Dream for a Second

By Jes Smyth

Have you ever wondered …

If I had listened to my heart, would I have forgotten my dreams so easily?

For fans of Lucy Score's Things We Never Got Over and Beth O'Leary's The Road Trip.

Lena is coasting. Ignoring. Avoiding a life she feels too guilty to live—until, thirteen months after a fateful phone call, she is forced from her hiding place in Oregon to drive a vintage Volkswagen van back to its rightful owners in Florida. As Lena grapples with grief, unexpected engine troubles, and a broken ankle, a stranger comes to the rescue. Lena is left with no choice. Someone else has to drive the van to Florida. But not without her.

Palmer is often the first to help and always has a plan. But when he discovers the family’s furniture business has declared bankruptcy, his perfectly crafted future shatters in front of him. Angry at his father and frustrated by his uncertain career, Palmer makes a new plan to leave the state. Fortunately for him, a fascinating woman he’s met needs a driver to take her and her van to Florida—a perfect opportunity to leave town and scout for reclaimed wood. 

What follows for Lena and Palmer is a winding journey of self-discovery, as life breaks open and all that's left is their dreams.

Dream for a Second is a contemporary fiction novel about the difficulty of healing, the intimidating possibilities of change, the fear of letting go, and, ultimately, the path toward one’s unrealized dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wellium Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798986394602

Book preview

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Lena would dwell on whatever she wanted. She had every right. Others, however, seemed to disagree.

I’m afraid I don’t follow, she said, even though she did. Surely, this customer wasn’t going there with her. 

The old woman leaned into the counter, silver hair balanced on top of her head like a bird’s nest, and peered at Lena with beady eyes. 

Don’t dwell on it for too long, she said, as clearly as the first time. She readjusted the bag on her hunched shoulder, yarn and knitting needles poking out of the opening. 

I’m afraid I still don’t follow, Lena said. The old woman, whose name had slipped Lena’s mind, came into the coffee shop twice a week and ordered the same thing—Earl Grey tea, two lemon slices, and one cube of sugar—and sat where the sun was brightest. A towering traveler’s palm tree occupied the same corner, soaking up the scarce Oregon sunshine, the tips of its waxy green leaves grazing the ceiling. It was a necessary burst of color in the stark white space and Lena’s favorite spot to sit during her breaks. 

You need to move on, my dear, and get yourself out there. The woman gestured with her arm to the entrance of the shop.

Lena’s shoulders began to rise. Coffee Rocks had been her home away from home for the last eight years. The name of the shop was a tongue-in-cheek homage to Oregon’s favorite pastime, sport climbing, a type of outdoor rock climbing. Lena never understood the attraction of scrambling over rocks, even fake ones, but enjoyed a good play on words and relied heavily on coffee. She was also desperate for money then, so it had seemed like a good fit.

Last year, the owner had mentioned franchising the business with Lena as her partner, but those talks eased up after the accident.

Will that be all? Lena forced a smile. She did not have the energy to be polite to a regular who was notorious for poking around where she shouldn’t. Not today. Honestly, not for a long time. Thirteen months, to be exact.

How old are you, Lena?

Lena felt her eye twitch as she held the smile. She knew exactly where this was headed. The you’re-too-old to-be-single conversation had already taken place with her mother. If you asked her mother, however, she would say twenty-three hours of natural labor entitled her to her opinions.

I just had a birthday in March, Lena said, pushing at her hair. The color was dark and unnatural, a result of little sleep and a midnight run to her local grocery store for a box of hair color. 

Oh, my dear Lena. The same month as, well, you know… The old woman lowered her voice even though she and Lena were the only two people in the airy coffee shop. As the accident. Lena placed two lemon slices onto the white porcelain plate and grimaced as the acidic juice crept into a hidden cut. An entire year—well thirteen months now that it was April—without Seth. The familiar threat of tears pricked at her eyes.

Lena nodded to the woman, hoping her brain would retrieve the name of this someone who clearly knew too much about her situation. Then again, Lena’s memory had walked out the door the moment she received that phone call.

He just stopped breathing. 

Lena had shouted profanities at the woman who’d witnessed her fiancé’s last breath, one that should have been hers to keep, then threw the phone across the bedroom. Her and Seth’s bedroom. It smashed against the wall and shattered like confetti. Her heart, in a state of shock, had witnessed the uncharacteristic outburst and then crumbled to the floor too. It had been there ever since.

Lena could ask the customer for her name but what did it matter when it would just be forgotten again? 

You look to be about thirty-three. Not much time left for babies. You need to find someone soon. Your baby-making years are coming to a close.

Lena watched slack-jawed while the woman moved the plate and oversized mug into her sun-spotted arthritic hands. This customer was known to offer tidbits of outdated advice, either to Lena or one of her coworkers: Why would he buy a cow when he’s getting the milk for free! A harmless regurgitation of outdated one-liners. 

Until now.

All right, Joyce, Clair’s voice shot out from behind Lena. Joyce? Lena felt her face scrunch at the unfamiliar name and wondered what else her mind had failed to absorb in the last thirteen months.

There’s a new policy. We no longer accept unsolicited tips or advice. Cash only, Clair said. 

Lena felt her body go rigid. Clair was the owner and had the right to speak to her customers as she saw fit. But Lena’s urge to apologize—for what exactly, she wasn’t sure—bounced on the tip of her tongue. 

Clair turned and looked up. Lena had seven inches on her boss’s five feet. If Clair were a dog, she’d be a smart and stubborn French bulldog. Lena wasn’t sure if smart French bulldogs existed, having only known one in her life. Seth’s parents’ dog, Marty Cruz, was notorious for running into the glass patio door more often than through it. Regardless, Clair’s short stature and strong will mimicked that of one. 

Lena, someone’s on the phone for you. Apparently your voicemail box is full. Again. Clair gave her the side-eye. Lena offered a half-hearted shrug. Those close to her knew to send a text, not call. He said it was time-sensitive and mentioned someone named Douglas, Clair said. Dread rushed into Lena’s bloodstream.

Speaking of Seth’s parents. Lena hadn’t spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Cruz for six months and felt terrible about it. 

See, Clair, Joyce said, the wrinkles on her face deepening as her smile grew. "The girl doesn’t need my valuable tip. She has a man waiting for her in the wings already. Good for you, Lena. I knew you were a smart one. And not just ’cause your face is always buried in those heavy-looking books."

Lena grimaced. She hadn’t opened a textbook for her business management program since Seth’s death. Hence her failing out of business school.

Honey, Clair said, her hands moving to her hips. This man sounds much too old, even for the likes of me. Besides, isn’t it a bit fast to be dating again? It’s only been a year. 

Thirteen months, actually. Lena could barely get the words out through her clenched jaw. 

Joyce shot Clair a withering look. It’s time for Lena to move forward. She needs to make babies! She’s wasting her eggs with each passing minute. Don’t you get it?

With all due respect, Joyce, a woman’s uterus does not obligate her to have children, Clair said. Besides, Lena is still working through her grief and she’s nowhere near the last stage. Clair patted Lena’s hand as if she were a helpless puppy.

Lena’s temples began to pulse. This was ridiculous. The two women were arguing like Lena wasn’t standing right there and like she hadn’t fought against the same thought since Seth’s death. She wasn’t doing grief right. But how could she? She kept picking at the scabs of past regrets, which only aggravated her grief. 

She gripped the counter and tempered the urge to scream at the top of her lungs. As the words geriatric pregnancy came out of Joyce’s mouth, Lena felt certain her insides were going to explode.

Okay, that’s enough, Lena said, like she was holding them at gunpoint. She’d never owned a gun in her life. A pocket knife and pepper spray were her go-to safety measures, but apparently, she had the voice of a gun owner. You two have no idea what you’re talking about. 

The two women snapped their mouths shut. The hum from the steamer filled the silence. They didn’t deserve an explanation. It hurt like crazy, still, and she wasn’t okay. But all she wanted was to be left alone. It was easier to feel okay that way.

Douglas is an old family friend of Seth’s and is completely harmless, and made out of metal, she wanted to add, but didn’t. Let the two women busy themselves spinning their own stories. 

Excuse me, Lena said and pushed open the back door, the sound of disapproving voices fading as the door swung shut. 

Lena walked toward the phone lying on a steel counter, the spiral cord snaking up to the base anchored on the wall. For a moment, she considered taking the receiver and returning it to its cradle. The phone was prehistoric enough to warrant a poor connection, even if it was a slightly assisted one. As Lena’s hand touched the cool plastic, an image of Douglas flashed behind her eyes. Her hand jolted away as if burnt. She’d meant to visit Douglas after Seth’s accident, but the thought of going alone was too much to bear. Seth would be heartbroken to know how long Douglas had been left alone. 

It seemed cold hard reality had become unavoidable. With a trembling hand, she placed the phone to her ear and hurtled into the first of many unknowns to come.

The smell of gasoline greeted Lena as she walked through the back door of the garage. Seth had only wanted the best for Douglas and had kept him in a neighboring town where well-off residents owned one too many garages. This particular garage was like a time-share vacation property, with heated marble floors, cathedral ceilings, and triple the square footage of her current apartment.

Two vehicles wrapped in canvas were parked side-by-side in front of Lena, with four additional vehicles, some covered and not from this decade, lined up behind. Hazy light streamed through the tiny square windows from the front garage doors up ahead. The light switch was to the right but Lena wasn’t ready for the abuse of fluorescent lighting, not yet. Somewhere the hum of a heater kicked on and filled the silence.

Lena had once felt at ease among these cherished items, each protected from the harsh realities of mother nature. But as she walked alongside one of the cars, her arms plastered to her sides so as not to risk a scratch, all she could see was beauty wrapped up in suffocating darkness. 

Except for Douglas. His white pop-top camper roof seemed to wink at her from the left. As she got closer, his evergreen paint sparkled, like it had been recently waxed. 

Lena hadn’t immediately warmed to the 1983 Westfalia VW van when Seth bought it, the day before he proposed to her. She’d been in shock—at both surprises. Seth had bought something that looked straight from the junkyard—smelled like it too—and the very next day proposed marriage after five years together. But Seth’s excitement for both their engagement and the rusted bucket of bolts had been infectious. He’d talked her through the plans for the old VW camper van, mapping out the work required to turn Douglas into something great. It was a lot of work. But that was Seth, seeing the potential in imperfection. Which, she supposed, had worked in her favor. 

On their first date, Lena had spilled her cup of coffee into his lap. With her nerves tangled in regret, she vigorously patted his thighs with a fistful of paper napkins, convinced he’d never call her back after this. Seth sucked in a breath and froze. Then the feeling of something much too hard to be his thigh grazed her hand.

She pulled her hands away. "I am so sorry."

Seth’s gaze fixated on her while the edge of the table dripped coffee onto his gray chino pants. A large wet spot, impossible to miss, had spread over the crotch of his pants. But he didn’t seem to care. His deep blue eyes remained on her and only her.

So let me get this straight, he said and rubbed his tanned cheek, a stark contrast to her constant pale skin. She would later learn he kept a year-round tan since he was part-Hispanic as his father was born and raised in Mexico. You’re a barista, who serves coffee and other hot beverages daily, and you do so with unsteady hands. There’s a story in there somewhere.

Lena wasn’t sure if he was a writer looking for his next book idea or if he was actually flirting with her. She hadn’t gone on a date for months, so she didn’t know any better, but her mouth twitched and her insides warmed. She liked him.

What can I say, she said, twirling a long strand of fiery red hair around her finger—her attempt at flirting back. I like to lean into my weaknesses.

Seth’s face broke into a wide smile and her heart tripped over itself. He stood up, seemingly oblivious to his peed-your-pants look. His high cheekbones were somehow more prominent now that he was standing tall, his thick chestnut hair swooped to one side. The man was handsome. Lena’s liquid knees confirmed the fact. 

You are imperfectly unexpected, Lena. And I can tell I’m in big trouble.

Lena wasn’t able to respond to the first half of Seth’s sentence. Her feelings were jammed somewhere between her heart and tongue. She gestured at the bottom half of his body instead. Well, yes. I ruined your pants.

Seth shook his head, smiling. I can replace my pants. You see, the trouble is I’m pretty sure you’re about to ruin my heart, and I have no intention of stopping you. I’m actually hoping that you kind of maybe do.

That wasn’t the last time Lena felt convinced Seth was meant to be a writer. He had an innate talent for speaking as naturally as a flower blooms, beautiful and inevitable. But instead of telling of beauty, he worked to capture it in photos and had been on the fast track to becoming the next big outdoor photographer. A profession that kept him away for months at a time, and one he would eventually never return from. Not that either of them could have predicted it.

Which was why he bought Douglas. Seth wanted to travel cross-country every summer until the day they were too old to manage it. The inaugural trip was planned for May of last year. Seth died in March.

Lena focused on the flat front end of Douglas and waited for the tears to come as they always did. Douglas’s large rectangular windshield was crystal clear, not a speck of dust or a fingerprint to be seen on his surface. Seth’s father had told her yesterday about the mechanic he’d hired shortly after "it became evident you weren’t going to take care of Douglas." 

She’d bristled at the judgmental tone. Didn’t Seth’s father understand she had struggled to take care of herself until recently? Then again, understanding and caring were two totally different things.

  But Douglas had never looked better. His round moon steel hubcaps and chrome bumper seemed to illuminate in the dark. The slatted exterior plastics looked pristine, as if never used. Which she supposed was accurate. According to Seth’s father, Douglas was road-ready and belonged in Florida since the title was in Seth Senior’s name now. Not hers.

She gripped the van’s keys in her hand, the one and only set to exist. Seth’s father requested she be available for the handover whenever he figured out who would be driving Douglas home.

Home.

The longer Lena stared at Douglas, the quicker her breath went in and out. This vehicle was built to be driven and was meant to carry out Seth’s dream in the process. His home was on the road.

Lena gripped the cool silver handle on the driver-side door, smooth and sturdy, then pushed the button. With his signature creak, Douglas opened up and exhaled straight into Lena’s face. The smell of sun-warmed leather with a hint of vanilla wrapped itself around her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Memories of Seth settled into the bottom of her lungs, warming her chest and calming her beating heart. She counted down from five and closed the door without getting in. Her eyes fluttered open, prickling but dry. She wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t crying! There were no tears and no indication that she was going to end up sobbing on the ground next to Douglas, and was that—no it couldn’t be. She reached up and touched her mouth.

Oh my god, she said to nothing and everything. Opening his door again, she flung herself into the bucket seat.

I’m not sure what’s happening, Douglas, she said, wrapping her hands around the large steering wheel, but I’m smiling, and it’s all because of you.

A certainty settled into Lena’s stomach once she returned to her apartment an hour later. She opened the contact list on her phone, tapped the name Mr. Cruz and waited for the trilling to stop. In two weeks’ time, the first weekend in May, and fourteen months following Seth’s death, she would finally leave for their road trip.

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Palmer refused to dwell on it. He had every right to his decision, even if it was rash. Others, however, seemed to disagree.

He pushed a bank check across the knotted-wood kitchen table. This should keep the business from going completely under, he said. He rubbed his thumb over a tiny scratch. Palmer had crafted the table as a wedding gift for his friend, using only reclaimed Douglas fir wood. It was a piece he hoped to replicate and sell, eventually. Once his family’s business affairs were straightened out first. My parents, well, Drew specifically, have no idea, which means I’ll need backup. He knew Mark wouldn’t understand or even agree with his plan. Palmer was after his friend’s legal advice more than empathy.

Mark scratched the tip of his long nose then scrubbed the same hand over his smooth jawline. Palmer was definitely the hairier of the two, although that wasn’t saying much. Mark barely managed a five-o’clock shadow. You’re telling me you secretly sold your house and plan to invest the money back into Husky’s? 

And keep my parents from having to sell their house, Palmer said.

Mark looked at the check and whistled. You don’t even like the name, he said. Why not just let it go? 

Mark did have a point. The name—Husky’s Fine Furniture—had become a sticking point the day Palmer refused to attend college at his father’s-father’s-father’s alma mater, the mascot of which was a husky.

We’ve been selling furniture in the original location for almost seventy-five years, Palmer said. "And my father wants to let it go, as you say, with no regard to the family’s legacy. He’s lost his damn mind. The sound of a ringing cell phone echoed from the living room. Palmer took a sip of his spicy bourbon. I’d like to avoid the legalities, but it’s inevitable. You know how my father feels about lawyers, but you’re like a third son." 

Mark tucked a chunk of black hair behind his ears, his expression measured. Are you loaning this money to your father or buying the store from him?

That’s a good question, Palmer said, his voice cracking slightly. When his father shut down nineteen of the twenty Husky’s Fine Furniture locations, Palmer had been alarmed. As VP of supply chain, Palmer focused on materials and warehouse staff. Rarely was he involved in higher-level financials. Why bother with numbers when you’re a better leader? his father had always said. But Palmer was beyond bothered. They were going out of business.

Say I buy the business, Palmer said, leaning forward. The original location remains in the family. But instead of the same tired warehouse furniture easily found online, I sell my reclaimed pieces, open an attached coffee shop or something, and bring in the younger homeowners. He sat back and took another sip. His plan sounded even better out loud. It’s not totally off the wall, is it? I’m not a young kid figuring shit out, I’m thirty-eight years old and more than capable of running my own business— Palmer stopped short when a pregnant belly rushed into the kitchen.

Sorry to interrupt, Shay said, apple-red hair falling out of her ponytail, cell phone clutched in hand. Is it okay if I steal Mark for a second?

Of course. I can head out if you need me to, Palmer said.

No! Shay said, holding up her hand. Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. This pregnancy has my emotions all over the place. She motioned for Mark to follow her. We won’t be long, she said. Mark shrugged as he passed by Palmer. 

His friend had certainly entered a new realm of life with which Palmer had no experience. In the span of two years, Mark had gone from dating an adventurous girl he’d met during a kayaking class, to marriage, then a new home, and, soon now, fatherhood. All Palmer had was a new beard.

Palmer pushed the wood chair back as his hair fell into his eyes. He had let himself go since the business closed its doors. Kind of. After his run-in last month with the woman who got away, he’d quit shaving his face. And it itched like hell. Which, he reasoned, was a good distraction from the memory of running into Jolie. Kind of.

As Mark and Shay spoke in low tones in the next room, Palmer tapped the side of his empty glass, remembering the night vividly.

Carrie, his cousin and Jolie’s best friend, had shrugged helplessly when he approached the table at their usual Friday night bar. Jolie offered a small wave with a shy, "Hi Palmer," and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Eight years had passed since she walked out of his life. Yet, in a matter of seconds, he was right back in it, enduring a gut punch of forgotten mannerisms. He didn’t ask if she was married or happy or why she was in town, he just soaked her in, like the napkin underneath her bourbon. 

He’d been dating other women, he wasn’t a monk. But after his last failed relationship, he started unpacking the truth behind his poor track record. He was the problem.

His plan to offer someone a place in his world, with the hope she would be the perfect fit, wasn’t realistic, was it? It was ridiculous. And he was not a ridiculous man. His pride revolted against the epiphany but he’d kept his hands busy. The dating apps remained unopened but his heart was far from closed. It had been split apart and put back together. When the time was right, Palmer would test out the updates. 

On the upside, he had created enough pieces to eventually fill the small showroom in Husky’s original location. Which he still planned to do, with or without his father’s blessing. The thought had him up and reaching for the bottle on the kitchen island. As he poured, a photo on the fridge caught his gaze.

Underneath a pineapple magnet was a picture of Shay and another woman standing in front of a sunflower field, their arms looped around each other. The striking red hair, pale skin, and splattering of freckles across the nose made the two women appear near identical. This had to be Shay’s sister, although Palmer couldn’t recall her name. He did, however, remember the drama she had caused at Mark and Shay’s wedding last year when she never showed up. Perhaps that broken bridge was mended now. He peered at the photo. Her eyes were more almond-shaped than Shay’s.

It’ll be fine, Shay. Mark’s voice grew louder. Palmer jumped away from the photo and turned as the couple walked into the kitchen. Both of their faces were drawn. 

I can’t believe she decided to drive to Florida, Shay said, lowering herself onto a seat at the kitchen table. Clearly, that van isn’t reliable. And neither is she. 

Everything okay? Palmer said, ducking around one of the crystal lights hanging over the island. His height had conditioned him to avoid low ceilings, doorframes, and lights, but he still hit his head more often than not.

It’s fine, Mark said, his tone pinched as he opened a drawer. He pulled out a phone book and began flipping through the pages.

You know, Mark, Palmer began. Mark looked up from the phone book. There’s this crazy thing called Google now. You should give it a try. 

Mark glared at him. There’s a twenty-four-hour towing company I can’t remember the name of. But this will.

Palmer opened his mouth to state a more obvious solution, but Mark raised his hand and shook his head.

Who needs a tow? Palmer asked.

My sister, Shay said.

That sister? Palmer pointed to the photo. His face warmed like he’d been caught snooping around.

The one and only, Shay said. Apparently, this is a surprise visit and she’s stuck an hour away at a forest preserve with a broken-down van. She said she didn’t want to stress me out, but Lena has a knack for it. Shay grimaced and rubbed her protruding stomach. The pregnancy had been a surprise, according to Mark, but a happy one, Shay had added, when they told Palmer three months after the wedding. She was due next month. Palmer wouldn’t admit how terrified he was of newborns, having never held one before. He’d recently started watching YouTube videos in preparation. 

Why not try my brother’s auto shop? Palmer said, wondering why Mark hadn’t come to the same conclusion.

You don’t need to involve your family with Lena, Mark said under his breath, quiet enough for only Palmer to hear.

 I knew you’d have a solution, Palmer. Mark insisted we try this other towing company first. Shay shot Mark a look. 

It’s probably too far for your brother, Mark said.

Palmer glanced at Mark who still had his nose buried in the phone book. I can call him and see, Palmer said. 

This could be a waste of time for everyone involved, Mark said. Your sister is stubborn as hell, Shay. She also sounded a little…unhinged. 

That’s how she is now, Mark, Shay said. 

Palmer looked at Shay then Mark, the hint of an argument in the air. He could fix this. You said she’s at a forest preserve. The only one I know an hour away is the Great Western trailhead. Is that where she’s stranded? 

Mark reluctantly nodded. 

Okay. Great. Palmer clapped his hands together. There’s a lumberyard I need to go to in that area. They have these incredibly rare used railroad ties from the 1920s that I think I could work into a shelf of some sort, maybe a cabinet. Palmer looked at Shay, her expression glazing over. He cleared his throat. If my brother can’t do it, I will.

I’m not sure she’ll agree to it, Shay said as Mark mumbled, She won’t like it.

Palmer pulled out a chair and sat down. Your sister called for help. That’s what you’re doing, right?

Shay shifted in her seat and sighed. Lena’s only fifteen months older than me but you’d think we were born years apart. I mean, the girl has wanted to run her own show since high school. Back then it was owning a record store, until she moved to Oregon. Regardless, she’s a coffee-hound who doesn’t like attention, or asking for help, and unfortunately that’s all Lena has managed to attract in the last year. And for the worst of reasons too—

Shay’s phone started to ring. But I guess it’s worth a try, she said before answering the call. 

Mark sat down and placed his elbows on the table. He gave Palmer a slight eye roll. This is going to take some convincing, he said. Palmer didn’t know why the problem was such a big deal. That’s what families did, helped each other out. 

Mark’s friend has a tow truck and is headed out that way for…something. I can’t remember what, stupid pregnancy brain. Shay went quiet while her mouth progressively turned downward.

"This is