One More Time

by Kat Pace

  Just a while.

  I remember him on the way back. He comes to me all over again with each of the three blocks I walk. The moon bounces off the snow on the ground, making it so bright out it could be high noon. The town –the streets –everything looks so eerie this way, like everything is off. And it is.

  So he didn’t come tonight. So he doesn’t care.

  Neither should you.

  I creep through my front door. It’s dark inside the house but my way is lit up by the Christmas lights pouring in through the window. It’s only midnight, but it feels so much later. Feels like it’s a 100 o’clock and I’ve been up for days.

  I head straight for the bathroom, careful to be quiet in the hallway. Brushing my teeth is essential. I peel off my old favorite sweater and jump out of my jeans. I leave them on the tile floor and pick up the flannel I took off this morning. Right where I left it.

  The light switches off and the bathroom is once again under the eerie purple glow being cast by the butterfly night-light. I step into my room, navigating the semi-darkness on my tiptoes. I look up in the mirror and see him sitting on the edge of my bed, holding a pillow on his lap. I legit jump out of my skin.

  “Brooks!” I hiss under my breath. My foot almost catches on itself as I stumble backwards. “Fuck, what are you –how did you get in here?”

  Brooks watches me as I walk to his side on my bed. I sit on my leg, with one foot still on the floor to balance me. He’s looking at me with dark eyes, sad eyes. Tortured, maybe? I get no answer.

  “Brooks?” My voice is quiet.

  He’s shaking his head. It almost falls in my lap. I run my fingers through his long hair, pulling it back, trying to soothe him.

  My hands find his and I feel his raw knuckles. He definitely beat the shit out of something –or someone. If I strain my eyes enough I can see his lip is already bruised, glistening red.

  “What happened?” I ask, running my fingers over the cuts and scrapes.

  “I don’t want to –Can I stay here tonight? Just to sleep.” His whisper is so low I hardly hear it. I have about one hundred questions to ask, but somehow I refrain.

  “Course you can,” I whisper back.

  He moves farther back on the bed, pulling me with him. I crawl up to the pillow region and pull back my comforter. I slide in between the sheets and pull Brooks with me. He pulls the sweatshirt over his head and it drops to the floor. He wraps his arms around me, bringing me against his bare skin. I wedge my freezing toes between his legs and he smiles for the first time tonight.

  “Thank you,” he says, quiet.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask again. I try to search his eyes –to find my own answers, but it’s a no go. He’s too skilled at the façade game.

  “My dad happened. My house happened. All of it happened.” He positions his head next to mine on the pillow.

  We are so close. I’m reminded of that night we spent over at Travis’s after the Back Bay party.

  “Your dad came back?” I ask.

  “This afternoon.” Brooks barely nods. “Spent the day trying to convince my mom to sign the B&B over to him.”

  “What!” I whisper-shout. “But I thought –doesn’t she get the B&B? Didn’t she get everything in Jersey?”

  “Oh yea, she does. But he’s trying to talk her into it. Manipulating her as usual. The way only he can. He manipulates them all.” Brooks shifts beside me. He won’t let go of me.

  “Brooks, I’m so–” I begin.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Brooks says quietly. “I’m used to it by now.”

  “Is he who you fought? Who gave you that lip?” My fingers graze over his bottom lip. Still perfect, bloodied and bruised and all.

  “Brody,” Brooks sighs. He pushes back his hair again.

  “Brody! No way!”

  “I think he did it just so my dad wouldn’t,” Brooks almost laughs. “Gotta hand it to him –it was a nice punch.”

  “Boys,” I mumble. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I just –I just want to lay here tonight,” Brooks says against my skin.

  “Laying sounds perfect,” I whisper back.

  I can’t help but feel responsible. After all, Brooks only came home because I was coming home. Now he’s stuck in a house with his father for the holidays. If only we could have our own Christmas just like we had our own Thanksgiving. The two of us are better that way –alone, locked away in a high tower where no one else can get inside.

  The two of us sit in the semi-darkness. My room is dead quiet apart from the humming of the toilet you can hear from the bathroom. I roll over and hit the old boom box (I know, a BOOM BOX, GTFO) on my nightstand. The mix CD is still from high school. No telling what’s on it.

  The unmistakable strings of The Starting Line’s Best of Me start up. Acoustic version. Brooks laughs softly beneath me.

  “Oh my god. Throwback. This must be Emo-Emmy’s,” he whispers.

  “Ah, Emo-Emmy. Gone not forgotten,” I smirk toward the ceiling.

  “So how was Back Bay?” Brooks asks, kissing me.

  “Terrible without you.”

  His lips turn into a smile against mine. I hate that I can’t see it in the dark, but feeling it against mine is almost good enough.

  I squeeze my hand over his chest. The sleeve on my flannel is fraying. I stare at the threads starting to come undone. Everything comes undone.

  “That’s intense.” Brooks tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “Says the boy I found sitting on my bed in the dark,” I whisper. “With a busted lip.”

  “Fair enough,” Brooks laughs.

  Benefit Light Festival

  8:01 AM

  I smell the bacon before I open my eyes. Smell the coffee too. Or I am phantom-smelling it at least. My arm stretches out across an empty bed. Brooks is already gone. Not sure what I expected. Him to stay? Risk the chance of my parents finding him in my room this morning?

  I am twenty-six. Still, old rules die hard.

  And I have exactly nine hours until Brooks picks me up for the Benefit tonight. Nine glorious and primping-filled hours. I roll over on my pillow and mentally review my list of appointments for the day. Manicure and pedicure. Check, check. Facial. Check. Blow out. Check. Then only thing left is tweezing the stray peach fuzz growing along my bikini line. Persistent lil fuckers.

  As I brush my teeth I think of Brooks. He came to my room. As I wash my face I think of Brooks. He just wanted to hold me all night. As I change into my yoga pants and hoodie I think of Brooks. Brooks is a lot more broken than he lets on. As I glance at my bun in the mirror I think of Brooks. My room!

  Double take. As I glance in the mirror I thank the lord I decided to squeeze in the blow out this afternoon. I couldn't even begin to deal with my own hair right now.

  “Hi honey,” my mom says as I enter the kitchen.

  “Bacon?” My dad asks, holding out the plate.

  “Coffee.” I bypass the V tempting spread of breakfast meats. Bacon, sausage and scrapple.

  “Oh right, new diet.” My dad rolls his eyes.

  “It's not new. You just keep offering me animal by-products hoping I’ll change my mind or forget.”

  He laughs at me. “At least you'll never forget coffee.”

  “Mhmm.” I bring the cup to my lips. “Who could forget coffee?”

  “Honey, don't forget we have to be at the B&B all day today. You have to stop by the farm for the wreaths. They need to be fresh. Drop off at the church is 1:00 PM,” my mom says, looking at me.

  “Of course they need to be fresh. Who wants stale wreaths?” My dad mocks.

  “Wreaths. 1 PM. Got it,” I recite, adding it to my mental checklist –sometime after the mani-pedi and right before the blow out.

  “Marge mentioned Brooks is picking you up tonight?" My mother asks. At least it sounds like she's asking. But fishing is more like it.

  “He offered to…” I trail off.

  My stomach knots.
I’m not sure if it's because of my mother's polite accusatory tone, her judgmental smile, or the thought, nay confirmation, that Brooks actually told his mother he's picking me up!

  Holy shit.

  “Well, I think it's great, Anne.” My dad chimes in on my behalf. “Carpooling saves the environment. Don't they teach you that in veganism or yoga or whatever thing you're always raving about?” He waves the strip of bacon between his fingers.

  “Different cause dad, but way to be environmentally conscious.” I walk back to the stairs.

  My parents leave the house by 9 AM, already dressed in their evening garb. My mother rushing out the door in her perfectly cropped black dress and shiny patent pumps, my dad in a black suit and matching shoes, carrying a box of snow-covered miniature pine tree centerpiece things. DIY threw up on them.

  It’s going to be a long ass day for them.

  I leave just after them, pulling my down coat around me as I brace for the frigid wintry mix of rain and snow. I hop into my Dad’s truck and set out. My mani-pedi is set for 9:30 and I stroll inside the familiar spa just on time.

  I pick a deep nude color to match my nails and toes, settle down into the cushioned pedicure massage chair and sink into a pseudo-relaxed stupor. My brain goes to Brooks. It’s over before I open my eyes. I move to the chair for my gel mani.

  After my nails are trimmed and painted and perfectly almond shaped, I am ushered to the backroom to wait for my facial. I steal a granola square and cucumber water from the complimentary refreshment bar. I take the brief chance to check social media, because millennial.

  Another holiday engagement, what an unexpected turn of events. I scroll past the cute *clearly staged* photo of a barn outlined with white lights and holly wreaths (stale if you ask me). The girl with unnaturally blonde hair (I can't talk) and that perfect December tan. Dressed to a T with jeans and draping sweater and black boots. Bitch has the audacity to look shocked at the question. You’re not fooling anyone. You dressed to get proposed to today. I can't.

  Everything about the photo and the caption makes my skin crawl. Still, I can't help but linger a little too longingly over the photo and the surface-level love that it so clearly promotes.

  Do I want this? Did I ever want this? Why does Brooks's silky voice and charming smile and unbelievable thirst for life come to mind when I see that beautiful sparkling diamond ring? Damn if it wouldn't look great on my finger. I could post an enviable barn snapshot with white lights, an over-sized sweater and the hot guy who just put a ring on it. I could post the shit out of it.

  No.

  Stop.

  Focus.

  “Emmy?” A woman enters the room, holding a clipboard “A detox facial?”

  “Yup!” I stick my phone in my bag and hop off the padded chaise lounge. Happy to put sappy emotional thoughts out of my mind.

  To no avail.

  I spend the entire next thirty minutes thinking about that damn proposal pic. Thinking about the barn and the snow –the whole staged setting, the RING to blind 1,000 suns. The perfect words falling from Brooks's perfect lips and the look on his face when I say yes.

  JESUS.

  Would I say yes? I remind myself it doesn’t matter what answer I’d give to this hypothetical question because it’s never going to be asked. We’ve both made that clear. But then Corbel Finn comes to mind. I think of our conversation and the one we had afterwards at his hotel. He had wanted me to himself. Made me promise to it. So who cares if I daydream about our nonexistent engagement?

  He broke the rules first.

  11:42 when I leave.

  I glance at my phone to see four texts patiently waiting my attention.

  WREATHS.

  Don’t forget the wreaths xo

  Emmy? The Wreaths!

  CHECK THE SELL-BY DATE

  A smile cracks my lips at my last text from Dad.

  The farm/nursery is six minutes out of town. It’s the only spot in town for fresh produce in the summer and fresh greens in the winter. It provides almost the entire town with their Christmas trees. And it’s belonged to the same family since my mother’s parents lived in town. I swing my door shut and cross the damp lot. Shit/mud sticking to my boots. Great. Good thing my pedicure is safe.

  I pass aisle after aisle of circle wreaths –some giant and festooned with holly berries and white lights, some covered with fake white snow and pinecones, and some miniature woven with golden tinsel. Braided ropes of green snake up mock lampposts, advertising themselves nicely. And of course there’re the odd-shaped forgotten trees nobody liked enough to claim.

  The small stable-house is set up like a tiny shop. I push my way inside and may as well have been smacked in the head by a cinnamon stick/candy cane hybrid. A display case on the left holds caramel apples, blocks of fudge, peppermint bark, and a TON of pies.

  “Hello, dear.” A lumpy old lady greets me. The same old lady I remember from my childhood visits. She’s hardly changed.

  “Hi. Picking up for Rhodes.” I smile.

  “Oh sure, sure! Right over here. I’ll have Eric walk them to your car. Where are you parked dear?”

  “The second spot there,” I say pointing. “Thanks.”

  She ushers me to the back aisle along the stables. Tickets are pinned to wreaths, ropes, trees and other various clusters of pine. The waiting area for pre-orders no doubt.

  “Here you are,” she says and points to a row of 10 different wreaths. Looks like my mom picked one of each kind.

  “Eric. Eric!” She hollers at a younger man wrapping a tree. “Take these for Miss Rhodes. Her car’s parked there.”

  I don’t know why I’m surprised she knows who I am. True, I am picking up for Rhodes but I could be anyone. Eric looks at the lady and then at me, then my car. He smiles and walks over to the stack of wreaths. He grabs the largest one at walks in the direction of my dad’s truck.

  “Thank you,” I shout to the lumpy lady before I turn to follow Eric.

  “Can I just toss it in?” He asks.

  “Sure, pile them up.” I shrug. He turns to get more wreaths. He makes three trips then pats the back of my truck and I take that as confirmation he’s done.

  I text my mom before she has a panic attack.

  Package picked up. Be there in 10 xo

  I drive back through town, past the spa, to the other side of the Main Street. The benefit is being held in the grand ballroom at the oldest hotel in town, which just so happens to be directly across from the town square complete with frosted water fountain and gazebo. I pull my dad’s truck up to the front door, just behind a large catering truck unloading carts of food.

  “Emmy!” My mom spots the truck and races over, waving at me, as if I didn’t see her.

  “Here are your wreaths. Safe and sound.” I roll my eyes as my mom directs two guys to take the wreaths from the truck and into the hotel.

  “Thank you, honey. So much! You can go now,” she says, shoeing me away.

  “Gee, thanks. And you’re welcome.”

  “See you at 6!” My mom blows me a kiss like I’m 12.

  I pull away into town again and head to the hair salon early for my 1:30 appointment. I find it. I get the best blow out I’ve had in a while. I’m browsing their beauty counter for a new lip color when I feel my phone vibrate in my coat pocket.

  YOU UP?

  I smile at my phone like it’s just put fresh air back into my stale lungs. LOSER. The woman part of me wants to wait, make him wonder what I’m doing. The other side of me, the slightly weaker woman side, can’t move her fingers fast enough in response.

  UP

  …

  Can I pick you up yet?

  I smile at my tiny phone screen again. It’s tempting. V tempting to have Brooks come over early –to ‘help me get ready’ as he said before. But I’m still not ready. And I like the idea of him waiting to see me. Even if it’s only for three more hours.

  YES.

  AT 5.

  I safely stow my pho
ne bag in my bag, next to my new lip color Make a Mauve on Me. The ride home is quick and before I know it I am sitting on the edge of my bed, brewed coffee in hand. I’m almost done tweezing the last of the peach fuzz. The water is running in the tub so I can shave my legs next. Being a woman is like the best and worst of the world at the same time.