A Life More Complete Read online

  A Life More Complete

  By Nikki Young

  Dedication:

  For my boys. Follow your dreams and love with all your heart. I love you both.

  Copyright © 2013 by Nikki Young

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  ---Prologue---

  ---Chapter 1---

  ---Chapter 2---

  ---Chapter 3---

  ---Chapter 4---

  ---Chapter 5---

  ---Chapter 6---

  ---Chapter 7---

  ---Chapter 8---

  ---Chapter 9---

  ---Chapter 10---

  ---Chapter 11---

  ---Chapter 12---

  ---Chapter 13---

  ---Chapter 14---

  ---Chapter 15---

  ---Chapter 16---

  ---Chapter 17---

  ---Chapter 18---

  ---Chapter 19---

  ---Chapter 20---

  ---Chapter 21---

  ---Chapter 22---

  ---Chapter 23---

  ---Chapter 24---

  ---Chapter 25---

  ---Chapter 26---

  ---Chapter 27---

  ---Chapter 28---

  ---Chapter 29---

  ---Chapter 30---

  ---Chapter 31---

  ---Chapter 32---

  ---Chapter 33---

  ---Chapter 34---

  ---Chapter 35---

  ---Chapter 36---

  ---Chapter 37---

  ---Chapter 38---

  ---Chapter 39---

  ---Chapter 40---

  ---Chapter 41---

  ---Chapter 42---

  ---Epilogue---

  ---Prologue---

  Family. Everyone knows what is said about families. Blood is thicker than water, love makes a family, we start and end with family; you get my point. Not all families fit this bill, not all families are created equal, yet Chinese proverbs, celebrities, kings and queens, and literary heroes all feel the need to opine us with their wisdom that if you just try a bit harder, love a little more, or give a damn, that it will change everything. It always comes back to family. In my case it always came back to “How can I get away from my family?”

  I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, upper-middle class, nice cars, well-groomed homes, smiles and sprinklers, green manicured lawns and streetlights that basked the tree-lined streets at dusk. I know what you’re thinking—another rich kid, sob story about not being appreciated or loved. Blah, blah, blah. But to set the record straight, I didn’t grow up wealthy. No private jets, no summers in the Hamptons, no BMW on my sixteenth birthday. My family was just the regular basic money. I got a car at sixteen, yes, but it was a 1979 VW Cabriolet, a hand-me-down bought from my neighbor, who got it from a friend, who got it from a friend, who got it from his grandma. It was old and smelled like a wet dog and when you turned the headlights on the radio turned off. Not that I’m complaining. It was more for the convenience it provided my mother than it was about the prestige of getting a car at sixteen. My mother never struggled financially—emotionally was a whole other story.

  Which brings me to my mother. I give her credit. She left her husband, my father, an emotionally and physically abusive alcoholic drug addict when I was eight. She took my two sisters and me in the dead of night and ran. Cowardly, but that was all she knew, and when I ran at age eighteen, I did it because it was the only coping mechanism I had been taught. Run from your problems, from your past, from your life, and maybe you’ll get lucky and it won’t follow you. (Unfortunately, my father had followed like a freaking bloodhound, so instead of running my mother married a cop. That’ll teach him to come around again.) She ran our household like she did everything else in her life after my father. She ran it like a business venture, heartless and with very little emotional attachment, just in case it didn’t work out. My mother, very successful in everything she did (her first and second marriages excepted, of course), failed at being a parent. Miserably I might add. I’ve heard it’s hard to raise girls. My mother wouldn’t know. We raised ourselves, made dinners, packed lunches, taught ourselves how to use tampons using the little insert in the box. She was passive-aggressive, black and white, no gray, a heartless woman with little respect for her children, who in turn had little respect for her. When she wasn’t working she was still working. When she wasn’t out expanding her company she was expanding it from the comfort of her home office. In the days before cell phones, email and the Internet, my mother grew a booming insurance company from word of mouth and numerous phone calls, all to the chagrin of her children.

  Of course we reaped the benefits of a financially stable life, but there’s more to it than that. It comes back to the quotes about love and family. There was none of that and to be honest, I’m not sure what I would’ve done with it anyway. So accustomed to being alone I don’t know what I would’ve done if my mother had hugged me or told me she loved me. She had become a broken-down, lifeless robot workaholic and if there was one thing I learned from her it was run. So that’s what I did.

  Family—sometimes they’re your biggest enemy, your worst supporter, your biggest killjoy; mine were all those things and more. As a society, we are programmed to believe that all mothers love their children unconditionally, even when they do a poor job parenting, even when they are drug addicts or abandon their babies in dumpsters. Maybe it’s the American dream to believe that people are never innately bad or that inside everyone there is good—whatever it is, it’s a falsehood. It’s just like what is said about family: sometimes it doesn’t apply to everyone. Even with all that is said, I still had a ray of hope that clouded my pessimistic viewpoint on the subject, along with love and marriage. I hoped that someday I would fall in love, marry, and get that official redo that I felt I was so aptly owed.

  I left Naperville, Illinois, on August 8, 1996 and haven’t spoken to my mother since. But there will come a time in my life when I believe she will be the only person who will understand my choices.

  ---Chapter 1---

  It’s been exactly ten years to the day since I left home. I roll over and groan at my alarm as it does its steady stream of ear-piercing beeps. Five fifteen, my usual wake-up call. Rolling to a sitting position at the edge of the bed, I pull on my running shorts and a tank top. I fumble with my laces and eventually slide my feet into what I know as home—my running shoes. Running is an addiction that I can’t overcome, and as far as addictions go, I guess it isn’t so bad.

  Eight miles, my morning routine, and without it my day will be shot. Running keeps my OCD at bay and curbs my insomnia. Today is a Tuesday and added to my morning run is my beach yoga class.

  I step out of my condo into the cool morning air that is only created in California. I live in the Sand section of Manhattan Beach, my condo, a total steal when I bought it six years ago, but a total dump, too. I breathe in the smell of salt as I long to feel the pavement pounding against my feet. I love the summer, the long, extended bursts of lasting sunlight, but as August impedes the sunlight recedes, leaving too early and appearing too late. I have an irrational fear of the dark. The kind of fear that grips you and makes your heart feel like it may explode out of your chest. It’s like watching a horror movie. I picture serial killers lurking, along w
ith mask-wearing lunatics and gun-wielding psychopaths hiding in the darkness. Like I said, irrational. My outdoor runs will end due to this fear somewhere near October. Yet, today I know the sun will rise at 6:01am. I have to know this or else the fear will take over. I set off on my usual route down to the beach, taking Moonstone to Ocean and Ocean to 42nd Street, 42nd to the beach, then just slightly east of the pier for yoga, knowing that by the time I hit the sand the sun will begin to rise. The route is fully memorized.

  The date floats around in my head as I eliminate my first mile: Tuesday, August 8, 2006. I left potholes for sinkholes, construction for gridlock, tornadoes for earthquakes; most would think it a lateral move. I walked away from a lake for an ocean, snow for sunshine, quietly explosive dysfunction for comfortably unfamiliar calm. Running allows me to reflect on my life and the choices I have made. I know without a doubt that I have no regrets. But I also steal a few minutes to recall all the memories of my former life that I still long for and desire in my moments of weakness. Deep-dish pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs. The oppressive extreme humidity and heat of a Midwest summer, something most would grow to hate. Not me—I loved it, I craved it. It was like being hugged by a warm, wet blanket every time you left your house. Summer thunderstorms and heat lightning, something my mother feared, forcing me to love it unconditionally. My undying love for the Chicago Cubs and Wrigley Field imposed upon me by my grandfather. We spent countless summers together pressed against strangers in the bleachers, eating peanuts and drinking lemon shake-ups. The sun burning down on us so intensely it actually blistered my shoulders once.

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I press my feet firmly into the ground and my quads begin to burn as they always do around mile four. When I left home, this is what I envisioned and my dream had focused into a reality. And although successful, it’s difficult to be truly happy with where I ended up. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m following a path closely related to my mother and it scares the shit out of me. I’m not surprised. Built from the same DNA, alike in so many ways, too many to outrun. I knew it would find me, like a long-lost puppy. My youthful idealism out the window, shriveled like a dead flower. I settled, sold myself short, all in the name of money. Yet money means freedom and freedom means work and work is what I do.

  The sky is beginning to brighten up and welcome the day by fading from a deep blue to a pink as the sun makes an appearance. I can’t help but take it in and enjoy the loss of the night. My feet hit the sand hard, almost knocking me down, but I steady myself and adjust to the change in surface. I scan the vast ocean, taking in the early morning surfers but looking for one in particular. Then I spot him and as always, a smile spreads across my face. Bennett Torres.

  I met Ben a few weeks after I moved into my Manhattan Beach condo six years ago. On my morning run, his adorable Boxer, Roxy, followed me for two miles. I ignored the dog under the pretense that this was this slick surfer dickhead’s way to pick up women on the beach. Yet, I heard the panic in his voice as he called for his dog. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see him running the length of the beach the opposite direction we were heading, calling her name and whistling as his voice became more and more riddled with fear and anxiety. I stopped my run, I turned to the dog, I said her name, and she did that adorable head tilt that all dogs do and I caved.

  I turned and headed back in the direction of Roxy’s owner with Roxy trailing behind in such close proximity to my feet that I thought I might kick her. When we finally reached him, his dark brown eyes were wide with fear and he dropped to his knees in front of Roxy, engulfing her face in his hands. He rubbed his fingers vigorously over her ears, speaking to her as if she were a small, errant child.

  “Roxy, you bad girl! Don’t you ever run away again. I was so worried!” All along, Roxy was tilting her head in different directions as the inflection in his voice changed. Everything about this was endearing: this man on his knees, the way he spoke to the dog, the kindness and love he bequeathed upon her, and his genuine concern for her safety. My words pulled him from his reverie. They left my mouth before my brain could stop them.

  “Your dog is adorable.”

  He glanced up at me, placing his hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He paused for a brief moment, then a shy smile crossed his face and he responded lightly with, “You’re adorable.”

  The smile fell instantly from my face. I wasn’t prepared or ready to welcome any advances that would allow me to feel. I couldn’t bear the thought of allowing anyone into my life that might possibly end with me getting hurt, or even worse, me hurting them. Quickly and silently I tapped the pads of each one of my fingertips on my right hand. Counting each one in rapid succession till I reached ten. This was my OCD at its best. A situation I wasn’t in control of, calling for stimulation to calm my senses and relax my overwhelming urge to bolt.

  He stood in front of me, his smile faded based on my response. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s not every day that a beautiful girl returns my wayward dog to me.” He extended a tanned, yet well-worn hand to me. “Ben,” he said with a weak grin. I didn’t take his hand, but I responded with, “Krissy. Krissy Mullins.” The thought of touch overwhelmed me and again I tapped my fingers.

  “I’m glad I was able to help. I’d hate to see what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been found.” I smiled timidly.

  “It would have been bad. She’s my life.” He glanced down at the dog, who was now resting at his feet, leisurely licking her paw. “Let me take you out as a thank you for finding her.” His eyebrows rose as he awaited an answer.

  “I don’t think so, but thank you. I need to be going. Have a good one.” I turned and walked away. Somehow when he didn’t follow me, I knew my point was made.

  Ben would outlast me, which to this day I don’t understand why. Months would pass and I would wave to him while he surfed and I ran. Roxy would trail at my feet, making me feel some semblance of comfort in her proximity. We would chat briefly as I returned Roxy to him, basic conversation: weather, running, surfing, never delving too deep.

  Eventually I caved and had coffee with him one Saturday morning. It became a regular occurrence for months. He became a friend and a close one at that, and over the last few years we began to teeter on the edge of that muddy line between friends and something more.

  I wasn’t looking to fall in love. Nope, not me. Been there, done that and boy, oh, boy did the ending suck. I’m serious, ambitious, goal driven, at least that’s how I want to be perceived, but I know my view might be a little skewed. I’m the girl who wears white pants and assumes they won’t get dirty. I’m clumsy and silly, but long to be taken seriously. Yep, that’s me. A damn fool. With Ben it falls to pieces. I can only see him and the warmth that spreads through my body. He makes me laugh. He makes me smile. He makes me weak.

  I remove my shoes and begin to unroll my yoga mat as Ben strolls up. Drying himself with a beach towel, he commands Roxy to sit, his deep brown hair still damp from his morning surf, his muscular body tanned and flexing as he dries his hair again. He in turn unrolls a mat directly behind me, giving me a coy smile. I know his game and I giggle at the thought. He’s only here so he can be with me and he reminds me of that with a shy grin on his face.

  “It’s been ten years today,” I whisper for some unknown reason. I guess if I say it loud enough I might will it to go bad. After the words leave my mouth I have to suppress the urge to tap my fingers and to my surprise, the urgency subsides rather quickly.

  “Well, I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself, Miss Mullins. Not bad for a midwestern girl.” He smiles and it melts me. I want to reach out and grab him. Pull myself against his chest and seek the comfort that only his embrace brings me. I trust him implicitly with every part of my being, but he wants more and I can’t give it to him.

  Placing my feet squarely on the mat, I bend forward into down dog and he slaps my ass. “One day,” he says and winks at me.

  Aga
in I giggle like a schoolgirl. I part my legs and glance at him, “It took five years to get to this point, hope you got another five in you,” I respond.

  I’m good at seduction. We both know that. It’s my heart and my commitment that he wants, not my body. Yet my body is so easy to give away—a few choice movements and he becomes mine. His words “one day” bounce around in my head and I know he wants what I can’t give him. It’s the only point that we argue about and it always comes back to the same thing. He wants a title, ownership, commitment... love. I’ve never fully loved him, always one foot out the door, that way when the pain invades I can break away without feeling or guilt. But I want to change for him and I’m compelling myself to be a better person, starting today.

  I glance back at him as I move into warrior pose, his board shorts hanging from his hips so low that I can’t help but think inappropriate things about him. He’s absolutely and incomprehensibly gorgeous and he wants me the way most women would kill for. His short dark brown hair drying into an adorable faux hawk. Stomach muscles clenched while the sun shines off his tanned body. A body that only surfing and manual labor can create.

  As the class draws to an end I move swiftly into his chest wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. I nuzzle my head under his chin where it fits perfectly. I breathe deeply taking in his smell and basking in his comfort. Rarely do I touch him without warning or provocation.

  “What’s that for?” he asks pulling away from me just slightly. I don’t answer his question. I can’t because admitting I need him shows weakness, which is a term I’m not comfortable with.

  “Do you want to shower at my house today?” I ask and the look on his face is priceless as he grabs my hand, tugging me toward the public parking lot as I reach to pick up my shoes. I climb into the passenger seat of his old Toyota 4Runner. The SUV suits him perfectly and I love the smell of worn leather and ocean that radiates from within it. Without delay he hauls his surfboard onto the roof of the car and calls Roxy into the backseat. His smile is plastered across his face and his hand rests quietly on my thigh. He drives quickly toward my house before I have a chance to bail on my question. He whips into my driveway, knowing we have little time to spare before the impending workday will begin. Understanding what I have started, I do what I do best. I saunter to the keypad on the garage and punch in the code. The door rises slowly and as it does, I bend at the waist, ducking under the door. Standing at the door to the house, I bite my bottom lip and lift my tank top over my head while simultaneously hitting the garage-door button. Roxy trailing behind him, he runs at me and I squeal with delight. I turn quickly and jet into the house with him straggling behind. I pull off my bra and shorts mid run and stop in the doorway to the bedroom. I stand in only a pair of black underwear. He stops dead his mouth open slightly as he stares.