All This Time Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  ALL THIS

  Time

  a novel

  by Stacy Lane

  Copyright © 2018 by Stacy Lane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental or fictionalized.

  Cover design by Champagne Book Design

  For all the Mommies out there.

  Prologue

  Six years earlier…

  Whomever created the checkbox “It’s complicated,” did so with a story like mine in mind. Honestly, my story is beyond complicated. It’s flat out screwy. It’s why I avoid selecting a status at all on my social media accounts.

  Especially when the title of “boyfriend” doesn’t do Brady Bennett any justice. I’ve been home for two weeks and haven’t heard from him once.

  And surprisingly, I don’t care.

  I’ve had a hunch for a few weeks now that he’s been cheating on me. Me not caring doesn’t mean I condone the cheating prick, just proves to myself how little I think of him. He’s been fun for the time being, but I’m ready to move on.

  After all, every one is town knows the reputations of the Bennett brothers. My best friend Della is the only girl who’s even remotely close to locking one of them down. And those two flip flop on their relationship more than a fish flapping on the dock for air.

  Hm, let’s see. What was today’s date? Ah, yes, they were currently on again.

  Luke, Della, and I went to high school together. Brady was three years ahead of us, but we graduated last year.

  The Bennett brothers were basically untouchable unless you were willing to put out.

  And now that makes me sound loose and slutty, which I’m not. Far from it. I made Brady work for it. I really liked him in the beginning. Turns out we didn’t have anything in common other than a wild attraction for one another.

  Della, on the other hand, has been off and on with Luke since sophomore year. When they’re off, he’s on every other female in town. It’s a smallish town, so everybody almost knows everybody. Those guys are small town royalty. Princes without the riches.

  Luke and I typically butt heads. It’s only been more recent that he’s somewhat tolerable. After him and Della’s last break up, he stayed home a lot more than usual. And with me spending most nights at their house, with or without Brady coming home, Luke and I sort of formed a friendship. Over the last month I’ve spent more time with him than my own boyfriend.

  Then Luke and Della decided to get back together. Not really speaking with Brady much at the moment, I went home for a change since my dad would be gone.

  Usually, I stay at anyones house as long as I don’t have to return to my own. The only reason I’m currently home is because my dad’s not here. He’s an over the road truck driver. Whenever there’s a job for him—ironically around the time he runs out of booze money—he is on the road for two to three weeks at a time.

  These couple of weeks have been spent in solitary bliss. No depending on others for a place to stay the night, no Bennett brothers drinking and hollering and causing a ruckus, and no father ignoring my glares of disappointment. The house is clean, and the stench of alcohol bleached from the air.

  I’m sitting on couch in our shabby living room, flipping through a celebrity magazine and envying their riches, when that old familiar diesel engine rumbles in the front yard.

  Dad’s home.

  With the little money I make at the diner, I’ve manage to stock the refrigerator with a decent amount of food. I even made dinner for two most nights, freezing the leftovers for my dad. I’m not sure why I bother. There’s only one love in his life. And it sits inside the brown paper bag held in his hand when he walks through the door.

  By now I’m smart enough not to hope that baggy is some small trinket he’s brought home for his daughter while on the road visiting exciting new places I’ve never been to. Walt Benson has never been that kind of father.

  The loud, screeching screen door bangs closed once he steps inside the house. He unlaces and kicks off the steel toed boots at the front door. He’s barely out of his shoes before he’s digging deep, paper crinkling, and pulling a tall glass of amber liquor out of the bag.

  Beneath all the scorn and disappointment directed at my father, he’s my only remaining blood, and it’s miraculous in spite of it all, I care about him.

  Already used to his routine, I watch him trek across the old, worn carpet to his dilapidated chair. He’s not a big man, average height and more on the lean side of weight. No beer gut, but that would be due to his preference of the hard stuff. He doesn’t even take the effort to acknowledge my presence.

  “Dinners in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

  He lifts his bottle to his mouth, taking a swig and then reaching for the remote. The TV breaks the silence and peace I’ve enjoyed by myself.

  I decide to try again.

  “I’ve put a lot of leftovers in the freezer if you get hungry at all.”

  He grunts.

  As short as his response, I lose my patience. My eyes, the same ocean blue orbs he passed down to me, the only thing that ties a similarity to me being his daughter, glares into the side of his face.

  “Your silence is louder than your coddling. If you’ve got something to say, Livvie, just say it already.” His raspy voice speaks to the television.

  “Would it actually make a difference if I did?”

  “No, but whatever makes you feel better, then do it.”

  “I would feel better if you ate something instead of drinking every waking hour of the day.”

  “I’ll eat when I feel like it.”

  “You can’t go on like this forever, Dad. It’ll catch up to you eventually.”

  “I have nothing else to live for. So quit nagging about it, Olivia.”

  He guzzles more alcohol, not once looking my way. His stoical tone never rises or becomes angry. It’s why I never had the urge to be a vile and disobedient child. I learned early on there was no way I could ever gain his attention.

  My mom walked out on us when I was five, and it did a number on him. That’s when he fell in to drinking his days away. I was hurt and missed her and with his new behavior, I basically lost him too. He selfishness ripped my childhood away.

  I tore my gaze away from him. Every where I looked around th
is ramshackle of a home was a reminder of her. The curtains she hung, the godawful green color she painted the inside of the house, even the pictures of their life before and after having me hung on the walls. He refused to take any of it down.

  My dad was on the road a lot back then. Way longer than two and three weeks at a time. It’s what she hated the most. It’s how she justified spending tons of money on home decor. Dad never complained. He was the provider and that was all there was to it.

  Until she had enough and couldn’t take it anymore. Motherhood wasn’t what she wanted at that point in her life. Not that she explained it that way, but what other conclusion could there be for her unhappiness? If she no longer loved Dad, wouldn’t she have taken me with her?

  For all his faults, one area I can never place blame on is his lack of anger. He’s not a angry drunk, nor did he ever blame me for her leaving us. Although, I blamed myself plenty for a long time. It’s not like I had a parent to console me and tell me I wasn’t at any fault. I had to learn that on my own much later.

  The closest resemblance I had to role models were Della’s parents. Della’s mom, Cathy, raised me in all the ways a mother looks out for her own daughter. She took me school shopping, was there for me when I got my first period, and set a second bedroom in their home so I always had a place to run to.

  When I asked about my mom, Cathy told me nothing but the truth. She may have been a beautiful woman, but her personality was ugly to the core. Her vanity smothered any nurturing she could have possibly had.

  I leave my dad where he desires to be—alone—and head back to my room. Passing through the hallway I glance over the pictures of my mother. I’m a near replica in appearance now that I’ve reached womanhood. Maybe that’s why my dad doesn’t look at me. I have the thick, long brown hair waving down my back. The same pert nose. A full, pouty mouth, and sharp, contoured cheeks. Other than my eyes, the resemblance is so scary that I pray every day I won’t have the same qualities of motherhood and marriage as her.

  In my bedroom, I pack a bag. A large bag with most of my belongings. With dad on a run I was able to clean out my car and get everything washed and put away. Now that he’s back and falling in to his regular routine, I’ll be back to mine. Avoiding home, and living my life out of a duffle.

  I expect to be staying with Della in the upcoming days. Nothings official, but it’s safe to say Brady and I are going to be breaking up soon. So no more overnight stays at his house.

  No more one on one time with Luke.

  Right when I was getting used to having his charming face around, too.

  Swinging the strap over my shoulder, I close the door behind me. Dad doesn’t bother looking away from the TV as I throw open the screen door and step out onto the rotting wood porch. The force I applied on the door slams open so hard that once I’m through I can hear it bounce a few times before shutting closed all the way.

  His semi is parked where it always sits, beside our small bungalow style house. My sandaled feet trudge over the uneven yard to where I parked my car. Tossing my bag in the back, I open the driver side door and get behind the wheel. It does its own screeching and grinding as I relentlessly turn the key over in the ignition. It sputters, but it finally cranks.

  Backing out of the driveway, I reach for my crapy phone sitting in the cup holder. I would have been better off dumping grocery money in a new phone.

  It’s late, and if I remember correctly, Della’s working tonight, but I call her anyway.

  After a few rings, my best friend’s voice picks up in my ear.

  “She’s alive!” Della shouts through the phone.

  When I get time to myself, an entire house to myself, I become a recluse. She and I texted back and forth, but other than my shifts at the diner, I don’t leave the house.

  “He came home with a fresh bottle of whiskey to devour so I got the hell out of there.”

  “Not surprising. Where are you off to?”

  “Not sure. I was hoping I can stay at your parents place tonight?”

  “Of course. I won’t be back until late, but you know they’ll let you in.”

  “Awesome. I’m really tired, so I’ll probably crash soon.”

  “Did you work today?”

  “No.”

  “It’s only eight o’clock and you’re already tired? When did you become an old lady?” She laughs.

  I join her, because it’s sadly true. “I know. I don’t know what’s up with me lately, but I’m exhausted all the time.”

  “Yeah, weird. You can’t even use the excuse of Brady wearing you out with all that great sex.”

  “Ugh. Brady. I’m so done with him, but I guess I’ll have to be the one to end it.”

  “So it’s really over with you two?”

  “I haven’t seen him in weeks. And you know I already think he’s moved on anyway.”

  “What a dirtbag.”

  “Yeah, Dells, you definitely got the good Bennett.”

  “What! He’s a total player when we’re not together.”

  “At least he waits until then instead of stepping out on you while he’s with you.”

  “Maybe. Look, you don’t know anything for certain. Go over there and talk to him tonight.”

  I chew on my lip. I guess it’s now or never.

  I hang up with Della, pulling into the gas station to make a U turn and head in the opposite direction. Brady’s house is closer to mine than Della’s, but we’re all relatively close. All within a ten minute drive.

  There are no good or bad areas of our town, but there are certain streets people will know by name alone that house the lesser folks. The Bennetts and mine are in that category.

  Brady’s single mom died from breast cancer when Luke was fifteen, leaving him his legal guardian. He stepped into the role as big brother and took care of them both. Brady was a pretty stand up guy the first couple of years after their mom passed, but the moment Luke hit his own legal age, he only worked hard at making up for lost partying time.

  At their house I pull in behind Brady’s old and battered truck the brothers share. Out of my car, I walk along the cracked, concrete pavers leading to their front door. It takes a few knocks before one of them answers.

  Okay, so here’s the thing…

  I know we just met, but you’re about to catch me in a little white lie. I’ve been sort of vague when talking about Luke Bennett. That would be because I have feelings for him. As I’ve mentioned, him and I didn’t always get along, so these feelings are less swarming hornets and a whole lot more rainbow colored butterflies.

  That’s the tricky part. I’m crushing hard on my best friend’s boyfriend. What’s worse, I think he’s falling for me too. No words have been said, but it’s one of those things you just know.

  Luke stands there, shaggy hair falling around his face, and watching me from his tall height. Brady stands at six feet, and Luke is about three inches above that. I hate the wave of yearning rushing through me every time I see him. It’s wrong in every sense to want my best friend’s boyfriend. I’m mad at myself for being like every other girl in his presence and finding his stupid, worn high school football t-shirts with sleeves cut off attractive. There is a silver lining, at least. I hate his hair.

  All the girls, and their mommas if we’re being frank here, are in love with his long hair. Yes, it’s a beautiful, rich brown color that has natural golden streaks when the sun hits it just right. But the length sits right at his shoulders, unbrushed, and not regularly washed. I’ve somewhat lived with him. I know for a fact he doesn’t wash it every night. If the oil is visible, then wash it! Let’s not make this a trend, fellas.

  Arms flexing as they extend above his head where he latches onto the door frame, his natural bronzed skin glows even in the absence of the sun. Both Bennett brothers may be equally popular, but Luke’s body is way more drool worthy than Brady’s.

  “Hey,” I say, diverting my eyes from his toned muscles. “Brady home?”

  �
��Nope.”

  Luke’s giving off an unwelcome vibe, keeping me out and blocking the view from inside with his profile.

  “His truck’s here.”

  “A buddy picked him up.”

  “Wonderful,” I retort.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, just needed to talk to him.”

  “Haven’t seen you around lately.” Luke changes the subject, gazing down at me with his intense eyes.

  If I had to admit one aspect of Luke that I find fascinating, it would be his eyes. They’re a dark, dark brown, warm and drugging and have literally made my toes curl at least once.

  Okay, I definitely can not admit that to anyone. Ever.

  “My dad was out on a run.”

  “Ah,” he understands with a nod. “Peaceful?”

  “You have no idea.” I chuckle. Laughter is short-lived when our eyes lock. His gaze might as well be an added limb on his body with the way I feel them caressing me. His arms drop and I think he’s about to say more, or invite me in, but I’m not one to ignore when the red danger sign starts flashing and blaring it’s horn. “Um, so I’ll see around.”

  This is the way it’s been for months. Tension rises and we both feel it, but instead of acting on it or voicing aloud what I personally don’t want to hear, we shove the moment aside like it will magically fix itself.

  The old saying, If you don’t have anything good to say, then don’t say anything at all, is a relative term. What I consider good—and want to shout above the clouds—would not be as sanguine for others as it would be for me.

  I turn back to my car and get inside. Luke remains in the doorway of his house as I attempt to crank my car again. Unlike when I got it to work at home, it won’t start this time.

  His voice is muffled through the windows as he prowls my way, barefoot. “Pop the hood.”

  I pull the lever and climb back out. Luke latches the hood in place, then pulls his phone out of his pocket to turn on the flash light.