contact with his pad of paper, and his voice was clipped.

Wine. Whatever you have that’s red, Jonathan answered.

I.D., the waiter said, only to me. Thank goodness I’d just turned twenty-one.

He read the date and then set it on the table, not into my open hand, and walked away.

When was your birthday?

Two weeks ago. Why did he only ask for mine? I didn’t need to fake annoyance this time. You can’t be more than twenty-eight.

He raised his eyebrows. People usually think I’m older.

"You only seem older." He looked perfect—more with every expression and gesture.

Jonathan opened the menu.

I opened mine as well and tried to read the words.

The waiter returned and set a bottle of wine on the table. He didn’t stay long enough to pour.

Jonathan handed me a glass, one of the water glasses, not the wine glasses. Have you ever drunk?

I’m a college girl.

His lips twitched.

My tone was defensive. I don’t like the taste of beer.

You’ll like this better than stale frat-house Budweiser.

He took a sip, and I noticed another scar, on his wrist and traveling up his palm.

It’s nothing, he said as he set his glass down on the table.

I pulled his hand closer to trace it. I was too chicken to ask about the line drawn from his eye to ear.

Are you all right? I asked.

It’s not what you think.

What do I think?

He kept my hand but flipped his over, concealed the scar. It wasn’t self-inflicted.

I didn’t let go of his hand.

He snatched my license off the table and examined it. Hm.

The mortification hit as I realized what I looked like in comparison to the picture. Why hadn’t I at least brought eyeliner and a curling iron?

You’re prettier when—

I took it back and looked down to stuff my license into my pocket. I know. The first man I really wanted to think me pretty, and—

When you don’t try so hard, he finished.

I looked back up. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

He met my gaze for a few seconds.

The waiter reappeared, a skinny white frame, as straight as a flagpole.

Jonathan drew his hand away and then waited for me to order. I picked something at random. Then Jonathan ordered, and the waiter walked away.

Jonathan sipped his wine again but used his left hand.

Can I ask you something? I asked.

What would you like to know?

I almost changed my question. I never understood why it felt rude to ask about family origin. What’s your ethnicity?

The corners of his eyes tweaked upward for a split second as if he thought something amusing. Then his expression sobered. I don’t know.

How could he not know? I tried to keep the confusion off my face.

I’ve never met my parents. He smiled a little. And what about you? Do those freckles mean you’re Irish?

I had a dusting of them across the tops of my cheeks, dark blond to match my hair. I usually covered them with powder. I’m a mutt—Irish, Swedish, German. Just about any Caucasian bloodline leads to me, a boring white girl.

His hand twitched as if he was fighting with himself. Then he reached to touch my face, his fingertips tracing my cheekbone over to my hairline.

I couldn’t breathe.

Certainly not boring, he murmured.

His fingers curled into my hair, and I thought he was going to...but then he pulled his hand away. He looked out the window for several seconds, at the fading, flat countryside.

Finally, he looked back at me. "May I ask you something?"

I only nodded. I was still trying to remember how to breathe.

Who are you seeing?

My shoulders slouched. No one.

His eyebrows lowered. Confused or disbelieving, or was there...was that frustration? Why? he said.

I couldn’t meet his gaze. They say I’m a tease.

His lips curved, but only a little, as if he were fighting desperately to hide his amusement. They’re too easy to control, am I correct?

I turned away, and of course, ended up looking right at the waiter who brought the plates. Luckily he ignored me—except when he peeked back over his shoulder.

The corners of Jonathan’s eyes turned up—at least his frustration had disappeared. You do have a talent.

I stared at the plate, my face tingeing from shame and anger, internal anger. But I’m not nice.

His voice turned soft. Yes, you are.

I met his eyes. He deserved the truth. I always hurt them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We’ll be dating, and everything seems fine. Nice guy, smart enough, attractive. But when it gets more serious, when we’re alone one night, and I think I’ll finally do it, I...can’t.

You don’t want them.

I didn’t know why I felt the need to tell him so much and attempted to deflect with teasing. What makes you so immune?

He laughed under his breath, not the amused kind.

And what about you? I fought not to show how uncomfortable I felt. Who are you seeing?

Dating is frowned upon, he said. What do you write?

Frowned upon? I couldn’t think of a way to ask what he meant without seeming rude, especially since he’d brushed by it so quickly. Nothing important.

You seem to have found an awful lot of unimportance. You didn’t stop all morning.

You were watching?

Barely loud enough to hear, he said, Of course. You were sitting in the sunlight. His fingers touched a few strands. Your hair shines gold.

Unable to stop myself, I held his hand in place—his right hand, then touched his scar with my fingertips. It was hardly noticeable if not in the light, no discoloration.

You were young when you got this.

Yes. He looked away, out to the scenery speeding by. He seemed as if he was more used to conversations being one-way, with him helping and not sharing of himself.

How? The scar wasn’t like the one on the side of his face but jagged as if by ripping, not slicing.

Children can be clumsy.

"But you