Come Back to Me

by Mila Gray

  ‘That’s good,’ he says now. Is that a smirk?

  Why can’t I stop staring at his lips? Why do I have to lose my train of thought so completely when he stands so close? And did he always smell this good? What the heck is with me?

  I manage finally to find my voice and construct a whole sentence with verbs and nouns and pronouns. Incredible. ‘What about you? How was it over there?’

  I catch the slight flicker as his smile fades momentarily before brightening once again. He rubs a hand over his head. ‘Yeah, you know . . .’ He shrugs as he tails off.

  Stupid question, I think to myself. Damn. For a moment neither of us says anything. I start twisting the end of my ponytail, something I do when I get nervous, then, realizing what I’m doing could be construed as flirtatious as well as ditzy, I drop my hands to my sides. Kit stands there waiting, watching me, that half-smile still on his face. His expression is hard to read. He seems to be enjoying my discomfort, but there’s something else about the way he’s looking at me. He opens his mouth as though to ask me something, but then closes it again. The air around us feels charged, but that could be because I’m hyper-aware of every gesture I’m making and also of the fact that my father is standing not fifteen metres away holding something that could be interpreted as a weapon.

  ‘How long do you have?’ I finally ask, feeling my cheeks starting to burn almost as hot as the chicken that’s now smoking on the grill.

  ‘Four weeks,’ he answers.

  I nod and stare down at my feet. Four weeks. A month. And then he’s gone again. Why am I even wanting something to happen between us? It wouldn’t be worth it. He’d be gone before I knew it.

  ‘So how does it feel?’ he asks me.

  My head flies up. How does what feel? For an instant I freak out that he somehow knows what I’m thinking, has read my mind.

  ‘Being free. Being eighteen,’ he says, seeing my confusion.

  ‘Well, I have one more week of school,’ I tell him. ‘Then the whole summer. And then I start college.’

  Kit tilts his head to one side. ‘USC?’

  ‘No. USD,’ I answer. I waved goodbye to that dream. It’s University of San Diego for me.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go to LA?’ Kit says now. ‘I thought there was a drama course at USC there you were really into.’

  My gaze flies instinctively to the window, to my father who is still busy with the dancing flames. He’s yelling something at Riley. ‘Well, you know how it is,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. ‘My dad wanted me to go to USD. It’s closer. I can live at home.’

  Kit looks at me disbelieving, a flash of disappointment in his eyes that makes my insides curl up. Trust Kit to remember that I wanted to go to the University of Southern California. He was the first person I told about my dream to go to USC’s School of Dramatic Arts. That was last time he was back on leave. I’d been fighting with my dad over my test scores, then I’d gone down to the beach and run into Kit. We’d started talking and next thing you know I was telling him everything. Kit was the first person who actually asked me what it was I wanted to do with my life. If you had one dream, what would it be? he’d asked.

  I told him I’d go to USC to study drama. He was so interested, so enthusiastic about the idea, that I started to get excited too – to actually start contemplating it. Then I got home, still high on our conversation, ready to start researching the application process, and found my dad waiting for me with a fully drawn-up schedule of after-school tutoring and a brochure for USD. But I don’t want to think about any of that today. It’s my birthday. Kit’s scowling now. He glances around the room. I follow his gaze to the window. My father is standing with charred tongs in one hand glaring through the glass. His eyes are narrowed like laser sights. Suddenly, though, his view is blocked by Didi, who stands before him holding a bowl of marinated chicken like it’s John the Baptist’s head.

  ‘I better go,’ I hear Kit say.

  I spin around. ‘No,’ I say quickly, grabbing for his wrist. ‘Please stay.’

  Kit stares down at my fingers circling his arm. He doesn’t say anything, but when he looks up my pulse quickens as I see the expression in his eyes. It’s unmistakable. I’m not inventing this or imagining it. I see the desire, bright as a flame. I drop his wrist in surprise, my fingers burning.

  ‘I don’t want to get court-martialled,’ he murmurs, jerking his head softly in the direction of the window.

  ‘Oh, just ignore him,’ I say, sounding breathless and cursing myself for it. ‘He’s just out of sorts. You know what he’s like.’ I hate making excuses for my father but I’m used to it. I’ve been doing it most of my life.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Kit says, ‘I don’t want him sending me on a one-man mission to Somalia or Afghanistan. Or worse, making me clean the latrines at the base for the rest of my life.’

  Kit looks down at my hand which rests just inches away from his own. He glances up and his gaze rests for a moment on my lips. ‘I best be going,’ he says quietly.

  I swallow. No. Don’t go, I want to say. I want to take hold of his wrist again. I want to see that look in his eye one more time. Just to be sure, because already I’m wondering if I imagined it. But I don’t. I just nod. He steps back towards the door. ‘Tell Riley I’ll call him later.’

  I nod again. For some reason tears burn the backs of my eyes. I blame it on the smoke from the grill that’s wafting through the open French doors. Why does my dad have to always go and ruin everything? And more annoyingly, why don’t I ever stand up to him? I’m eighteen now. I shouldn’t be scared any more.

  ‘I’ll see you around, Jessa,’ Kit says. He grabs a couple of cupcakes from the plate on the table, grins at me, and disappears. A few seconds later I hear the front door slam.

  3

  Kit

  I shouldn’t have left. If Colonel I’m a dickhead Kingsley hadn’t pointed those tongs at me like he was aiming a sub-machine gun at my head then maybe I would have stuck around. I swear it was crossing his mind to use my face as fuel for the grill. Whatever. What was I expecting? It’s not like I’ve ever been welcome in their house. Well, OK, that’s not strictly true. I’m welcome there whenever he’s not around. Riley, Jessa and their mom have always gone out of their way to make me feel at home. I think they feel guilty for how he treats me. I know Riley thinks his dad is an asshole, but he can’t say anything. Guess I wouldn’t either in his shoes.

  I swing my leg over my bike with a sigh and rev the engine. While I was away the two things I missed the most and fantasized about so regularly that I earned the title of Corporal Space Cadet from my unit were this bike and Jessa Kingsley. OK and a ribeye steak from Fleming’s, cooked medium rare. But mainly Jessa, it has to be said. And holy shit, yeah, now I remember exactly why and simultaneously realize how much my imagination short-changed me. I didn’t have a photograph of her with me – didn’t want Riley to have occasion to ask me what the fuck I was doing with a picture of his sister in my wallet, for obvious reasons, namely wanting to keep possession of my balls. Next time, though, I’m taking a photograph. Balls be damned.

  Jessa Kingsley has been my secret obsession for two years. Thankfully for her she takes after her mom and not her dad – pale blonde hair, creamy skin, eyes so green you’d think they were contacts if you didn’t know otherwise. One day she was this small, blonde kid, all elbows and knees and braces, following the two of us around all the time like a lemming, and then I go away to basic training and come back to find she’s all grown up, with eyes the size of dinner plates, hair hanging straight as a sniper’s aim down her back and a smile that takes my breath away every single time.

  She never grew much, in fact she’s still short and petite, but she’s got curves in all the right places. Though it took a while to realize that, and by then it was more like a bonus rather than the main attraction. She goes to a convent school and the uniform is kind of like a nun’s habit. And I think her dad has veto over her entire wardrobe as
she’s never showing much skin. I only realized how killer her body was when I saw her at the beach wearing a bikini. That sight was enough to push my obsession from borderline to all-consuming.

  Coming to her house was a dumb idea, though. Now I’m not going to be able to get her out of my mind for the next month. I guess half of me was hoping I’d go around to visit and find out she’d gained five hundred pounds or at the very least a boyfriend, which would kick all my dreams into touch. Maybe she does have a boyfriend. The thought makes me almost skid into the kerb. Shit. I didn’t ask. But no. I mean, if she had a boyfriend I would have heard about it, right? Riley would have said something, I’m sure of it. Any whiff of a guy making moves on his sister and he’d know about it and put a stop to it, even from as far away as Sudan. He’d find a way. Plus there’s her father. I can’t see him allowing Jessa to date any time this century. And I can’t imagine any guy meeting her father and asking her out on a second date.

  I can’t count the times I’ve thought about telling Jessa how I feel, but to be honest I’ve never been sure if she’s interested. And admitting something like that to someone is purely a one-time deal. If it’s not reciprocated then not only do you look like a prize fool but you also lose a friendship. I don’t care so much about the fool part because she probably already figures me for one, but I do care about losing Jessa as a friend. The thing is, in her emails recently, if I’m not mistaken, she seemed to be flirting with me. And after seeing the way she looked at me just now, and the not so subtle comments her friend was making, I’m pretty sure she must have been. A buzz settles in my chest just below my sternum, a jolt of energy that spreads outwards, making my heart rate speed up.

  I realize that I’m doing twenty over the speed limit and grinning like a maniac on speed. I ease off the gas. There’s a sign up ahead saying ‘No U-turns’. For a second I contemplate it anyway. But then I tell myself to stay away. Riley would kill me. Hell, her father would kill me if he even suspected what I fantasize about regarding his daughter. Actually he wouldn’t just kill me. He’d torture me first, then kill me. It’s a bad idea. Jessa and I can’t ever be together. Not long term. She’s off to college in the fall and I’m leaving again in a month, need I remind myself.

  I park up by the pier and lean over the railing for half an hour, listening to the waves bash against the struts, watching the kids playing on the swings at the top of the boardwalk and the fishermen casting off again and again, hoping to bag a catch. When I finally turn away the sun is starting to sink over the ocean and I’ve decided what I’m going to do. I grin, even though I know it might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought about doing. And considering all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, that’s pretty impressive.

  4

  Jessa

  I lie on my bed, playing with the necklace my mom just gave me and staring up at the ceiling. It’s heart-shaped (the necklace, not the ceiling) and as I play with it I can’t stop thinking about Kit. Did I mistake the look in his eyes? My stomach flutters with butterflies at the thought that I didn’t. But then the butterflies are blown to smithereens as I picture my father’s face staring at Kit through the window and pointing that grill tong at him. I mean, there are way too many obstacles in the way, not even taking into account the number of guns and grilling implements my father owns. I bury my head in a pillow. I guess I can wave goodbye to ever knowing what it’s like to kiss Kit. While I’m at it, I guess I can wave goodbye to having a boyfriend before I turn thirty or ever losing my virginity. I’ll be like the nuns who teach us Religious Studies at school. In fact I may as well just measure myself right now for a wimple and be done with it.

  I didn’t tell Kit about the fights that went down with my dad over college. Actually ‘fights’ would be exaggerating. No one fights with my dad. He lays down the law. We obey. My father has post-traumatic stress disorder, which is a diagnosis Riley and I have made unofficially because he refuses to see a ‘head doctor’ or talk about his problems. We have to walk on eggshells for fear he gets over-stressed or irritated, which is pretty much an hourly occurrence. Even the sound of a kettle whistling can set him off, which is why all our phones are set to silent.

  When he does have one of his episodes, it’s like a tornado rampaging through the house. He’s never hit us, but he’s destroyed a lot of furniture. Right now I can hear him downstairs in his den, watching the game, occasionally letting out the odd expletive or victory yell. My stomach is tensed and I feel on edge, like I’m about to take a test where the punishment for failing is death by firing squad. With grim recognition, I realize that’s how I always feel when he’s in the house. I don’t know how my mom deals with it or why she hasn’t divorced him. If I were in her shoes I would have by now. I make a solemn promise to myself that I will never ever marry anyone in the military – not after seeing the destruction it’s wrought on my own family.

  A knock on my door startles me. I pull my head out from under the pillow. Riley’s standing in the doorway. He glances over his shoulder, walks into my room and closes the door quietly behind him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, dropping down onto the bed beside me. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, sitting up cross-legged on the bed and shrugging. ‘You know.’

  He nods. He knows. Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving . . . they are without a doubt the most stressful days of the year in our house. Having Riley here helps because at least we get to share the load and both of us can tag-team my mom. When he’s not here it’s all on me, something I think Riley feels guilty about as when he hands me a well-wrapped present he looks kind of sheepish.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ he says.

  I take it curiously, glancing at him. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘I got it over in Sudan.’

  That makes me raise my eyebrows. I mean, I can’t imagine what sort of shopping malls they have there.

  I tear open the wrapping with difficulty. My brother and I have spent our lives being taught to square away our rooms at the end of each day, to make our beds like we were preparing for a daily inspection, which in fact we were. The present is as tightly and perfectly wrapped as a marine dorm bed. It takes me almost five minutes to get into it.

  ‘An iPhone?’ I say in amazement when I finally manage to tear off the paper.

  ‘Yeah, don’t show Dad,’ Riley says unnecessarily. As if. My dad is vehemently against social media, smart phones or, well, any technology that isn’t designed for military use. He’s just naturally suspicious of anything he can’t understand and that puts social media at the top of his list, with teenage girls just below it. Not only has he banned me outright from having a Facebook account but he’s only recently agreed to let me have a cell phone (the most basic brick-sized one on the market) on the condition, he stressed, that I use it only for emergencies. The guy in the phone store looked at me with a pity normally reserved for victims of humanitarian disasters. The only good news is that he didn’t qualify what he meant by emergencies, so every conversation with Didi now starts with ‘Didi, it’s an emergency.’

  ‘You got this in Sudan?’ I ask Riley, noting it’s the latest version but that it has no box to go with it. Or instructions for that matter.

  Riley shrugs. ‘I got it unlocked for you and I put on a few apps.’

  I scroll through. ‘Candy Crush? Angry Birds?’

  ‘You know, for all those boring lectures you’re going to have to sit through in college.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, smacking him on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, smacking me back. We don’t say anything for a while. Riley seems different these days, especially after this last tour: older, more careworn, tired. He rarely smiles any more and I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh or tell a joke, which is strange as Riley was always the joker – the kid who stuck waterproof stickers of his teachers’ faces in all the toilet bowls in school, the kid who covered his principal’s car in tin foil and who led his entire s
ixth-grade class on a Ditch Day. I guess he quit with the pranks around the same time my dad starting losing it.

  I don’t tell Riley but the thing that scares me most, besides him dying, is that one day he’ll come back and start behaving like Dad. The day he enlisted with Kit was one of the worst days of my life. But I smiled like always and pretended I was happy for them both. I want to ask him now about Sudan, about his job, about what he’s seen, but I know he can’t tell me much and I also get the feeling he doesn’t want to talk about it anyway.

  ‘Do you want to watch some TV?’ I ask, hoping he says yes because it’s not like I’ve had a chance to hang out with him much since he got back. And it’s my birthday.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘I’m going out to meet Jo.’ He shoots me an apologetic smile and gets up.

  I try to cover my disappointment. It’s decided then. I’m just going to lie here and have a little pity party for myself because who spends the night of their eighteenth birthday alone in their bedroom playing Angry Birds on a phone where the settings are all in Arabic, wearing a heart-shaped locket their mom gave them? Oh yeah, that’s right, someone with no life. And no prospect of ever getting one.

  ‘How is Jo?’ I ask, smiling, though on the inside I’m sighing.

  ‘Yeah, she’s good,’ Riley says, his face immediately lighting up. He and Jo have been dating for three years already. They met just before he and Kit enlisted. Jo was waitressing at his favourite steakhouse. He spent most of his savings on steak and tips, trying to convince her to date him, and eventually she caved in. My brother is what some might call persistent. My mom says he just doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. They seem to make it work, even though they only see each other every nine months or so. I ponder on that as Riley walks out the door. No doubt to spend the night having sex. It’s not even his birthday, I think to myself grudgingly.

  Not even a minute after he goes, the sound of something rapping against my window makes my head snap up. I get up from the bed and cross to the window. Riley. He always used to throw stones up at my window on the nights he’d snuck out as a signal to come down and unlock the back door to let him in. I open the window and peer out. Maybe he forgot his keys. It’s totally dark out, the moon just a sliver, and the lights in the backyard aren’t on so I can’t see anything.