Come Back to Me

by Carolyn Astfalk

  Jolted to the present by blinding headlights in her rearview mirror, Megan blinked and glimpsed the old basketball hoop standing in the Reynolds’ driveway behind her. She doubted many balls swished through its net these days, but now that Chris and Rebecca were having a baby, it may see use again.

  In the weeks after that boring night in Chris’s family room, as angry chaos and loud arguments heralded her dad’s departure from their home and family, the calm, quiet, steady presence of Chris Reynolds gained appeal. Then as the awkward adolescent transformed into a strikingly good-looking young man, the appeal blossomed into teen obsession.

  Despite that fact Chris didn’t date or even attend school dances, sharing the same bank of lockers and an occasional class at school provided enough fuel for her fantasies. Elaborate fantasies stoked by raging hormones spilled out into a spiral-bound, pink notebook bedecked with hippie-style flower illustrations in orange and green. A series of romantic encounters filled the pages, from innocuous imaginings of slow dances at the Snowball Soirée to vivid erotic dreams of being stranded in a winter cabin together.

  As Megan approached the stop sign, her cell phone rang, resounding over the car’s speakers via the Bluetooth. She pressed the phone button on the steering wheel to answer. “Hello.”

  “Hey, it’s Jamie.”

  The image of Alan tending to her in her drunken stupor flashed in Megan’s memory. Did Jamie know? Was she angry? “What’s up?”

  A sigh came over the speakers. “Just hoping we could get together soon. Talk. . . I could use a friend.”

  Should she admit she knew or just play dumb? Her gut screamed to tell her, but that would open the door to recounting the whole embarrassing evening with Alan. And despite her stupid actions that night, she didn’t want to cause more trouble in their marriage. “Do you want to get a coffee or something?” She thought of the week ahead. Crunch time at work, tense Thanksgiving meal with her family. “How about Black Friday? Some coffee shop far, far from the shopping mall.”

  Jamie laughed. “Sounds perfect.”

  Silence lingered.

  A twinge of guilt and sympathy pierced Megan’s heart. “Is everything . . . okay?”

  “Not really. My life’s a mess. But it’ll still be a mess Friday, I’m sure. We can talk then.”

  Lights flashed behind her, and a siren blared, forcing Megan to pull to the side of the road as a fire truck passed.

  “Where are you?”

  She glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no more emergency vehicles trailed the fire engine. Seeing none, she pulled back onto the road. “Uh, over by your in-laws’, actually. On my way home.”

  “That’s kind of a roundabout way to your place, isn’t it?”

  Megan should’ve made something up. Told her she was somewhere else. What had she been thinking? “You know I like the scenic route.”

  “Megan, seriously. You know I love you, and I would’ve liked to have seen you together, but he’s married. Very happily, I might add.” A note of irritation sounded in her voice. Jealousy maybe? “And he’s gonna be a daddy soon too.”

  The mention of Rebecca’s pregnancy caused an ache in Megan’s chest. It wasn’t worth denying she’d driven this way in hope of spotting Chris. Jamie knew her too well to buy a lie. “I heard the blessed news.”

  “From who? Please tell me you’re not stalking him on trips to the obstetrician’s office.”

  “Alan told me.” Megan clamped her mouth shut. Shoot. Now Jamie would wonder when she’d seen him.

  “Alan?” Her voice quavered. “You’ve . . . you’ve seen him?”

  Megan scrambled for a way to extricate herself from the conversation. “Hey, it looks like there’s an accident up ahead. I need to concentrate on the road. Text me about coffee on Friday, okay?”

  She disconnected the call before Jamie’s response even left her mouth. What was she doing? She didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship with Jamie. Real friends were hard to come by. Especially girl friends. Ones that didn’t judge and harp on her behavior. Ones that listened.

  And what about Chris? Why did she cling to the ridiculous hope that someday her dreams of being with him would come true?

  She’d invested so much in the fantasy. So much hope. So much of her heart. It had been a constant in a sea of change.

  She’d even finagled her way to Alan’s wedding before she and Jamie had become close. They’d become friendly not long before the wedding, and Jamie had tried to put in a good word with Chris. It hadn’t worked, but the wedding . . . she thought if only she could get him alone at the wedding, share a couple of drinks, a dance . . .

  But Chris had brought Rebecca and barely left her side the whole evening. He’d even kissed her on the dance floor, driving Megan back to the bar for another round.

  Megan pressed her fingers into her now-achy forehead. It was past time to let go of her obsession. Past time to face the fact that she’d become what her dad had always thought she’d be: the kind of girl guys used as a plaything, not the kind they married. Not the kind guys like Chris Reynolds married. Only her dad didn’t see the big picture, that as much as guys used her, she used them more.

  7

  Out of My Hands

  Outside Chris and Rebecca’s house, Alan stomped up the stairs, his hunter green suitcase bumping along behind him. As he released the handle, the suitcase teetered on the concrete and then pitched backward. He thrust his leg against it, keeping it from toppling down the steps. Hoisting his laptop bag to the other shoulder, he tucked his empty coffee cup between his elbow and chest, and then transferred his toiletries bag to the other hand. With his free hand, he fished the house key from his pocket.

  The brass-colored keys dangled from a medallion doubling as a keychain. He swung the silver medallion into his palm and studied the image. Some old guy with a pointy hat and a staff. A clean-shaven Gandalf or something? Tiny words in what looked like Latin ran along the edge. The pope? Weird. He shook his head, grasped one of the keys and jammed it into the lock.

  He twisted the knob a couple times, trying not to drop anything, then pushed the door open with his shoulder, his vinyl bag sliding to his elbow. He crushed the coffee cup into his side and tried jerking the bag back up as he grabbed hold of the rolling suitcase handle. The wheels caught on the threshold, hampering his progress so that he tumbled rather than walked into the foyer.

  The cup hit the rug, and a string of curses flew from his lips as he steadied himself and jammed the luggage pull handle into the troublesome suitcase. Tension built in his neck and shoulders, and he kicked the suitcase in aggravation, knocking it onto its side.

  A whiff of something savory came from the kitchen, warm and garlicky and like everything that came from that kitchen, delicious. His anger subsided while his appetite grew, and he lunged for the wayward cup.

  A pair of battered, brown loafers and a hand came into view, scooping up the cup, which remained out of Alan’s reach. “Here you go. Good thing it was empty, huh?”

  Alan’s gaze darted to the man holding his crushed cup, which now had a trickle of coffee running from the rim to the paperboard holder. The man in front of him smiled, and for a fraction of a second, Alan thought him a stranger. Then he caught the quirk of his grin and the strong line of his nose. “Father John, I almost didn’t recognize you.” His gaze roamed over the gray sweatshirt with blue letters that read “Seminary,” paired with faded blue jeans.

  “Yeah.” Father John glanced at his attire. “Probably never seen me in my civvies.” He extended his free hand. “Can I help?”

  Alan shook his head, regretting his use of four-letter words when he’d stumbled in the door. “Just the cup, thanks. I got this.”

  He hadn’t known Chris and Rebecca were having company tonight. Eh, they probably didn’t consider Father John company, more like family to Chris, a fact which, if Alan were honest, rankled him a bit. Alan and Chris had been close like that when they were kids. Up until the time Alan had sta
rted noticing girls.

  His gaze darted toward the kitchen and then the hall. Where were Chris and Rebecca anyway?

  As if he could read his mind, Father John said, “Chris is outside, grilling. And Rebecca . . .” His gaze shifted to the kitchen. “She’s doing something with dinner. I offered to help, but . . .” He shrugged. “She knows I’m useless in the kitchen.”

  Alan pictured the charred frozen pizza he’d pulled from his oven a couple of weeks ago and couldn’t stop the scoffing laugh that burst from his lips. “You think you’re useless in the kitchen? You should see my wife in action.” He bit his bottom lip, regretting the words. He loved Jamie, whatever her kitchen skills, or lack thereof.

  Father John gave him a tight grin, probably unsure of how to react. Had Chris told him his marriage was on the rocks?

  Awkward silence filled the small space between them as Alan yanked the plastic suitcase handle, making him acutely aware that the only thing he shared in common with Father John was the guy outside barbecuing their dinner.

  He cast a furtive glance at the padre. Not a bad-looking guy. From the few times they’d been in Chris’s company together, he knew only that he was smart and a huge baseball fan—specifically a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. He seemed at ease around people of all kinds, from the dirty-faced cherubs that tugged on his clerical robes to stooped, gray-haired old ladies in support hose and sensible shoes and even pimply teenagers who’d sooner have their parents glimpse their naked selfies than be caught in church.

  No reason this guy couldn’t have a girlfriend or wife. Probably a hot one at that. And yet, when he left tonight, he’d go to bed alone, just as he would for the rest of his life. Had he ever been with a woman, before his vows? Alan didn’t know any guys in college who hadn’t taken advantage of the plethora of willing females on campus, but then he hadn’t known his own brother had remained a virgin until he’d married Rebecca mere months ago. As much as he loved and respected Chris, it still confounded him.

  Just as he got the suitcase rolling, Rebecca emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on the front of a peasant-style maternity blouse that gathered above her baby bump. “Alan. I thought I heard voices in here.” She smiled, looking happier to see him than his own wife typically did. By the time he came home, Jamie was usually slouched on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand and the remote control in the other.

  “How was work?”

  No one had asked him that question in a long time, and he hadn’t missed it. Talking about work made him irritable and edgy. He’d tried to put the huge sale he’d blown this morning out of his mind, but he couldn’t shake the image of his customer’s nasty snarl as he’d droned on about poor customer service, bait-and-switch, and making a report to the Better Business Bureau. “Same old thing. Customer ripped my head off, manager up my—” His gaze darted to Father John, and he clamped his mouth shut. “Sorry.”

  Father John grinned, grabbed an open bottle of beer—one of the popular ones from the brewery where Chris worked—from the end table and took a swig. “No apology necessary. I’ve had managers like that too.” He gestured toward the kitchen and, Alan presumed, the small deck beyond. “I’ll see how Chris is coming with the pork chops.”

  His hand grazed Rebecca’s arm as he passed, and she flashed him a smile. Once the back door had shut, the small strap of bells attached to the top jingling to signal Father John’s exit, Rebecca stepped closer.

  She laid a hand over her abdomen, a gesture he’d seen her make more often of late, as if she were reminding herself of the baby beneath. “Your mom stopped by this afternoon to talk about Thanksgiving. You haven’t told her, have you? About you and Jamie.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, letting it fall where it lay. “No. You didn’t say anything, did you?”

  She shook her head, her shiny, brown locks swinging from side to side. “Not my place. But, Thanksgiving is next week. Your mom’s expecting us. All of us. She wants you and Jamie to bring wine and those nuts you and Chris like. Have you talked to Jamie about it?”

  “She doesn’t respond to my texts.” Of course, he couldn’t remember when he’d last sent one. What could he say? He didn’t even know what was wrong. “I’ll try calling this weekend.”

  “I’d do it tonight if I were you. Your mom’s having lunch with Jamie tomorrow.”

  8

  An’ Another Thing

  Alan rested against the seat back and gazed at the familiar sights—the small patch of woods and homes he’d passed hundreds of times on bike rides and walks. The size of the homes struck him; they seemed much smaller than he remembered as a kid. Although he looked at them through grown-up eyes now, he still felt small—trapped and anxious, hoping this ruse succeeded.

  Leaning forward between the front seats, Alan tapped Chris’s arm. “Let me off here.”

  Rebecca shot him a quizzical look from the shotgun seat and then braced herself with a hand to the dashboard as Chris swerved to avoid a squirrel scampering across the street, forcing the car toward the curb. Piled leaves scattered like a flock of skittish birds.

  Chris glanced in the rearview mirror and then braked. “Right here? We’re an eighth of a mile from the house.”

  “Just stop, okay? Jamie’s supposed to meet me here.” Wait—was that her blue Honda Civic in the driveway? He squinted but couldn’t make it out.

  The car rolled along; Chris obviously having chosen to ignore Alan’s instructions. Jamie’s car came into clear view.

  “Looks like she’s already here.” Rebecca shifted the apple pie on her lap and turned to face him. “Maybe you got your signals crossed?” The woman was so guileless, as if she couldn’t imagine Jamie not doing as she’d said.

  Not a chance he was mistaken. In the course of a short and horribly stilted conversation, he’d made it plain to Jamie that he didn’t want his parents to know they were living apart. She hadn’t been happy about it, but she’d agreed to pretend everything was hunky-dory.

  What gives, Jamie?

  The aroma of roasted turkey wafted through the front door even before Alan pulled it open. He handed Chris and Rebecca his bottle of wine and jar of nuts and allowed them to enter ahead of him, hoping to keep his parents’ attention focused on them while he located Jamie.

  Mom, Dad, Chris, and Rebecca crowded around the kitchen island, hugging and making room for the apple pie amongst the casserole dishes and dessert plates on the counter. He glanced around, searching out Jamie. Naturally, she wouldn’t be involved in the food preparation.

  He found her in the living room, her back to him. A surge of wistful longing spread through his chest, only magnified by her presence in his childhood home amidst the cozy warmth of the holidays.

  She stared at the photos on the fireplace mantle. A half-dozen framed photos sat alongside a dried flower arrangement and several small fall gourds. A decade-old family photo, his and Chris’s high school graduation pictures, a shot of his parents at a friend’s summer barbecue, and a set of wedding pictures. Jamie gazed at their wedding photo, a black-and-white photo taken immediately after the short civil ceremony.

  Alan remembered only bits and snatches of his wedding day. The first half lingered in his memory as a happy blur. Jamie’s red hair with golden streaks, sleek and pinned beneath a long veil. Her blue eyes shimmering as she repeated her vows. Hugs from aunts and people he’d never met before. Back claps from friends. The icky berry filling in the cake they’d paid way too much for. The way the left rental shoe made his instep ache with every step. The feel of the stiff fabric of Jamie’s dress beneath his hand as they shared their first dance as husband and wife to the sounds of the Goo Goo Dolls.

  He even remembered catching a glimpse of Chris and Rebecca on the edge of the dance floor engaged in a lip-lock. He’d never seen Chris like that with a girl—enthralled, looking like he held the winning ticket to the Powerball lottery and feared that at any misstep it might be taken away. Starry-eyed, he gazed at Rebecca—who, admittedly, look
ed beautiful, angelic even. Alan grinned, sure that he’d done his younger brother a big favor by pushing him to invite Rebecca even though they’d only gone on a few dates.

  The wedding day details blurred after that, as if he were gazing through smeared aquarium glass into murky water. The edges—the particulars—were fuzzy, the feelings dulled.

  The hotel contract for the ballroom went until midnight. After that, he and Jamie had headed to the bar. Megan’s brother Tim had unfurled a wad of bills and proceeded to buy round after round, all the while inching closer to Alan’s cousin Dylan’s date, a petite, curvy blonde with the bluest eyes and whitest teeth he’d ever seen.

  Sometime after two, he guessed, he and Jamie had stumbled up to the honeymoon suite. It had taken at least five minutes to get the keycard through the swiper, mainly because he lacked the coordination to line it up but also because Jamie leaned her full weight against him, throwing him even further off balance.

  They’d collapsed on top of the king-size bed, ignoring the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries laid out on the table. They’d dozed for a few minutes, he guessed, until Jamie snorted, waking him.

  He rolled his head to the side, taking in her figure in that gorgeous dress that had nearly knocked him out when he’d spotted her at the end of the aisle. This was their wedding night. Drunk or not, one way or another, he was getting her out of that dress.

  Despite her weak, mumbled protests, he fumbled with the loopy buttons running the length of her spine. His fingers felt more like the cumbersome paws of a costumed character. He was one of the Banana Splits trying to peel his bride out of her dress.

  He murmured every hot thing he could think of in her ear. “C’mon, babe, it’s our wedding night.”