Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  It wasn’t that Grams and I did anything particularly special on Sundays, but it was always just sort of ‘our’ day. It was a lounge-around-in-jammies, have-breakfast-for-dinner, watch-classics-till-we-pass-out kind of day. We’d argue over Carey Grant versus James Dean and throw popcorn across the sofa at each other like college roommates. Even when Bobby and I were together, he knew Sundays were reserved for Grams, and when I was younger, Jamie and I only ever did sleepovers on Friday nights, so they wouldn’t interfere.

  But all that went to crap when I woke up with a bad feeling four Sundays ago.

  I had ignored it, of course—a talent of mine—but when she didn’t come down to the kitchen for her usual breakfast tea, that bad feeling went from a dull ache in the back of my mind to a sharp twist in my gut. Sundays may have been her day to let loose, but that wasn’t enough to make her lose sight of her morning routine. Not even a fire could stop her from showing up at the wooden breakfast nook, six o’clock sharp, ready for tea.

  Literally.

  I may have accidently started a small fire in the backyard when I was nine. Yet there was Grams sitting in our breakfast nook with her tea in hand, mere minutes after fixing my mess and while the place still smelled of smoke and ash.

  But now, this day has evolved into something else entirely. Three weeks ago, I started this new routine of turning out the lights and pretending, just for a day, that that particular Sunday had turned out differently. That I’d heard the familiar sounds of Grams’s walker scratching softly across the carpet, seen her small, wrinkled smile as she carefully lowered herself into the window seat, and listened to her voice, gentle and soothing, hum a slow tune.

  The routine is an unhealthy one, and it only ends up making me cry, but I do it to myself anyway. Must be that mentally unstable half of my brain again.

  I jolt and tug the comforter around me when a shrill noise sounds from my right. There’s a standard, room-assigned phone sitting on the nightstand, vibrating with each ring. When it doesn’t stop after the fifth time, I cave.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Lou! Good morning.” Claire’s been extra chirpy with me ever since our first ‘girls’ night’—her name for it, not mine—a week ago.

  We’ve hung out three times since then, too, and I’m slowly beginning to admit even I’ve had a little pep in my step throughout the week, whether I was working for Mr. Blackwood or running errands. When I went to the shopping strip yesterday to pick up some more clothes and essentials, I caught myself humming the bubbly tune she has a habit of whistling. I immediately shut that crap down, but I can’t deny it’s been kind of nice hanging out with the queen of all things happy. I’m still concerned about whatever brought her to tears that morning last week, but I haven’t asked, and she hasn’t told.

  I return my attention to the phone. “Morning, Claire. What’s up?”

  “You have a visitor,” she sings.

  “I do?”

  “Yup, one who’s traveled a long way to see you.”

  Jamie. I practically dance out of bed. If there’s anyone who might know how to pull me out of my Sunday funk, it’s her. “Be right down!”

  I brush my teeth in record time, throw my hair up in a pile on my head, and don’t even bother to change out of my purple pajama shorts and thin T-shirt before racing down the stairs and skidding to a halt at the front desk.

  My nose wrinkles. “Bobby?”

  I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact he’s found me or the way he’s cleaned himself up. The stubble on his face is gone, and he’s dressed in a sky blue button down shirt paired with a decent pair of dark jeans. He’s even styled his light brown hair. “What . . .”

  “Lou,” he says with that confident grin I haven’t seen in a long, long time. He knows he cleans up good. “You look nice.”

  I glance from him to Claire, whose own grin is about to split her face as she stares unabashedly.

  “Bobby,” I repeat. “How’d you find me?”

  He takes a few steps toward me, but when I retreat, he stops. There’s only about five feet between us as it is, and I don’t need him inching forward. “Jamie. When I went to shoot the shit with Daniel, I asked if she’d heard from you, and she showed me the postcard.”

  I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Jamie’s got a whole ’nother kind of letter coming to her. As good as Bobby looks, I don’t let my guard down. Changing the person you’ve been for years takes a lot more than a razor blade and an ironing board.

  “Baby—” I shoot him a warning glare, and he tries again. “Lou. I’ve missed you so much.” His light blue eyes are so sincere, for a second I see the sweet boy he once was. “Please . . .” He comes closer, and this time I let him. When his hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brush my cheek.

  Well, hell. My mind might be able to reason, but my body remembers his touch. Deep down, there will always be a part of me that longs for the comfort his familiarity provides. Not even I can deny that when it’s staring me straight in the face.

  I hear the sound of Claire shuffling away, but I don’t turn to look. “Bobby.” My voice comes out in a whisper, and I hate it. “What are you doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asks softly, his hand lingering. “I came for you. I’ll always come for you.”

  I close my eyes. It’s Sunday. Sunday. And Bobby is standing in front of me—cleaned up, with his hand in my hair. It’s not even nine in the morning. I can’t sort this out right now.

  “Got any plans today?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Let me take you out. Like I used to. Remember?”

  My eyes fly open, and an eyebrow lifts. “Oh, I remember. Do you?”

  He seems to doubt himself for a second, glancing away, and I know then that he doesn’t.

  “Last time you took me out was two years ago, Bobby. To Hooters, where you got so wasted, I had to have the guys at the next table help me carry you out to my truck.”

  This time he’s the one to shut his eyes, squeezing them hard like it might wash the memory away. He shakes his head. “I’ve changed, Lou. I have. Somethin’ happened the day you left.” He lets his fingers slide down, skimming past my shoulder.

  I don’t know why, but I find myself thinking of someone else when he does this. Another, warmer, touch that stroked my skin. Rough fingers slowly trailing down the nape of my neck, the curve of my shoulders. What it felt like to have the heat of his firm body pressed against me. A low breath escapes through my lips.

  Something flickers in Bobby’s eyes as he watches my reaction, and it seems to make him bolder. He moves closer, leaning down so our faces are only inches apart. “When I saw you drive away from me, all your shit packed up and that For Sale sign in your yard, that was it. I swear to you, Lou, I haven’t had a drink since.”

  It’s not the first time he’s told me he’s sober. That he’s changed for me. But it is the first time in a long while that I’ve smelled this fresh clean scent coming from him. Not even a hint of alcohol or cigarettes hits my nose.

  “One more chance,” he pleads, folding his hand over mine. “That’s all I’m askin’ for. I drove straight through the night to get this moment right here.”

  I chew on my lip, begging my brain to step up for once and pop out a logical answer for me.

  “You don’t want this.” It comes out in a mumble because I’m still halfway biting down on my bottom lip, as though that’ll get me to shut up. “If I agree, if I say yes, it won’t be for the right reasons, Bobby.” And it’s the truth. What I don’t elaborate on, though, is what those reasons would be: because it’s Sunday, because I’m lonely, because I’m hurting more than I’ll ever admit. And maybe, because I’m scared.

  His fingers squeeze around my own. “I don’t care. I’ll take whatever I can get, Lou. Anything at all.”

  Voices trail down the stairwell as other guests make their way into the lobby, and I move back a step, pulling my ha
nd from his grasp. “Okay.” The word is hollow. “You can take me out.”

  Bobby looks almost as stunned as I feel. “Yeah? Today?” He pulls his hand through his hair and lets out a loud exhale he must’ve been holding in. “You won’t regret it, bab—Lou. I promise, you won’t.”

  “I better not,” I warn, and his grin widens.

  I can’t remember the last time he’s talked to me like this. Like I’m all he wants. Not for me to grab him another beer, to rub his back, to change the channel. Just . . . me. The corner of my lips lift a little.

  I turn toward the stairwell and hear him call after me, “Wait, where you runnin’ off to? I thought I was takin’ you out.”

  “You are,” I call back, glancing over my shoulder, “but I have things to do.” Lie, lie, lie. “You can pick me up for dinner.” He’s got some groveling left to do, so I figure it’s a win-win.

  His cocky grin tells me he’s up for the challenge. “All right. Pick you up at six then.”

  Chapter 11

  It takes only a few hours of being alone in my room for the boredom to reach suffocation status. Maybe it’s the anticipation for tonight, but nothing seems to be entertaining me. I spend some time organizing the items I purchased yesterday, then I flick through TV channels until my eyeballs hurt. I must be further gone than I realize, because a treadmill infomercial showcasing a Wonder Woman look-alike somehow convinces me to go for a run. I make it to the end of the block before remembering how much physical endurance sucks everything holy and turning around.

  Now stiff and achy, I slide my clothes off and slip into a hot bath. I can do this. Take a nice, long bath, maybe even pamper myself a little before my . . . date? Is that what this is with Bobby? No, it can’t be a date. The one thing drunk Bobby and sober Bobby have in common is they both have a way with words, with getting what they want when they set their mind to it. Charm, Grams called it. So tonight, I decide, is going to be about seeing if Bobby can walk the walk.

  If there’s anything I have to be thankful for, it’s that his unexpected arrival has sufficiently distracted me from this particular day of the week.

  I’ve just wrapped a white towel around my body when a knock sounds at the door.

  “Coming,” I call out.

  Please don’t be Bobby, please don’t be Bobby.

  The second the click sounds from unlocking the bolt, the door’s flying open, and Claire’s blonde hair comes bouncing into my room. “Wow,” she sighs, helping herself to the rocking chair and leaning back with a wistful look in her eye. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hiding such a cute boyfriend? And his accent? Totally adorable.”

  I close the door and turn back to her with a smile. “Hello to you too.”

  She grins. “Oh, hi. But seriously . . .”

  “Bobby’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Really? Seemed like there’s history there to me.”

  I shrug and stroll over to the dresser where I’ve finally stored my clothes like a grownup. “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Ohh. I see.” I don’t miss the suggestive tone in her voice. “Ex-boyfriend. Well, he’s really charming.”

  Snorting, I retreat to the bathroom to dress. “Yeah, that’s Bobby,” I call through the closed door. “He’ll charm the pants right off you.”

  “So why aren’t you two together again?” She asks the question like it’s the most baffling thing in the universe, and it reminds me why I prefer to avoid revealing this stuff in the first place.

  Claire sees the surface. The side of him that lures you, that hooks you and reels you in before you see how flimsy the fishing rod actually is—that it’s about to snap, that he won’t even notice when you begin to drown. It’s not her fault; it’s probably the same side of him that has me agreeing to this thing in the first place. “Like you said, there’s a lot of history there. A lot of making up for him to do, too.”

  I step out of the bathroom to see Claire flipping through channels on the TV. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I ask, realizing it’s the middle of the day.

  “Nope. I don’t work Sundays. It’s the one day shift Paul has, but he wound up Lord knows where after a house party last night and asked me to cover for him till he got here. He just showed up a minute ago.” She looks at me and smiles her smile. “Guess being the boss’s son has its perks, eh? So, back to Ex-Boyfriend—”

  “Bobby.”

  “Bobby. Was he a bad boyfriend?” Something about the way she asks, her tone softening and chin tilting, has me pausing to seriously consider my answer. I sit down beside the fireplace, and Claire waits quietly for me to speak.

  “He didn’t used to be,” I say truthfully. “In fact, the way you saw him today is a lot like how he was when we met in high school. Confident grin, clean cut, determination in his eyes . . . warm.”

  “What happened?”

  I frown, trying to recall the downward spiral, how it all began. But that’s not how it works. There’s no little calendar where all the answers are neatly filled in on the correct dates. In reality, the change happens so gradually you don’t even hear the sirens when they pass by. “Life didn’t go as planned, and he crumbled,” I finally answer. “He replaced his dreams with alcohol and TV until he forgot he ever had anything else. Anyone else.” Claire says nothing, and I give another shrug. “Eventually, I got tired of waiting around for him to remember.”

  After a brief pause, Claire lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s all so romantic.”

  I gape at her. Seriously? What kind of romance novels has she been reading? “Romantic?”

  She nods, staring wistfully out the window. “Yes, romantic. He’s come back to prove his love. To be a better man for the woman who holds his heart.”

  Oh god. She’s so wrapped up in the obvious fantasy playing out in her head that I don’t have the heart to tell her just how far from reality it likely is. I’ve known Bobby long enough to not get my hopes up. And even if he really does have a handle on his sobriety now, even if he really is ready to make an effort again, I don’t know if he’s what I want anymore. But sweet Claire doesn’t need to know that. Come on, Lou, let the girl dream a little.

  “Okay,” I concede. “We’ll go with romantic.”

  She smiles again, turning back to me with a look that’s surprisingly devious for such an angelic face. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  The expression on my face must tell her I’m drawing a blank, because she says, “Let’s show this guy Bobby just what he’s been missing, and why he better not slip this time.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “Yep.” She’s already out of her seat, yanking me up by the hand until I stumble after her. The girl is stronger than she looks. I may be taller, a little curvier, but she’s got some muscles hiding beneath her slender frame.

  “Claire—”

  “Let’s go.”

  “It’s really not like that—”

  “Uh huh.”

  My pleas are futile. Within half an hour I’m in a slinky black dress and my hair is blow dried, falling with silky smoothness down my back. The only part of the dress that isn’t squeezing me for dear life is the waist, and that’s only because it’s busy with the curves of my chest and hips. Claire’s rouged my fair cheeks, glossed my lips, and cat-eyed my eyelids. I’m staring at my reflection with my mouth agape, not sure if I want to hug her for making me feel sexy again or tie her down so I can escape and call this whole thing off.

  Claire’s standing beside me, pride and approval twinkling in her blue eyes. “Yup. He’s done for.”

  “Claire . . .”

  She pats my back, which happens to be bare, thanks to the deeply scooped drop at the rear of the dress. “You’ll be fine.”

  Just then there’s a knock at the door. I stare at Claire, who stares at me, then we stare through the bathroom’s open doorway.

  “What time is it?” I ask. Surely it can’t be six already.

  Claire hits the home button on her pink phone and says, “
Four thirty.”

  Yeah, way too early. I’m still barefoot as my feet pad across the room, toward the door, where I carefully tug it open. There’s no one there, but a splash of red from below catches my eye. I lower my gaze at the same time Claire lets out a gasp from over my shoulder. There, at my feet, sits a full bouquet of red roses fresh enough that I can smell their sweet scent. A glass vase holds them up in perfect form, and a squared, white note peeks out from between the stems. I retrieve the vase, a heavy thing, and turn back into the room to set it on my nightstand.

  I stand back, distancing myself, and just stare at the gorgeous flowers for a minute. Do I want to read the note? Roses are a clear sign of romance, of a date. Silly or not, I’m afraid one look at that note might cross the line completely, locking me in, and I won’t be able to turn back if I go through with dinner.

  Why didn’t I let him take me out this morning, when I saw him? Why did I have to pretend I was busy and suggest dinner instead? Dinner, of all things; of course he thinks it’s a date. Or if he didn’t before, one look at the way I’m dressed will certainly seal the deal.

  “Well?” Claire breathes, about to burst. “Are you going to read the note?” When I don’t respond, she waits a minute and asks softly, “Want me to read it for you?”

  After another second, I nod. She plucks the note from the vase and reads aloud, “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

  That’s all. Nice and simple. No ‘baby’ or ‘love’ mixed in there. No pressure. I let out an exhale and my shoulders relax.

  “That’s so sweet,” Claire says, still staring at the note. And she’s right. It is sweet. Bobby hasn’t bought me flowers since my nineteenth birthday, and they were nowhere near as lovely as these. Could he be serious about this, after all? Could he have changed for me?

  Do I want him to have changed for me?

  That last question has me chewing my lip again. It’s now been seven months since I first broke things off with him, and as horrible as it sounds, I haven’t missed him. Not romantically, anyway. His friendship on the other hand . . . Then again, maybe if he hadn’t injured his knee in the first place, if he’d never turned into the Bobby I walked away from, then maybe I would miss him romantically. Maybe I’d still want to be in a relationship with him.