Come Back to Me

by Carolyn Astfalk

  As he climbed the steps to the front stoop, he checked his phone for the umpteenth time. No messages from Jamie. How many nights would it be until she took him back? Or until she at least explained why she’d tossed him out?

  He inserted the house key Chris had given him and stepped into the dark entryway. A nightlight shone from the kitchen, but otherwise, darkness shrouded the rooms.

  Being careful not to make any noise, he padded down the hallway to the spare bedroom and the airbed he’d inflated earlier. Eventually, this would be a children’s bedroom, but for now it sat empty, save for an open box of books and a floor lamp in the corner. From the fresh-paint odor, he’d guess they’d repainted the cream-colored walls, but gouges and scratches still marked the dull hardwood floor.

  After laying his coat and shoes on the floor, he fished through his pants pockets. At home, he’d toss his phone, keys, loose change, and wallet on the dining room buffet. Here, there was no place to go with them but the floor. He grabbed the toothbrush he’d picked up at drug store on his way back from Megan’s and strolled to the bathroom.

  Once he’d brushed his teeth, he stripped down to his shorts, pulled on an undershirt, and climbed onto the airbed, which provided a surprisingly firm cushion. Not like his bed at home, high-density foam with a half dozen other marketing gimmicks, but comfortable. He lay back and closed his eyes. Was Jamie asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed the way she was wont to do? He rubbed a hand over his brow. No matter how tired he was, sleep would be elusive.

  A muffled giggle came through the wall behind him, followed by the rumble of a deep chuckle. The mattress creaked, the bed frame groaned, and then the soft murmurs of conversation continued. Which would be worse—listening to the intimate murmurs of contented conversation or the sounds of them making love? The thought of the former made his heart ache and the latter twisted his stomach in knots.

  He raised a fist to knock, to let them know their walls may not be as soundproof as they thought. With his knuckles a fraction of an inch away, he stopped, picturing Rebecca’s wide, innocent brown eyes and crimson cheeks. He didn’t want to embarrass her. It was their house, after all, they’d been married less than six months, and he’d already interrupted them once today.

  Alan retracted his hand and stretched over the side of the airbed until he reached his phone and earbuds. He’d listen to the Dave Matthews Band until he fell asleep.

  4

  Can’t Stop

  The chorus of a derivative pop song played on a loop from Megan’s phone. Groaning, she rolled onto her belly and smacked her hand against the nightstand in an attempt to make the noise stop.

  Finally getting hold of the device, she swiped across the bottom and held it to her ear. “Hello?” She should’ve checked to see who it was. If it were Alan checking up on her—

  “Megan? You sound like crap.”

  Tim. Sounding surprisingly not like crap for the first time in longer than she could remember.

  She pushed herself up on the bed, noticing the runs in both legs of her stockings. With a hard swallow, she tried to moisten her parched throat. “Never mind me. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until, y’know, you were done.” Sober? Clean? As stiff and dull as a concrete pillar?

  “I can make calls. Just trying to clear my head, y’know. Focus on why I’m here. But I missed you.”

  “Missed me, huh?” She slid off the bed and sauntered to the kitchen, the brightly colored cover of the magazine on the end table catching her eye. Where had Alan put her purse? “More like wanted to check up on me.”

  Tim laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. He sounded free and happy.

  Her heart burned with jealousy.

  “Maybe. So, what’d you do last night?”

  She opened the fridge, pushed aside a six-pack of yogurts and the remains of a convenience store fruit smoothie, and removed a half-gallon pitcher of water. “What do you think? Went out. Had a few drinks—”

  “A few?”

  “More or less.” She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, searching her fuzzy brain for ways to change the subject. “Ran into your buddy Alan last night.”

  “Oh yeah? I feel bad I didn’t talk to him before I left. How’s he doing?”

  She filled her glass and sipped. Two glasses of water, some black coffee, and she’d be set. “Uh, apparently Jamie kicked him out.”

  “Aw, man. I’m sorry to hear that. I knew they’d been struggling lately, but still . . .”

  “Well, I guess he’s not the perfect husband his brother apparently is, and—”

  “Let it go, will you, Meg?” Irritation sounded in his voice. Or maybe exasperation. “What’s it going to take for you to just put Chris out of your mind? He never showed any interest, and now he’s married. I mean—”

  “Knocked up his wife already too, or didn’t you know? Apparently, she—”

  “Just don’t, Megan. The envy, the meanness. It’s not becoming.”

  Her dramatic eye roll would be lost on him over the phone.

  “So, you hungover this morning?”

  She popped a dark roast cup into her coffee maker and pushed the flashing blue button. Hungover? She didn’t throw up anymore. Her head seldom hurt. She tried to recall the evening. Alan bringing her home was a little fuzzy. She remembered pulling—Chris?—onto the bed with her, but that couldn’t be. She hadn’t kissed Alan, had she? She’d messed with him, sure, but she’d never do that to Jamie. “I’m fine. Just having a cup of coffee, ready to start the day.”

  Silence.

  “You’re a beautiful girl, Meg. You’ve got so much to offer a guy. And I know we’ve had a lot of . . .”

  “Stuff?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. Stuff to deal with, but you’ve gotta . . .”

  Here it comes.

  “You’ve gotta make some changes. I know you don’t drink as much or as often as I did, but that doesn’t mean your binge drinking isn’t a problem.”

  Tears stung her eyes. Had she become a walking cliché, drowning her sorrows in flavored martinis and happy hour hookups?

  “Megan?”

  She swiped tears from her cheeks. When had her life become such a pathetic mess? That was the million-dollar question. The one she’d avoided asking. Asking meant answering, and she wasn’t ready for that. “I’m here.” She tried for cool and collected, but she doubted she could fool Tim.

  Tim, the sometimes dismissive, sometimes sweet, older brother who’d secretly sent her candy canes in middle school so she wouldn’t be left out. The brother who’d taken the place of her junior prom date when he’d bailed halfway through the evening.

  “I don’t mean to bust your chops. It’s just, well, it’s not like we were angels before.”

  She laughed. No, none of the Pettreys were on the fast track for sainthood. An image of Rebecca flashed in her mind, and her lip curled.

  “This whole thing has forced me to take a hard look at my life. I’ve been wasting time. Drinking too much, yeah, but other stuff, too. Trying to control everything and getting teed off when things didn’t go the way I wanted them to.” He sighed then spoke softly, tenderly. “You can’t tell me it’s been much different for you . . . since Randy.”

  Her chest tightened. That place must’ve gotten to him. He never, never spoke about their older brother, Randy, gone five years now after his helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan. No one did. Not her parents, not Tim. They’d lost touch with Randy’s fiancée within a couple months of the funeral.

  “What about all the alcohol, Megan? And acting like you don’t care, hanging onto this thing for Chris Reynolds?”

  He should’ve left Chris out of this.

  She retrieved her coffee from the machine and sipped. “I plead the fifth.” No use trying to fake Tim out; he could see straight through her.

  “Think about it, will you? About making some changes. You know I’m behind you a thousand percent.”

  She set the coffee on the counter, staring absently a
t the swirls of steam rising above the rim. “Okay, yeah. I’ll think about it.” Later.

  5

  Where Are You Going?

  One good thing about staying at Chris and Rebecca’s—the distance between their home and Alan’s office couldn’t be more than ten minutes. Close enough for him to swing by their house and grab the phone charger he’d left behind. And if he was lucky, some lunch.

  Alan pulled in the driveway, killed the engine, and trotted up the concrete steps. His mouth watered as he imagined Rebecca pulling some home-baked treat from the oven. Maybe banana bread or those chocolate peanut butter bar things that he loved. What else did she have to do anyway? She’d quit her job for some kind of part-time pastry school thing at the community college that only amounted to a couple of evening classes a week and some Saturdays.

  He let himself in, breathing deeply in anticipation of the rich, warm aroma. Rebecca’s voice filtered in from the kitchen along with the sound of metal on ceramic. A familiar voice came over the speakerphone, and his foot froze halfway across the welcome mat.

  “But Chris pursued you. More than once. He proposed to you, down on one knee with a ring.” He loved Jamie’s voice. Always a little rough, like she’d thrown back a shot of Janis Joplin potion. When she wanted to sound seductive, and spoke the right words, it buckled his knees. But when anger drove her, it scratched and scraped, abrasive and capable of slashing his heart to ribbons. This afternoon it neither seduced nor abraded. Her tone with Rebecca was plaintive and tinged with sadness.

  Jamie must’ve been on her lunch hour. Did she and Rebecca talk on the phone often? He didn’t think they spoke outside of family gatherings, but maybe he was wrong.

  “One of you must’ve proposed, you’re married.” More clatter of metal over Rebecca’s voice. Spoons maybe? She was baking.

  He stepped backward and out the door, closing it behind him without making a sound. Forget the charger; he’d grab lunch at a fast-food drive-thru. He didn’t need to hear Jamie’s answer to know what she’d say next.

  He hadn’t even asked Jamie on a date. After four weeks of hanging out at a mutual friend’s house for Monday Night Football, they’d become a couple. When his lease ran out at his apartment, they moved his stuff into her place with little discussion or forethought to the implications. Their decision to marry—if you could call it that—wasn’t much different.

  Her co-worker’s Valentine’s wedding reception had stretched into the wee hours of the morning. Jamie had stumbled through the hotel room door ahead of him, giggling at nothing.

  He’d followed, falling against the closed door and bolting it shut. His eyes sunk closed with exhaustion as the buzz he’d had going wore off.

  With ice-cold fingers, Jamie grabbed his hands and tugged him toward the king-size bed, where he flopped onto his back. She’d flicked on the light, giggling some more.

  Shielding his eyes from the glare, he groaned. “What’s so funny?”

  “No flippin’ idea.” She kicked off her high heels and tucked herself against him atop the bed, nestling her head under his arm, cheek to chest. “I loved her gown. And the way they decorated the ballroom with the gold ribbons and . . .” She waved a hand in the air. “All the glittery stuff. Like a fairy tale come to life.” She sighed, the alcohol on her breath overpowering the waning strength of her perfume.

  He squeezed her closer, remembering the feel of her body wrapped in his arms as they’d danced earlier, conscious that they had both a giant bed and a Jacuzzi for the night. “Is that important to you?”

  “What?”

  “Y’know. A wedding. The white dress and the flowers and the big party.” Personally, he couldn’t care less, but her comments made him wonder if it was important to her. And his mom . . . it would get her off his back. He’d had enough of her not-so-subtle hints about tying the knot.

  She shrugged against him, then with fumbling fingers began unbuttoning his dress shirt. “I guess. I mean, I didn’t really think so. Things are fine the way they are. We don’t need a piece of paper to define our relationship, but . . . maybe.” She gave up on the buttons and scooted upward, propping her elbows on his chest, her eyes a little glassy but warm and loving. Her hair, tousled but still shiny, spilled over her shoulders.

  He gazed at her over his chest. He liked seeing her happy and wanted to keep her that way. They had fun together. She got him in a way no other woman or girl ever had. “Let’s do it then.”

  “Do it?”

  “Yeah. Get married.”

  Jamie giggled again. “O-kay.” Her head fell against his chest, and she worked at the buttons again. “So, like, are we engaged now?”

  Engaged. That’s what getting married implied, right? So . . . “Yeah, I mean, yeah . . . I guess. We’re engaged.” His mind spun as he attempted to process the enormity of what he’d just committed himself to. “You’ll need a ring. We can get a ring. I should have a bonus coming at the end of the quarter. As long as no one cancels a contract on me.”

  She’d successfully negotiated all of his buttons. Except for one, which popped off and rolled onto the bed as she tugged open the shirt. “Whoops. Sorry.”

  He grinned, loving her easygoing way. No pressure. No demands. He could do this for the rest of his life.

  Now, as he jogged down the steps toward his car, he wondered if he could or if he’d even be given the opportunity to try. Sure, he’d kind of fallen into marriage, but if the ache in his chest was any indication, it had been the best indecision of his life.

  6

  Crush

  Golden leaves whirled like a dervish in the breeze, suddenly drifting and dropping to skitter across the two-lane road. The setting sun peeked from behind mammoth, gray clouds that pressed heavily on the horizon.

  Megan braked as she approached the two-story home on her right. Leaves littered the front yard. A couple of pumpkins stood sentry on either side of the front door and light shone through one of the front windows from somewhere deep within the house.

  Though not the fastest or most direct path between home and work, she’d adopted this route several years ago. All because of this house. Or rather, because of who used to live in it.

  Her eyes flicked between the empty road in front of her and the room in the upper left of the house. Dark, as usual. Rarely did she spy anyone outside the home. A couple times over the past year she’d glimpsed Chris, but not once since he’d married. Apparently, his parents rattled around in the big house by themselves now. Even Alan’s vehicle hadn’t been spotted in the driveway for weeks.

  A horn blared, startling her and bringing her attention back to the road. A white pickup truck swerved onto the opposite berm as she twisted the wheel of her black MINI Cooper, directing the vehicle onto her side of the double yellow lines. Her heart pounded in her chest as she righted the wheel.

  What drew her to this house, to this man whom she’d obsessed over for a decade? A guy who, though unfailingly polite, had never expressed any interest beyond friendship with her. Barely friendship. More like a long-term friendly acquaintance.

  Megan sighed. She’d been so sure once that she could draw his interest. She could compete with other girls. She could out-flirt, out-maneuver, and out-wit any high school girl. But her competition for Chris had never been another girl. It had been music and books and, above all, his infernal shyness.

  She’d been fourteen, a freshman, the first time Chris had caught her eye. Sure, she’d known him for years, but she’d never given the reserved, average-looking boy a second glance.

  Her parents had argued, about what she couldn’t recall. Voices raised, doors slammed, and suddenly Tim, under duress, dragged his little sister along for whatever Friday night shenanigans he had planned with his friends.

  Her initial giddiness at attending a house party with a bunch of cute senior boys faded to boredom as Tim pulled up to the Reynolds’ manse and lectured her on leaving him and his friends alone. He strode toward the door, his pace not allowing for
her shorter stride. His tune didn’t change once they got inside.

  “Stay. Out. Of my business.” Tim glanced around the spacious family room to which Alan had directed them. “Sit over there. On the couch.” He jerked his chin toward a beige sectional sofa littered with blue plaid throw pillows. “You brought a book or something, didn’t you?”

  She gave him the eye roll usually reserved for their mom. “Uh, no. I thought I’d be hanging out with you.”

  He snorted. “No way.” Tim plucked a magazine from the end table and tossed it at her. “We’ll be downstairs.”

  Megan flipped through the stupid sports rag twice, then stood and perused the room, checking out the framed family pictures on the wall, the country-décor knickknacks on the shelf, and the view into the sprawling, sloped backyard bathed in moonlight.

  Chris slipped around the corner into the room, grinding to a halt at the sight of her. In less than a second, his cheeks reddened, and his gaze drifted to the window and then down to his shoes. His parents could probably afford designer stuff, but from his shoes to his jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt, everything he wore was no-name and nondescript. Even his hair, dark brown with a hint of wave, could only be described as “short” with no discernible style.

  A grin slipped at his sudden shyness. “Hey. Tim’s downstairs with your brother. I’m supposed to wait here for him.” She expected some reply. After all, they’d known each other since grade school.

  Eventually, Chris nodded. After several more excruciating seconds, he gestured to the television in the corner stand. “I was gonna watch a movie. King Kong. The re-make.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  The next three hours passed in verbal silence. Only the sounds of the movie and an occasional burst of shouts or laughter from downstairs filled the air. Seated at opposite ends of the couch, she’d almost forgotten he was there until he retreated to the kitchen midway through the movie and popped a bag of popcorn in the microwave. He offered her some in a large blue bowl that read “Movie Time” on the side.