Make You Miss Me

by Celeste, B.

  My mind wanders to the birthday card, the one I’d forced myself to throw away at the school or else I would’ve hoarded it with other old mementoes that I torture myself with.

  The reason why I haven’t moved on the way I’m sure Hunter has is that, unlike him, I’m stuck wondering what I did wrong. Did I love him too much? Hold him too tight? Or not enough? Did I suffocate him with plans of our future family? Or did I not make my dreams to have a family heard well enough?

  I’d agreed to a lot when I said, “I do”, including losing part of myself in the process—putting things on hold, focusing on him instead of me, waiting for the right moment for us to move onto the next step…I became somebody unrecognizable in the mirror.

  Until this moment, wondering how much it’d cost to buy a lawn mower versus hiring some local kid to mow for me, thinking about how hard it was going to be to repaint some of the rooms on my own, and move heavy furniture when I sought fit, I didn’t know just how lost I was.

  Because I’d relied on Hunter and his family to take care of me, I depended on a man who made me need him more than I needed anything else in the world.

  For the first time in a long time, I whisper to the wind what I hadn’t let myself admit since I’d taken back my maiden name.

  “I’m not okay.”

  The knock on the door comes late morning as I’m teetering for balance on one of the kitchen chairs trying to hang my new curtains. Thanks to the money my coworkers collected for me, I was able to update the kitchen with cute décor, including light green curtains, and matching dish towels, white hanging shelves that matched the white counters and cabinets, and some new pots and pans from my favorite TV personality’s cooking line. For once, the space starts to feel homey.

  I almost fall when the second knock sounds, and I pinch my face trying to figure out who it could be. I’m not expecting Dad until tomorrow to help me install all my shelving, and Mom left an hour ago for a hair appointment with Aunt Rebecca.

  Carefully stepping down, I walk across the house to the chipped white door that needs a fresh coat of paint since the movers accidentally scraped some off when they were moving the living room furniture in and open it to find three women standing on the other side. One of them looks around my mom’s age and either has a bad case of resting bitch face or just doesn’t like me already, and the other two both look to be a little younger with partially welcoming smiles.

  The mean looking one says, “You must be the new owner. I’m Maggie. This is Brenda—” She points to the brunette next to her, then the shorter, fake blonde on the other side. “—and that’s Kristen.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I offer, though the look I’m being pinned with makes me nervous when all three gazes start wandering around the front of the house.

  I’d invite them in, but aside from them being perpetual strangers, the inside is a disaster. Boxes are still thrown everywhere, furniture is in disarray, and some rooms are still half empty because I haven’t had time to do any shopping for things I want to buy for them. Slowly, I’m working from room to room, starting with the ones I’ll spend the most time in and leaving the others for whenever my free time and motivation will allow.

  “We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the shortest of them, Kristin, tells me, smiling.

  Maggie, the ringleader, based on how the other two pipe down as soon as she opens her mouth, says, “We’re part of the Homeowners Association, and we’ve been getting complaints.”

  My eyes widen at the statement since I’ve never had a complaint made against me in my life. “I don’t understand.”

  She sighs. “Your lawn is unkempt and needs to be mowed, and something needs to be done about the flower beds. You can’t leave things like this if you want to remain here. I’m sure the realtor you went through gave you a list of regulations for the HOA you would have needed to sign, including penalties for any violations.”

  I blink.

  Gape with parted lips.

  Close my lips and blink again.

  The middle woman, Brenda, clears her throat and digs in her purse before pulling out a card and handing it to me. “There are a few people who do lawn care for residents here if you’re interested in hiring someone who knows the regulations better. Me and a few others use them. They’re great.”

  “Either way,” the ringleader says. “We wanted to come by and give you a warning. A written notice will be the next step if it’s not taken care of in the next three days, which should give you plenty of time to handle it.”

  I almost smile when I see Kristen roll her eyes over the dramatic woman who’s standing as straight as possible to seem more authoritative. If height is how she chooses to dominate others into doing whatever she wants, there’s no competition between us. I’m barely over five feet. Most people I meet are taller than me.

  I wave the card in my hand. “I’ll make sure to give someone a call as soon as I can. It was nice meeting you all.”

  The dismissal doesn’t seem to go over well with at least one of the women, but I’ve had enough practice with my ex-in-laws to know a stubborn woman when I see one. I was raised with manners, but there’s a fine line between being rude and standing up for yourself so you don’t get walked on, and I swore I’d never let that happen to me again.

  Sighing as soon as the door is closed behind me, I know more than likely that if I call the number listed on the card, they’ll be too busy to come before I get something written in the mail. And considering I have no interest in making enemies here, especially not in record-breaking time, I do what I do best whenever I have a problem.

  I call my dad.

  After greeting him, I fill him in on what happened and hear him chuckle over my rendition of the neighborhood police. “So, can you bring the push mower with you when you come?”

  “Damn, kid. Making friends already.”

  I stare at the curtains I hung, then at everything else I need to do yet and feel overwhelmed with what I’ve gotten myself into. “You could say that. Vickie is supposed to come help me unpack some things, though, so at least I’ll have one person who doesn’t hate my guts.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?” His tone is teasing no matter how much he tries to sound offended.

  “You and mom are obligated to love me. It’s your job as parents.”

  My argument is lacking since I’ve met a handful of family members of my students, and not everyone has the same mentality as I do about parental-child relationships.

  “I let Sonny borrow it, but I’ll get it back and make sure the lawn is taken care of. Anything else you need me to bring?”

  Alcohol, I want to say. But considering my father hasn’t touched a drop of it in six years and seven months, according to the AA tokens he’s collected and proudly shown off, I don’t even bother saying it no matter how much I’d love to curl up on the couch with a bottle of wine.

  My father’s alcoholism changed everything when I was in middle school. He and mom got divorced because of how much time he spent at the bar with a bottle of his favorite malt liquor instead of spending time with us. Now that he’s better, their relationship has gotten significantly better too. They still talk, check in on each other, and even have dinners together once in a while. But I don’t think they’ll ever get back together again, and the thirteen-year-old in me still wallows over that.

  “Just your gorgeous face,” I say instead, hearing the groan and grumble that makes me brush off my thoughts and smile.

  It takes a few more hours to finish the little things in the kitchen that I can do on my own, washing, drying, and putting away all my new dishes and cookware, hanging up the second set of curtains, moving around some smaller appliances until I get them where I want, sweeping and mopping since I keep tracking in mud on the light tiled flooring I already hate and heating up some food Mom stockpiled in my fridge before she left earlier.

  I’m glancing outside at the grass through one of the front windows and cringing at how bad
it looks compared to the other lawns around me when a big, newer model black four-door pickup truck drives past the house and slows as it nears a raised-ranch style house kitty-corner to mine. The turn signal flicks on as it glides into the driveway and stops right in front of the closed garage, and it doesn’t take long before two bodies emerge.

  One large.

  And one small.

  I see the green attire first, the color that always sparks something in my heart, making it go into overdrive. It used to be excitement coursing through my veins because I knew it meant the person wearing the uniform was home, right where he belonged. Now it sparks something completely different.

  Pain.

  Regret.

  Anger.

  The man isn’t wearing a uniform, though, just a T-shirt the same color green I’ve grown to hate and a pair of dark jeans. I know it’s not the person who caused the massive hole in my chest. He’s taller, bulkier, and the little boy whose hand he’s holding is the dead giveaway.

  Hunter wasn’t ready to have kids.

  I’m not sure he ever was, even though he knew how badly I wanted them from day one. How much pillow talk we’d have about our kids and animals and the home we’d grow in.

  Swallowing, I close the curtains and walk over to the couch with my steaming food and glass of water and put on the news to drown out the heavy, bitter feeling carving itself deep in my bones.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I don’t know much about lawn mowers since I’ve never used one in my life, but I do know the one my father is currently using shouldn’t be making the sound it is. Not even a few seconds after I stop organizing the various pictures, plants, and trinkets on my new bookshelf in the living room, I hear the telltale signs of my father’s cursing that tells me it’s definitely not a good sign.

  Frowning, I walk out with a cold bottle of water for the 66-year-old and see him squatting beside the piece of equipment and scowling.

  I tilt my head. “What’s wrong with it?”

  He accepts the water and guzzles half of it before shaking his balding head where brown hair used to be. What’s left of his receding hairline is a mixture of dark gray and silver, the same color streaks I started seeing when I turned 30. Since my hair is so dark, the silver highlights basically stand out like a sore thumb. One of my students even thought it was tinsel stuck to my head, which was sort of funny until three more popped up.

  “Goddamn Sonny must have mowed over something he shouldn’t have. Again. Your mother told me not to let him use it after last time, but I didn’t listen. Love thy neighbors and all that bullshit.”

  I snicker. “Maybe you should listen to Mom next time if this keeps happening.” We both know he won’t because Sonny is one of the most persistent people on this planet. I grew up calling him Uncle Sonny even though there was no relation because he was always just…there. Helping Dad tinker on odds and ends in the garage, barbecuing with our family, helping me learn how to ride a bike when Dad was a little preoccupied elsewhere.

  Dad harrumphs but doesn’t give any indication that he knows I’m probably right. It’s ten minutes later when he lets out a heavy sigh and gives me a solemn look from where he has the mower on its side to figure out what’s wrong with it. “I’m going to need to fix this, which means figuring out what parts store has what I need and then actually replacing it all.”

  My shoulders drop a fraction. “Oh. Is that going to take a while?”

  His dark, sympathetic eyes tell me ‘yes’ before he says, “I’ll need to make some calls, but I probably won’t be able to get everything I need until tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. Sorry, kiddo.”

  “It’s okay.” What else can I say? He’s helping me for free anyway to get me out of a bind. Like always, I’ll figure it out. “Do you need some money for the parts?”

  I’ll admit, it hurts to offer knowing I don’t have much to my name right now. But I’ve got food in the kitchen, all my bills paid for the month, and gas in the car. I’d make do.

  The scoff from him doesn’t surprise me since that’s usually the sound he makes when I offer to help him with anything. When I was sixteen, I’d gotten a job at a movie theater to save up for my first car, and once in a while, I’d offer Dad part of my paycheck for things like groceries. Mom was worried he’d take it and spend it on things he shouldn’t, but her worries were moot because Dad never accepted the helping hand. “I don’t need any money, Stevie. You worry about yourself now that you’ve got this place. And you should probably call the lawn people, so they’ll add you into their next rotation.”

  As always, he’s right. I should have called them yesterday after I’d gotten off the phone with him. “I’ll call them when I go back inside. Do you think—”

  “Mower trouble?” a deeper voice asks from not so far away. Both dad and I turn at the same time, looking at the sidewalk where a tall, muscular man built like a tank is standing with the kind of straight posture that’s drilled into heads of others who share the same short buzzcut as he does. His white T-shirt looks like it’s about to bust a stitch from the massive biceps and broad shoulders it’s encasing, and the dark denim on his legs aren’t tight but not loose from where they hang low on his hips. In his hand is a leash with a gorgeous, friendly-looking golden retriever attached to the other end who’s wagging its tail as it watches us.

  The dog isn’t what I find myself staring at the longest, though, because when I glance up from the large work boots that look like they’ve been well worn, long legs covered in those faded blue jeans with a rip in one of the knees, and the tee that is either too small or arguably just right, I see the tan face attached to the burly body. Clean-shaven sharp jawline, neutral expression, and eyes that are dark and watchful, always observing through the thick lashes lining them like he’s always on alert.

  Dad doesn’t even know why my breath catches, that it has nothing to do with the man’s rugged good looks.

  I swallow when the man I’ve seen a handful of times over the years looks from the mower to my dad, then back to me. There doesn’t seem to be recognition at first, but when he gets a good look at my shocked expression and stiff body, he blinks.

  Just once.

  Then those brawny shoulders draw back.

  Dad doesn’t even seem to notice, not that it’d make any sense for him to. He’d never met any of Hunter’s commanding officers, including this man with short brown hair, hair slightly lighter than mine, who stands with the type of authority any other Lieutenant Colonel is trained to have in the army. Stock straight, perfect posture, and eyes that see all to be prepared for anything.

  But I bet he didn’t see this.

  “My damn neighbor ruined the blade and crankshaft,” Dad announces bitterly to the man still watching me with a careful eye before slowly pulling his gaze downward to my father.

  I don’t bother pointing out that the chance of Sonny being responsible for what sounded like an expensive fix isn’t likely since Dad managed to mow half the lawn. It wouldn’t surprise me if Lieutenant Colonel Miller probably knows that too but doesn’t say it.

  “If you need to borrow mine,” that baritone voice says, “I can go grab it for you.”

  Through my lashes, I glance up to see the familiar set of eyes watching me again, waiting for an answer. But because I’m a coward, I let my father be the one who answers for me. “We’d appreciate that, wouldn’t we, Stevie?”

  Heat slithers up the back of my neck as I pick my head up and offer an appreciative nod. The smile with it is tight, still full of surprise and uncertainty as the two circular orbs, the color of my favorite espresso, pins me where I stand with the intensity of the gaze. If Mom were here, she’d tell me I was being rude, then elbow me discreetly to comment on the commanding officer’s looks when he wasn’t looking. There’d been more than one occasion where an attractive man was somewhere nearby, and my mother felt the need to point them out like I didn’t have two eyes of my own. The difference between those times and now was that
I could freely ogle the strangers without feeling bad about it because it’d never come to anything.

  Fletcher Miller isn’t a stranger, though. Considering I don’t know what he does or doesn’t know about the split one of his soldiers and me, there isn’t a lot I’d trust myself to say without reopening old wounds that I’ve worked hard on mending shut.

  “We would appreciate it,” I force out, proud of how steady my voice sounds even if I’m shaking on the inside.

  When those piercing eyes lock on me, I don’t dare move or blink. I hold my breath, wondering what he’s thinking, and only release it when he dips his chin once. “Okay.”

  Okay.

  That’s all.

  The man, who has to be in his early to mid-forties by now, tugs on his dog’s leash and starts walking down the street. It isn’t until he crosses it to the house I saw the black truck park in the driveway of yesterday that I realize the cold hard truth reality is smacking me with.

  My ex-husband’s commanding officer is my neighbor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three days later, I’m walking to the small faculty mailboxes set up in the main office when my boss sticks her head out from her small office in the corner and pins me with one of those sweet smiles she gives people before asking them to do something. “Stevie, just the person I wanted to see. Can you come talk to me real quick?”

  As if I could tell her no.

  Nodding, I collect my things from the box and follow her inside, closing the door behind me. She sits behind her oak desk with pictures of cats and children resting in frames and a name plaque that says Ms. Clifton in gold engraved lettering. A present from her nieces, the very same children showcased proudly in the brown picture frames beside it, since she doesn’t have any of her own.

  “What can I help you with?” I ask, taking a seat across from her. The first time I sat in this very same chair was for the job interview that led to this position, and as nervous as I was, worried I’d have pit stains by the time it was over, I knew I’d crushed it. So, when I’d gotten the call with the official job offering, I’d taken it with a big smile that I couldn’t wipe off my face for weeks.