Long Distance Lover

by Rylee Swann

  “We both do,” Jayson says. “And, I have a possible solution to your particular situation.”

  “What’s that?” Hope eases the stress on Isaac’s face, makes him resemble a kid again instead of a haggard old man.

  “Self-defense classes. I already signed you up. I’m taking you to your first one tomorrow.”

  Isaac gawks at him, stunned, while I nod agreement. “That’s a great idea. It’ll give you more self-confidence.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Jayson leans forward, his voice dropping a couple of octaves—his tell for getting serious. “It’s more important than ever that you keep to your diet, build your muscles, and,” he pauses for emphasis, “stop using drugs. Of any kind. That shit doesn’t fly with me. Got it?”

  Isaac bows his head. “Yes, sir. I’m really sorry.”

  Jayson nods and we change the subject to something tamer. I find out that the band in the video wasn’t a band at all but Calvin Harris and Sam Smith singing “Promises.” Inwardly, I sigh, having only vague knowledge of Sam Smith. I’m also informed that someone named Sia sings with a lampshade on her head. Or sings about chandeliers. When Isaac mentions Imagine Dragons, I’m pleased to inform him that I know them and like them very much. By his expression, I just went up a couple of points from the hundred or so I lost while admitting to my terrible lack of knowledge of today’s music. A little while later, Isaac takes his opportunity to escape with one final apology and the promise that he’ll be on time for tomorrow’s self-defense class.

  Jayson and I are alone again, and his heated gaze sizzles across my flesh. With a sexy growl that zooms straight to my core, he swoops down and carries me back to the bedroom.

  I let him—his happy, willing captive.

  We spend the rest of Friday making up for lost time. With the hope that our pizza date would go as planned, Jayson cleared his work schedule, and, in his words, we “fuck like bunnies” until night falls. We only come up for air to eat and rehydrate. We rest, too, lying in bed together talking about everything and nothing like we used to. At last, I cry no more and fall asleep cradled safely in Jayson’s arms.

  The next morning, I wake a bit sore but refreshed from the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. Opening my eyes, I find Jayson staring at me from his side of the bed, a sweet smile on his face.

  I smile in return. “You’re still here.”

  “Of course. There’s nowhere else for me to be.” He reaches out a hand and brushes hair from my eyes. “Sleep well?”

  I nod and stretch my arms. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

  His smile turns sheepish. “I’d rather not say.” I give him a look that says “tell me” until he does. “All night. I…didn’t want to miss anything of our first night being back together.”

  I shake my head but I’m smiling broadly. “Jeesh, since when did you turn into such a sap?” I stifle a morning yawn and rub sleep from my eyes. “But, I am really glad you’re still here.”

  He cups my cheek with his hand and places a kiss on the top of my head before looking into my eyes. I hold his gaze, already getting that tingly sensation of need between my legs. I better watch out or I’ll be walking funny for days.

  “I’m never leaving again,” he says. “No matter what.”

  Everything is so perfect. Every word he utters, every move he makes.

  Too perfect, that old nagging voice whispers. The one that would always try to warn me, though I never paid it enough heed. Things have moved very fast, too fast. I need time to think, to process.

  Is he really, honest to god, telling the truth this time?

  18

  Jayson

  Sitting at my desk, I’m so tired it hurts. The pain of trying to keep my eyes open though was worth it. Watching Dee sleep has been my greatest joy in far too long. Well, not counting the mind-blowing sex that preceded her slumber. I won’t tell her that she makes the cutest little noises and sometimes looks like she’s chewing while she sleeps. It would only embarrass her.

  At least it’s the weekend so there’s no work scheduled. I won’t be screwing up a kid’s life any more than it already is with whatever exhausted nonsense words I might offer. However, catching up on paperwork is like a full-time job itself and I have time before picking up Isaac for his self-defense class.

  It’s going to be the paperwork that puts me to sleep. I’m not fond of paperwork at all and it tends to make me sleepy on a good day. While today is a good day in so many wonderful respects, it also isn’t ideal for a very lucky, ridiculously happy yet sleep deprived guy like me. To emphasis that thought, I yawn wide through a smile I can’t contain.

  Ten long years of hard work, and I am finally here. I made it. December Jagger and I are back together. For good this time. I won’t screw this up again. Nor will her last name be Jagger for much longer either. I missed so many opportunities to keep a ring on her finger. I knew I would marry her the moment I met her, and I will not let that slip through my fingers this time. This is for keeps.

  I set my watch alarm to alert me when I need to leave to pick up Isaac. I must have dozed off, because the obnoxious beeping startles the crap out of me and I send paperwork flying off my desk in all directions. Peeling page two of a progress chart from my cheek, I scrub a hand over my mouth. My fingers come away dry. Good, at least I didn’t drool.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I lurch toward the door, stopping on the way to my car in the break room for a cup of bile that passes for coffee around here.

  I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep for a few minutes. The short nap wasn’t near enough time to refresh me. Grimacing with my first sip, I get into my car and head to Isaac’s apartment, where we arranged to meet.

  He stands from the chair on the porch he’d been sitting on to meet me at the curb as I pull up. Getting in, he looks at me and brays laughter. “Damn,” he says through guffaws. “Did you keep her up last night or was it the other way around?”

  I’m not in the mood for his goofing around. Too damned tired for it. “Who says you can talk about Dee and me that way?” I grump at him.

  He snorts out more laughter. “Oh, come on. After what I saw?”

  “Especially after what you saw,” I say in a firm tone. “You owe Dee your respect, and at the moment, I am not your friend. I’m your caseworker. Got it?”

  He gawks at me, open-mouthed, while I drive. “I’m uh, sorry, Mr. Fox. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Just be happy for Dee, okay? I’m good for her. We’re good together.” I lighten my tone a bit. He’s just being a kid, after all.

  He starts snickering again and mutters, “Oh, yeah, you’re good for her.”

  Glancing at him, I take a hand off the steering wheel and slap the back of his head. Not hard, just enough to get a message across. It doesn’t have the intended effect, however.

  “Ow!” He rubs his head and then devolves into more laughter.

  I roll my eyes but can’t help a small smile creeping onto my face. Dopey kid. He’s lucky I’m more than kind of fond of him.

  Despite my tiredness, or maybe because of it—I’m driving extra careful—I get us to the dojo safe and sound a little while later. Today’s private lesson will be forty-five minutes to go over the basics and assess exactly what beginner level he’s at. Then he’ll be placed in a group class. Unknown to Gemma or Dee, while the county is picking up part of the cost, I’m picking up the rest. Gemma can’t afford this and it’s what her son needs. I can’t do this for every in-need kid, but for Isaac I’ve made the exception.

  Once inside, introductions are made and Isaac changes into a pair of sweats and a tee shirt. Then the action begins. Unfortunately, not enough action to hold my attention. More than twice, the back of my head hits the wall as I struggle to keep my eyes open while I watch the lesson.

  Toward the end, the instructor allows Isaac to throw him down. It’s a tactic to keep the new client—and probably worried moms—happy and coming back. The move works wonde
rs for Isaac, and he goes on and on about it and the class in general on the drive to his place. I’m pleased for the kid. He’s animated and interested and his self-esteem has already ticked up a notch. Now, just to keep it going in the right direction.

  With another immense yawn, I pull up to the front of the old Victorian and drop Isaac off. Waiting until he’s gone up the long walk and safely inside, I start to drive home. A thought comes to me and I hit the brake, suddenly baffled. Do I live with Dee now? Are we picking up where we left off? Gemma and Isaac live in the front of the building so I can’t see her apartment or her car from where I am. There’s no way of knowing if she’s home or not. Rubbing my eyes with my knuckles, I yawn again. I’m too tired to make rational decisions. Besides, all my stuff is at my place. I’m going home to get some much needed sleep, and Dee and I will figure all of this out later.

  With my eye on the prize—that being my bed—I gratefully turn the corner toward the home that houses my apartment. I’m already picturing my head hitting the pillow when my cell phone rings.

  Braking to a stop and pulling to the side of the road, I pull the phone from my pocket, hoping it’s Dee’s name on the display. Tired as I am, she’s the only one I want to talk to. Instead, there’s a Canadian number I don’t recognize on the screen. I answer right away with a sudden pit in my stomach that makes me nauseous.

  “Hello, is this Jayson Fox?” a voice I don’t know says.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Fox. This is Nurse Jensen with Sault Area Hospital. I’m calling because you’re listed as Carrie Fox’s emergency contact.”

  Oh my god.

  “Yes, she’s my sister.” I hesitate for a second, almost not wanting to know…afraid to know what’s happened. “Is she alright?”

  “Well…” That pause tells me too much, none of it good. The pit in my stomach doubles in size. “The doctor can discuss this with you. I’ve called a long distance number. Are you not in Canada?”

  Ignoring her question, I blurt, “Is she alive?”

  “Yes, she is, Mr. Fox but… How soon can you be here?”

  I heave a sigh of relief, but from her answer, I know the situation is bad. “I’m in New York. I’ll take the next flight out to the Sault.”

  I disconnect as she’s responding and call for an Uber. I’m in no condition to drive the three or four hours to the airport. Expensive, but at least I have it to spend, I tell myself. When I was drinking I never had any savings.

  Living in what Dee calls the boonies has some nice perks, like the scenery, but it has several big downsides like slow turnaround times. It’ll take thirty to forty minutes for a car to pick me up. I park in front of my apartment and go inside to throw a few things into a bag and wait.

  It takes all of five minutes to put a change of clothes and some toiletries into my overnight bag. I need to do something other than sitting or I’ll fall asleep. Or worry myself into a panic mode—that’s not good for anyone. Grabbing up my cell phone, I scroll through my contacts until I get to Carrie’s AA sponsor and hit call.

  “Chuck? This is Jayson Fox. What the hell happened?” I say when he answers.

  “Jesus, I figured you’d call. I’m so sorry man. I’m the one who found her.”

  “What happened?” I repeat, breaking into a worried sweat.

  “She OD’ed. She stopped going to AA meetings and I finally pinned her down to a time for us to talk. When she didn’t answer the door and her phone went to voicemail, I got the landlord to open her door.”

  “Fuck.” I stand and start pacing in the confined space of my studio apartment. “How is she now?”

  “I’m sorry. The doctors aren’t telling me much. I’m not a blood relative.”

  I’m too tired, too worried, and my anger boils over with no sensible barrier to stop it. “You’re her damn sponsor. How the fuck did this happen, Chuck?”

  “Hey, man, don’t put this on me. I feel really bad about what happened but you know better. I know you do. No one is to blame, okay? I’ll help pick up the pieces best I can. Let me know what I can do once you know more.”

  “Yeah.” I do my best to calm down. Chuck is right. Carrie did this to herself, and her sponsor is not her babysitter. “It probably won’t be until tomorrow. I’ll call you after I see her.”

  It strikes me that I could have already booked a flight by checking availability online, and I curse myself for my slow-moving brain. Booting up my computer, I search for what I need and find a flight that leaves JFK at 10:05 tonight. I call and book, grunting like I’ve been punched in the gut when I find out the cost.

  The Uber arrives a short time later. I haul myself to my feet, grab my overnight bag, and while stifling a yawn, get into the car. The long drive is uneventful. It’s possible that I doze off a couple of times but never for more than a few minutes. My skin is crawling by the time we arrive at the airport, and not in a good way. I’m practically salivating for a drink, the damned demon perched on my shoulder whispering terrible nothings into my ear. It’s so hard not to obey.

  Thankfully, boarding begins almost as soon as I wrestle with an automated machine to get my prepaid ticket. With a quick shoulder roll, I flick off the imaginary devil and get in line. Who am I kidding? Stress has gotten to me and I haven’t wanted a drink this bad for several years. That’s the thing about alcoholism. It sneaks up on you when you’re at your weakest. But I’ve prepared for this in AA rooms. I have coping mechanisms in place for desperate times like this.

  Or so I think.

  I’m not one of those white-knuckled flyers. In fact, I don’t mind flying at all, so it’s with a vast sense of relief that the plane begins its taxi down the runway. I heave out a long breath as the plane lifts into the sky and settle back into my seat. The flight will be interrupted a couple of times with layovers, so I’m not expecting to catch up on my sleep, but at least I can shut my eyes for more than five minutes. My mouth is cotton-dry, so I’ll just wait until I can get a pop from a flight attendant. That’s all I want, a sugar-laced can of cola. I don’t even care what brand.

  And when the flight attendant—a fresh-faced young man—stops at my row with a drink cart and asks if I’d like something, I say, “Beer, no glass.”

  Wait, what did I just say? Did I just order a beer?

  I think I did but I don’t correct myself. I’m paralyzed, unable to move, to speak. The demon has me by the throat.

  The attendant smiles, nods as he folds down the tray table in the back of the seat in front of me and sets down a napkin. I follow his every movement as he searches in his cart for a beer, pops open the can and places it in front of me.

  “Enjoy your flight, sir,” he says as he hands me change for the green bills I’ve given him, and pushes the cart up the aisle.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from the open can of beer. I breathe in the familiar scent of hops, yeast, and sweet malted barley. A tantalizing rivulet of condensation winds its way down the side of the can, and I lick my lips. My hand trembles in anticipation of lifting the can to my mouth. Sweat trickles down my temples.

  I can’t wait to get past the first sip even as the last vestige of rational thought screams at me not to take it. My demon whispers to me and is somehow louder and more demanding, sexier than ever before.

  It’s your fault what happened to your sister, it croons. You never should have left her alone. If she dies, it’s your fault.

  I haven’t wanted to focus on this terrible thought, much less utter it aloud, and now this damnable voice is mocking me, torturing me with the secret guilt I’ve been harboring. I can’t deal with it. It’ll be my fault if Carrie dies. No, damnit! I must stop thinking this way.

  Guilt. It’s the perfect device to get me to drink. To stop the bad thoughts. To make everything alright, at least until the hangover starts.

  Besides guilt, an appalling lack of self-worth and an endless supply of disgust for what a useless person I am has always driven me to drink.

 
; If my sister dies...

  I can’t bear to finish that thought.

  I need this drink. And many more to follow.

  For the moment, I believe that voice.

  What the demon voice says hurts, and I want…need to get drunk.

  19

  December

  I check my email and my phone every five minutes. It’s been four days since I heard from Jayson. Four days since we got back together.

  Four days!

  Did he really disappear on me again the very day after we got back together? Did he leave my bed and simply vanish? Decide he got what he wanted—to dupe me yet again—and go on his merry way? What the damn hell? Who does that? To me? Me!

  Bastard.

  I want to cry but refuse to shed tears over him again. I can’t…won’t. It’s not like I haven’t tried to contact him. I’ve called countless times. Every call has gone straight to voicemail. I left a message the first couple of times. Beyond that was pointless. I even—heaven help me—drove past his apartment. Saw his car out front but no sign of him. So I parked, and scuttled like a criminal up to his door and knocked. No answer. I wasn’t brave enough to knock on the landlord’s door to ask when he’d seen Jayson last.

  Now, here I sit in my living room all tied up in knots. I pick up my cell phone again. Check the screen for a text from him in case I missed the loud, obnoxious sound of my text alert. Nothing. In a fit, I throw the phone down on the couch and stand. I can’t be back here on this damn merry-go-round. Running my hands through my hair, I try to calm down. Assess the situation.

  I’m going nuts like I used to. But this is the old me. The pattern stops right now. I am not the old me anymore.

  Striding to the front door, I grab up Mac’s leash and he comes on the run. Skids to a stop in front me with a doggy grin on his face and his tail wagging like he’s about to take flight. I bend down and snap the leash onto his collar and give him a few loving pats and scratches behind his ears.