Wonderstruck

Chapter 1 Whitney

Whitney

Never, in a million years, would I have thought that I’d ever intimately know the broom closet on the eleventh floor of the Nexus Realty Group building.

But that’s where I find myself in the throes of a steamy dream.

With who?

I don’t know, but that’s beside the point.

All that matters to me right now, at this moment, is the way that this mystery man’s lips are tracing over the curves and divots of my neck. Even though I know I’m in a dream, I can practically feel his hot breath trailing across my skin, eliciting goosebumps to rise all over my arms.

I moan as I tilt my face to him. Though he’s standing right in front of me, I can’t make out the features of his face. But I know deep down inside me that he’s everything to me.

Whoever this man is, he likes as I verbalize my appreciation for him, and his ministrations become more intentional.

His hands rest on the curve of my hips, and his thumbs trace underneath the seam of my shirt until he’s touching my bare skin.

Though I’m still fully clothed, the idea of his touch sends my body into overdrive, and my pulse skyrockets, as does my pleasure.

My breath is ragged and my chest rises and falls against his hand as anticipation builds within me.

I raise my arms to wrap around his shoulders, and I catch sight of the glittering ring on my fourth finger. This dream version of myself is engaged—likely to the man who is kissing my neck in this closet—and that realization makes this moment even more appealing to me.

A deep rumble emanates from his chest, causing goosebumps to rise on my arms once more. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he says in his raspy voice, confirming my suspicions that he is my fiancé in this scenario. “I can’t wait to start our lives together, start a family.”

The idea makes my chest ache, and I smile at the faceless man who is saying all the right words to make me yearn for this dream to be true.

As I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him again, the distant sound of a phone ringing interrupts the moment.

Before I can fully grasp what’s happening, the man of my dreams starts to fade right in front of me.

Panic strikes my chest, and I reach out to grab him again, hoping to hold onto him for just another few moments.

But it’s no use. Against my wishes, I’m ripped from the moment as my phone continues to ring through the night’s darkness, leaving me feeling alone and empty inside as I’m forced back into reality.

The vibration of the ringtone echoing against my nightstand is a stark contrast to the quiet broom closet, full of hopeful kisses and whispered promises of everything I could ever want.

The minute I’m pulled back into consciousness, I reach across my pillows, my hand grasping at nothing for a moment until I feel the familiar outline of my phone. I pull it off of the charger and bring it to my face, squinting in the dark to see who would be calling at this hour.

Stacey Peterson.

I realize the only reason she’d be calling me at this time, and my heart drops.

Swiping the screen, I hesitantly hold it up to my ear. “Hello?”

The older woman sniffles on the other end of the phone, and I brace myself for the worst. “Oh, Whitney,” she begins, her voice wobbly. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but Vance passed away this evening.”

I nearly drop the phone. Though we knew this moment would be coming, hearing that my boss, my mentor, my friend, is gone is a bit of a shock.

My stomach churns and I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. I can hear the rush of blood from my pulse in my ears, drowning out any other sound.

“Whitney? Whitney, are you there?”

Finally, the sound of Stacey Peterson’s voice pulls me out of my stupor.

“I’m so sorry, I was just—” I pause, unable to come up with the proper words to explain how I’m feeling in this moment. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, dear,” she says before sniffling again. “I wanted you to be the first to know so you can send out the appropriate emails.”

I say a few more words of condolences to Mrs. Peterson, and then hang up the phone, trying not to let myself break down completely.

My eyes burn as I sit in my bed, staring at the blank screen of my phone.

Though he’s been sick for a bit, knowing that I’ll never see the man who was like a father to me for so long only amplifies the lingering loneliness I’m feeling from that weird dream of mine.

Giving a forlorn glance at the time, I roll out of bed and get to work.

I try to bring myself out of the grieving friend position and back into my role as the personal assistant to the CEO.

Despite how much Mr. Peterson and his family meant to me, at the end of the day, that’s who I am.

Even though it’s still the dark hours of the night, my mind jumps into action, already drafting up the email I’ll send out to the Board of Directors of Nexus Realty Group.

The next few days pass in a blur. I do my best to be supportive, jumping in and taking responsibility of as much as I possibly can, bearing the weight on my shoulders, all while trying to keep it together myself.

But every night, after spending the day in the empty CEO’s office, filling boxes of his personal items and memories he’d collected over the years, I go home and turn on the shower, curl into a ball, and let the hot water scald my skin as I cry for everything that we’ve lost.

That I’ve lost.

A few days before the funeral, I start sorting through some of my old, childhood boxes, searching for pictures or memories that Mr. Peterson was a part of.

As I’m rummaging through a box filled with notebooks and pictures, my fingers brush a familiar leather cover and I pause, narrowing my eyes.

I reach for it again, grasping the pink, leather bound notebook and pulling it out.

I absentmindedly flip through the pages, noting the names and the checklists on each page.

Ever since I was fifteen and going through my first breakup—of many to come, unfortunately—I created a list of ten things that I wanted in my perfect man.

I know it’s restrictive and ridiculous, but I had dreams of finding a man who would meet all of these things, and then we’d live out our happily ever after together.

But I guess that never happened.

With a shake of my head, I close the notebook, putting it off to the side and shoving down the feelings of loneliness once more.

On the day of Mr. Peterson’s funeral, I find myself standing in a rickety, old church, amongst all of the other people who loved him deeply. Our voices ring out as we sing a melancholy song and try not to give into the grief I know we all are experiencing.

When the melody ends, the preacher instructs us to be seated.

Then, he begins his long sermon about how life is precious, yet even precious things must come to an end.

I situate myself to be more comfortable as I listen to his deep, soothing timbre.

The wooden pew is hard and unyielding against my spine, making the muscles in my lower back scream out in protest. We have already been here for around forty-five minutes.

As much as I loved Mr. Peterson, I am itching to get out of here and into the fresh air.

The church smells of an interesting mix of death and hopelessness. It lingers over us, giving no signs of ever letting up.

Of course, I guess that’s what you should expect at a funeral.

I don’t know why I thought it would be different.

I hate funerals. Primarily because if I’m at one, it means someone I held very dear to my heart is gone—my mother, my father, and now, Mr. Peterson.

The aura of my surroundings also takes its toll on me.

I can feel the negative energy draping across the sanctuary like a heavy blanket.

It’s almost suffocating as it weighs us all down.

I fight back the tears as I glance around at all the guests. Everyone bows their heads or gazes at the preacher, listening intently. There isn’t a trace of any color besides dark blues, grays, and blacks. I suppose it is the standard dress code for these types of occasions.

Mr. Peterson was a good man. He was kind to everyone who stumbled into his life, even if they didn’t deserve it. He had been my boss for only a few years shy of a decade, but my friend for much longer. I was his assistant on paper, but our relationship was much more than that.

My father passed away when I was only ten.

That was my first experience with grief.

Then, only eight years later, my mother died, after fighting a vicious battle with cancer.

After that, Mr. Peterson took me under his wing as if I were his daughter, welcoming me into his home and his family as if I was always meant to be there.

With the Petersons, I had a safe haven. They were two people that I knew I could count on, no matter what.

When he brought me on to be his full-time assistant at Nexus, I couldn’t believe my luck.

I actually enjoyed working for him. He had taught me everything he knew about the business world, giving me tips and tricks that I’m not sure I would’ve picked up elsewhere.

I sit there in numb silence, pretending to listen to the preacher drone on as I replay memories of Mr. Peterson over and over in my head.

I keep thinking about how, come Monday, I will walk into our office and everything will be different.

I will never see him again, and that’s a hard fact that I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to fully comprehend.

Though he’s been gone from the office for the last few weeks, seeing the casket up there makes his absence feel more final. More permanent.

After what feels like an eternity, we sing one more song and the service concludes. Once we’ve all filed out, I find Mrs. Peterson and wrap my arms around her. She holds me tightly and then, when I pull away, kisses my cheek.