Come Back to Me

by Carolyn Astfalk

  Come Back to Me

  (Stay With Me #2)

  A Novel

  By Carolyn Astfalk

  Kindle Edition

  Full Quiver Publishing

  Pakenham ON Canada

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

  Come Back to Me

  Copyright 2020 Carolyn Astfalk

  Published by

  Full Quiver Publishing

  PO Box 244

  Pakenham, Ontario K0A 2X0

  www.fullquiverpublishing.com

  Printed edition ISBN Number: 978-1-987970-13-5

  Cover design: James Hrkach, Carolyn Astfalk

  NATIONAL LIBRARY OF CANADA

  CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without prior written permission from the author.

  Published by FQ Publishing

  A Division of Innate Productions

  For my parents, Peter and Marcella,

  my first and best example of an enduring marriage.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  Books by FQP

  1

  Stay or Leave

  November

  By age twenty-nine, Alan Reynolds’s shin had been bruised by a baseball bat, his lip split by a fist, and his ribs kicked with a steel-toed boot. Jenny Snavely spat on him in the fifth grade. When he was fourteen, his brother, Chris, kneed him in the crotch so hard he’d puked. He’d never been slapped nor had a door slammed in his face.

  Until now.

  He jerked backward as the door swung shut and a rush of air blew the blond wisps of hair hanging over his eye. He pounded on the door with his fist. “C’mon, Jamie. This is ridiculous.”

  What had gotten into his wife? She’d been edgy and emotional for weeks, crying over nothing and lashing out over inconsequential stuff. Ten minutes ago, they’d been making love, and now he stood on their stoop in nothing but unlaced sneakers and a pair of unbuttoned cargo shorts, locked out of his house.

  He pounded again. “Jamie!”

  A car motor hummed in the neighbor’s driveway. The engine quieted, and Mrs. Simpson, his friendly neighbor who unfortunately considered herself a friend of his mother’s, emerged from her silver Toyota.

  Don’t look my way. Don’t look my way. Don’t look my way.

  She looked his way, cocking an eyebrow.

  Alan lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave as a chilly breeze ruffled his hair and raised goose bumps on his arms.

  Mrs. Simpson gave him a twitchy smile, waved, and then ambled to the front door, gawking at him as she fit her key in the lock.

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest and tried to cover his exposed skin. Heat rose in his cheeks and neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. November in South Central Pennsylvania was not the time or place to be shirtless.

  He crossed his arms in front of him to ward off the chill sending a shiver up his neck. If he got hypothermia, it would be Jamie’s fault. He lifted his hand to knock again when the door swung open. Good. Maybe now he could talk some sense—

  Jamie’s arm darted out the door, and his tan duffel bag thudded on the concrete at his feet. In the time it took for him to survey the bag, she’d retreated and slammed the door.

  He growled and pounded again. “Jamie? A shirt, at least? Please?” He sunk his hands into his pockets and waited. Maybe she’d stuffed one in the bag?

  A second later, the door opened several inches and his balled-up “Drinks Well With Others” t-shirt sailed out and into the barren flower bed.

  He let out a breath, blowing his wispy bangs into the air, then snatched his shirt from the mulch. He shook out the dirt, but not the wrinkles, and pulled it over his head. Hoisting the duffel bag on his shoulder, he stomped to the red Mazda Miata.

  Good thing he’d left the keys in there. Another thing that drove Jamie crazy. He turned the key in the ignition and sat half a minute, wondering where he should go. No sense checking into a hotel. Jamie would probably change her mind and beg him to come home before dark. She would, wouldn’t she?

  He could try his buddy Nick, but he’d met someone at the bar last night and was probably still holed up with her in his apartment. He could go to his parents’ place, but Mom would give him the third degree, and Dad would give him that “I’m disappointed in you” look that made him feel like he was ten again and had gotten caught climbing the neighbors’ fence to skinny dip in their pool.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost noon. Chris and Rebecca should be home from church by now. The whole city could be in a state of emergency, and their bottoms would still be parked in a pew Sunday morning. According to the current zeitgeist, that should make them judgy and intolerant, but they’d only ever met Alan, a perpetual heathen, with kindness and empathy—at least so far.

  He searched for something to do, someplace to go. Nothing came to mind. He sighed and backed out of the driveway. Sponging off his little brother wounded his pride, but he’d go.

  For the second time in a half hour, Alan stood on a stoop pounding repeatedly on a door. At least this time he had on a shirt. And expected a better welcome.

  The door opened, and his sister-in-law, Rebecca, stepped into the entranceway. Her long, wavy brown hair hung loosely over her shoulders as if she hadn’t combed it yet. Her eyes and cheeks glowed as she smiled. At least someone was glad to see him.

  A tight t-shirt hugged her breasts, which had grown increasingly larger as of late. His gaze snagged on her abdomen, and he sucked in a breath. He hadn’t seen her in a few weeks. She was finally showing, her belly rounded where his little niece or nephew lived and grew.

  This was a bad idea.

  “Alan, c’mon in. This is a surprise.” Her voice was louder than usual, and she flicked a glance behind her as if searching for someone. His brother, Chris, presumably.

  “Thanks.” He crossed the threshold and dropped his bag in the entranceway.

  She darted a glance at the bag and then slung an arm around his shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Good to see you.” Her hair smelled like his brother’s aftershave, all woodsy and spicy, not delicate and feminine.

  He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, but wondered if she’d be so glad when she knew he might be staying. “Chris around?”

  She closed the door behind him. “Yeah, he’s—”

  Chris strode into the room in a pair of gym shorts, pulling an undershirt over his head.

  Rebecca’s cheeks pinked.

  “Alan? What’s up?” He tugged the shirt down to his waist.

  Shoot. Here he’d thought they’d be getting settled after church. His gaze darted between the two of them. Yep, he’d interrupted something all right. “Listen, if this is a bad time, I can—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Rebecca walked ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  He studied Chris’s face expecting a “Get your keister outta here” look, but
found nothing but contentment.

  Alan followed Rebecca, but when he reached Chris he whispered, “I can go. I’m pretty sure you were—”

  Chris shook his head and squeezed Alan’s shoulder. “No worries. We’ll pick it up later.” He winked.

  “I thought you said she was sick.” Chris had told him Rebecca had been lying around half-sick, half-asleep, gagging down saltines since a couple weeks after they learned she was pregnant.

  “Second trimester.” Chris dropped his arm, shrugged, and grinned. “She says her, uh, renewed interest in me is normal.”

  Would Jamie have been after him like that if she’d gotten pregnant? No use wondering. That was a dead end.

  A laptop sat open on the kitchen table next to a large blue mug. Catalog images of baby stuff filled the screen. Glider chairs, infant swings, swaddling blankets.

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead. He should’ve gone to his parents’ place. He didn’t want them to know the state of his marriage, but staying here would be like reliving that kick to the crotch Chris had delivered fifteen years ago.

  Rebecca giggled as Chris stood behind her at the kitchen counter and whispered in her ear. Her arm wound around him, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

  What possessed him to think bunking in the love shack would be a fitting refuge from his disintegrating marriage?

  Rebecca disentangled herself from Chris and held up an empty mug. “Coffee, Alan?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” He pulled out a wooden chair and sat opposite the open laptop. White cupboards made the small kitchen seem larger. Like the rest of the house, it was decorated neatly but simply. A narrow bookcase sat against the rear wall next to the back door. He’d helped Chris build it to store Rebecca’s cookbooks. The countertops were clear except for a large stand mixer. His sister-in-law probably used the space for baking. Not like Jamie. Their remodeled kitchen remained a mere showpiece. He couldn’t remember the last time the oven had been used.

  They’d bought the oven a couple of months before the wedding, when Jamie had decided the old—but functional—avocado-colored model wouldn’t suit the kitchen update they’d paid a handyman to do.

  “How much will you take for the floor model with the dent?” Alan had pinned the Wilford Brimley lookalike wearing a red hardware apron with his best closing-the-deal stare. Why pay top dollar for an appliance whose exclusive use would be reheating leftovers and takeout?

  Jamie huffed and elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t you care about anything? I could buy a twenty-dollar camp stove, plop it on the deck, and you’d be fine with it!”

  No argument there. “What’s the point of spending an arm and a leg on some double oven, self-cleaning model when we eat at restaurants or get takeout six nights a week?”

  Just another thing they’d been at odds about.

  Rebecca slid a mug of coffee in front of him and sat next to Chris. She sipped from a giant bottle of seltzer water.

  Chris folded his hands on the table. “So, what’s up? You never just stop by.” He nodded toward the other room. “And what’s with the bag?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. I, uh . . .” Being humbled in front of his younger brother just wasn’t right. He’d been with more girls than he could count before he’d married Jamie. Meanwhile, Chris had lived like a monk. Alan wasn’t supposed to be the one with woman trouble, Chris was.

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Jamie sorta kicked me out.”

  Chris reclined and blew out a breath, the wooden chair groaning under his weight.

  Rebecca reached across the table for his hand, pity in her eyes. “Oh, Alan. I’m so sorry.”

  With an arm around Rebecca’s chair, Chris leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. One minute we were, uh, in bed, and then . . .” Through a break in the clouds, sunlight had streamed in the window, giving Jamie’s soft, fair skin a veritable glow. Love for her swelled in his chest as he ran his fingers across her neck and along her shoulder. His gaze followed, trailing his fingers to her belly and then— “next thing I know she’s tossing my duffel bag out the door after me.”

  “Well, something must’ve happened. You been having more trouble?” Chris’s brow creased.

  His concern touched Alan. Whatever differences they had—and they were many—they were blood.

  “Yes and no.” When hadn’t he and Jamie been having trouble? “I mean, nothing new, just these last couple of months . . . it’s been worse.” He mulled over his words, combing through their disagreements.

  A memory flashed in his mind—Jamie on her hands and knees retrieving plastic forks and red SOLO cups from beneath their deck the morning after their Halloween party, refusing to say goodbye as he readied for a paintball game with his buddies. Two concert tickets were riding on that game!

  He squatted beside her, checking the time on his phone. “I’ll get that tomorrow, babe.”

  Jamie growled, crushing another cup and tossing it into a small heap of trash beside her.

  “I gotta go.” But he couldn’t. Not with her angry. “Hey, I said I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  She sat back on her heels and blew out a breath. “I’m almost done. Just go.”

  He stood, his feet itching to move. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late. “But you’re—”

  “Not everything is about you, Alan.”

  “No, but . . .” He really needed to go. Now. “Tell me what’s bothering you then and—”

  “You can’t fix everything, y’know?” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

  And he left.

  The sound of Rebecca’s chair scraping brought Alan back to attention.

  She stood and smoothed a hand over her belly. “Sorry. Indigestion. It’s better if I stand.”

  It hit him—that was the difference these last months. Rebecca’s pregnancy.

  Jamie and Rebecca weren’t particularly close. Their interests and personalities stood in stark contrast. But they got along and seemed to respect one another. He knew Jamie harbored some hard feelings about Rebecca eliminating her best friend Megan’s chances with Chris, but it wasn’t personal.

  Still, that’s about when things in his marriage had gone south.

  From the second Chris and Rebecca had walked into Mom and Dad’s house, they’d been attached at the hip with stupid grins plastered to their faces. They’d exchanged a couple furtive glances, whispered into each other’s ears, and then Chris blurted right over top of Mom’s rambling about her herb garden: “We’re having a baby!”

  Even before Mom had squealed with delight, Jamie had shrunk back, inadvertently bumping Alan.

  As much as Alan wanted to truly feel happy for them, a strange weight had settled on him instead. No one acknowledged it aloud, but it increased the pressure on him and Jamie to have a baby of their own.

  Chris’s voice, low and hesitant, broke through his thoughts. “You want to talk about it?”

  No. Hadn’t he already been humiliated enough showing up here? He massaged his temples with his fingertips. Chris would listen, so maybe he should. But not now. He’d just arrived. Rebecca was here. “Later, maybe?”

  Rebecca capped her water bottle and set it back in the refrigerator. “I’m going to take a little nap.” She ran a hand through Chris’s hair and dropped a kiss onto his head.

  “Okay, hon.” He rose from his chair and escorted her to the hall.

  He whispered to her for several seconds, and she nodded. Probably discussing what to do with Alan’s sorry behind. He hated imposing on them, especially since they were still newlyweds.

  He fiddled with his thumbnails a moment or two until Chris returned.

  Chris sat and scooted toward the table, his chair scraping the floor. “Okay, Alan. What’s up? How can we help?”

  Alan waited until the bedroom door clicked shut. He had to give Chris something, especially if he was going to impose on him. “I wish I knew. I mean, we have some stuff we disagre
e on. Everyone does, right? But the last couple of months . . . I don’t know. It’s like it all fell apart. She’s always moody. Some days she’s just looking to pick a fight.”

  Chris nodded like he understood, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He and his church-going, domestic, fertile new wife were over-the-moon happy and going at it like a couple of rabbits. If it were anyone but his brother, he’d be jealous.

  “So what happened today? Why’d she throw you out?”

  Alan took a deep breath. What had happened? And if part of his problem with Jamie was due to Rebecca’s pregnancy, how much should he say to Chris?

  “Things were okay this morning. At least I thought so. I got up before her, made us Mom’s pancakes. We ate, and then we watched some stuff on Netflix. And then we . . .”

  Chris raised his brows. “You what?”

  “We went back to bed.”

  “Oh.” His brow wrinkled. “Sounds like everything was fine. I don’t get it.”

  “It was after. I asked her if she was, uh, y’know . . .” He’d planted a kiss on her belly, his heart strangely about to burst, his love for her in that moment so intense. What would it be like to pour that love out on a baby—a gurgling, chubby-cheeked result of their love? He traced a circle around her belly button with his index finger. “So, you think maybe we could’ve just made a baby?”

  Jamie had jerked upright, bedcovers flying, nearly knocking Alan off of the bed.

  “Alan?” Chris stared, urging him to continue by motioning with his hand. “Asked her what?”

  “Asked her if it was the right time to get pregnant.”

  “Have you been trying?”

  “That probably depends.”

  Chris squinted an eye. “On what?”

  “Which one of us you ask.”

  2

  Bartender

  Megan Pettrey slid onto the red, vinyl barstool and adjusted her miniskirt. Crossing her legs at the ankle, she shook out her hair and leaned against the padded edge of the long wooden bar. The entire scene bored her, yet here she was. Again. She hadn’t done “alone” well in years. Too much time to dwell on the myriad ways in which life disappointed.