Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  Rhett focused on the bad neoclassical art hanging in the hallway. Part of him wanted to shake some sense into her, ignite her into doing something. But what that was, he wasn’t sure. Yet part of him recognized the truth in her words. It took a strong person to put aside hate and try for love. “You love David more than you hate Hunt.”

  “Hate’s a strong word. It’s corrosive and eats at you. I spent many years hating Hunt. I despised him for the glory he got while I rocked a squalling baby and struggled to stay awake in my classes. But now, I pity him.”

  “Because he didn’t make it in baseball?”

  She shook her head. “Because he’s so incredibly unsatisfied with his life. And I’m not.”

  Rhett folded her into his arms. “You’re pretty amazing.”

  She shook her head. “Nope, I’m just doing the best with the lot life has given me. Things are still tense between Hunt and me. Sometimes I like that there’s still anger there. I’m no saint.”

  Rhett inhaled, taking in the salty sea and wildflowers tangled in her hair. He wanted to take all the bad away, hide her and give her good things, but he knew her journey had made her stronger. He also knew he wanted her . . . in his bed . . . in his life. But his desires were selfish.

  Rhett Bryan should get the hell out of this place soaked in memories, steeped with longing for a woman who didn’t belong in his life. His reality wasn’t vulnerable single mothers and tangled relationships. The life he led was so far away from the Carolina moon creeping in through the hallway window that it might as well be a distant planet. Here he was the boy he’d forgotten about; there he was a man who held a place among giants.

  Thing was, he didn’t want to go back to being the man he was.

  He wanted to stay in Moonlight, where things seemed somehow easier . . . even if they weren’t.

  Dropping his hands to Summer’s shoulders, he said, “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  A smile twitched at her lips. “Of course. I’m pretty much accustomed to being alone. Plus, I have that comfy chair waiting on me.”

  Rhett gave her another quick hug. He wanted to kiss her but wouldn’t. “I’ll call you tomorrow to check on the kid.”

  “Bye,” she said, giving him a little wave as he started down the dim hallway to the parking garage where he was illegally parked in a physician’s parking spot.

  His last glimpse of her narrowed in the closing elevator doors.

  A heavy sigh was his only company as he pressed the button to the lower level and exited the building. The same big moon greeted him as he backed the car out of the garage and pointed the headlights toward the place where he’d learned to ride his bike, tie a sailor’s knot, and catch crabs with chicken legs. The Carolina moon dogged his car, summoning the memory of Summer’s face aglow as they bobbed offshore Dog Island, dragging the horror of her story into the light, and eliciting hunger for another taste of this woman who encapsulated him in . . . something.

  While Rhett existed beneath a shadow, one he couldn’t seem to shake, Summer shone like a lone candle penetrating darkness. Like a desperate moth, he was seduced by the flicker, but a single spark could ignite a dumpster fire.

  He couldn’t use Summer to feel better about himself.

  “Fuck,” he said to the darkness surrounding his car. Then he angled a glance up at the moon. “And fuck you, too.”

  But the moon didn’t answer back. It hung steadfast in the sky, watching a world beneath swirl about in conflict.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  April 2003

  Summer lay in her narrow bed, listening to Maisie play with her Barbie dolls in the next room. The walls were paper-thin, which meant she often heard conversations between Skipper, Barbie, and Ken, who—if her powers of deduction were correct—were embroiled in a love triangle. She should probably tell Maisie that Skipper was only, like, fourteen. She was the kid sister and much too young for Ken.

  For a moment, she wondered if there were actual ages on the boxes for the dolls. And then she remembered that they didn’t have genitals. Barbie dolls were safe from getting a penis shoved inside them.

  Summer rolled over and faced the wall, unbearable grief welling inside her at the thought of what had happened last night. Her head hurt and her stomach roiled as images of the night before popped up like scary clowns in a fun house.

  She knew physically she had a hangover, but there was also an ache inside her, a strange discomfort like the first time she’d tried to use a tampon. Perhaps the soreness was her imagination, but still she felt the loss.

  And she’d had no say-so in the matter. Or rather, Hunt hadn’t listened to what she’d said. The thought infuriated her. That bastard.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” she whispered as she flopped to her back, fixing her gaze on the round light fixture above her. A moth had died in the frosted glass bowl, its image nothing but an outline. She knew how the poor thing felt. Fly too close to the light, become a dead, papery shadow.

  Last night after she’d pulled on her dress, she’d gone into the guest bathroom and locked the door. Hunt had waited in the room, but she stayed in there so long, sitting on the toilet and studying the rope glued around the shelf that held plush towels, he eventually got the hint and left. Once the outer door snicked closed, she cleaned herself up. There had been a little blood. And semen. Hunt hadn’t even bothered to use a condom. The thought she could be pregnant had made her knees buckle.

  Even at that moment, the thought froze her, her mouth growing as dry as the moth’s wings.

  She wasn’t pregnant. People tried to get pregnant for months, sometimes years. Her cousin Michelle had to do fertility treatments and still had to adopt a baby from China. No way Summer got pregnant the first time she had sex. That would be a slap delivered to a bruise. Un-fucking-necessary.

  Besides, it wasn’t real sex.

  She knew what it was—date rape. They’d talked about “acquaintance” rape in her sociology class, or was it health class? She couldn’t remember. All she recalled was a video they’d watched where a woman suggested a victim make herself vomit to render the sex-starved perpetrator grossed out enough to abandon the rape. Maybe Summer should have gagged herself until she vomited. Maybe Hunt would have stopped saying “just relax” and instead screamed at her for ruining the expensive carpet.

  Nessa and Tyler had driven her home. They’d just arrived when Summer had tottered down the stairs and begged them to get out of there. Her best friend had been perturbed to miss out on the party of the year. Supposedly Ben Vermillion and Jack Hamm got into a fight and broke a window. Oh, and Brittany Smith took off her dress and jumped into the hot tub in her bra and thong. So many idiots to watch. So little time. Summer didn’t bother to tell her friend that Hunt had raped her upstairs. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d even gone upstairs with Hunt. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d gotten drunk. And kissed Rhett. And let Hunt touch her boobs. But of course, everyone would know.

  Tears formed in Summer’s eyes as Maisie yelled, “Help me, Ken. I’m drowning in the pool. Skipper’s at the store. I need helllllp. Ahhhh!”

  “Hush, Maisie,” Summer heard her mother say. “Your sister’s still asleep.”

  “How come she didn’t have to go to church? She always gets to miss Sunday school, and I never do.”

  “Hush,” her mother said, closing the door to her sister’s room.

  Summer heard her door open and she froze, pretending to sleep.

  “Summer?” her mother whispered, the door opening wider so Summer could hear snippets of the fishing program on the TV in the living room. Her father was probably in his recliner in his gym shorts with his black-socked feet propped up. It was his Sunday afternoon ritual—church, KFC, and a week’s worth of fishing programs recorded on the VCR.

  “You finally awake?” Her mother’s voice held anticipation. She knew what her mom wanted—juicy details of her prom night.

  “Mmm?” Summer asked, totally faking her disorientation. “M
om?”

  “You probably need to get up. If you sleep the whole day away, you’ll have trouble falling asleep tonight.” Moms always said that. Must have been in the hospital instructions sent home with the new bundle of joy. Feed them, burp them, change them, and make them feel guilty if they want to sleep in and not tell you every detail of every moment of their lives.

  “Okay,” Summer said, struggling to rise, feeling as though a weight pressed her down.

  “So . . . ?” her mother asked, easing onto the foot of Summer’s bed, trying not to look like a detective going at a suspect.

  “What?”

  “You know what. How was prom?”

  “Fine. It was good. The decorations were really pretty.”

  “Yeah? Tell me about them. Did you dance? Who had the prettiest dress? Who got prom king and queen?” The questions were like boulders released from the top of a mountain, gaining speed, crashing against all obstacles.

  Summer wanted to sink back down and flip the covers over her head and pretend prom had never existed, but her mother wasn’t going to let that happen. Answers must be given. It was payment for the shoes she’d thankfully found under the kitchen desk and the chandelier earrings that were still missing. No clue when she took them off. Maybe they’d be in the clutch purse with the empty vodka bottle. Nessa had found Summer’s purse in the living room on top of the shiny black upright piano.

  “Let’s see, I liked Nessa’s look the best—pretty and edgy. You know Ness. She wore a bustier, a tutu, and combat boots. And Rhett Bryan and Graysen Hadley won prom king and queen. Of course.” Her stomach hurt at the thought. Then she remembered the beach and the way Rhett had looked at her. She closed her eyes against the telltale pain that had to be present in her eyes. “I danced once. The rest of the time, we hung out and watched everyone else.”

  “Oh, you just watched?”

  Summer shrugged.

  “Where’s your corsage? We can put it in the window to dry. I found some spray that might preserve the color.” Her mother looked around.

  “Nah, I threw it away,” Summer said, trying to sound nonchalant. “It got messed up at the party. I forgot to put it in a safe place.”

  Her mother’s expression fell. “Oh darn. That would have been a great way to preserve the memory. But oh well. Nothing you can do when the thing falls apart. How about some grilled cheese? I can make you one, and we can chat about everything that happened. I can’t wait to hear about Hunt and the party. He seemed like such a nice young man. And pretty cute, too.” Her mom delivered the last comment with an impish grin.

  Ha. If she only knew how nice Hunt was.

  “I’m not really hungry. My feet hurt from the heels, and I have a paper due for Mrs. Chatham’s class on Monday. The witch is obviously antiprom.” Summer rolled her eyes in overexaggerated exasperation. She was a normal teenager. Nothing to see here.

  Her mother rose. “Okay, get some work done, and we’ll talk later. I know you’re tired, but you had fun?”

  “Sure. It was great.” The words felt like dust caking her mouth.

  Her mother tossed a doubtful look her way, but thankfully slipped out the door with a soft, “Later, gator.”

  Summer sank back onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Closing her eyes, she tried to think about anything other than the events of last night. Focus on college. The comforter you picked out at Belk. The last episode of Gilmore Girls. What was Rory going to do? Oh, and what was that funny thing Sookie had said?

  Hours later she woke to an insistent knocking at her door. She’d fallen back asleep and felt like she’d been drugged. Lifting her head was a struggle. “What?”

  Maisie flipped on the light. “Hey, there’s a boy here.”

  Fright jumped into Summer’s throat as panic seized her. Hunt was here. What was he doing here? Would he tell her parents what they’d done the night before? Her mind raced in cadence with her heart. “Uh, I can’t come outside.”

  Maisie’s ponytail was lopsided. “You’ve been in bed all day. Are you sick?”

  “No.” Maybe. It felt like being sick. Her body felt heavy, her heart thrummed with ache, and she wanted to disappear into some undiscovered void. Maybe she could live in this room forever. Be a recluse like Emily Dickinson. Or that boy in the bubble.

  “You’re a lazybones,” Maisie drawled.

  “Yeah,” Summer said, pushing her hair from her face. “Maybe so.”

  “The boy outside looks like Ken, but his name’s Rhett. He’s watching Bass Fishin’ Today with Daddy.” Maisie closed the door.

  “What the hell?” Summer whispered, licking her lips, which felt as cracked as an African water hole in drought. She eased out of bed, walking to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom she shared with her sister. What was Rhett doing here? Why was he watching TV with her dad? It was like existing in an alternate universe that wasn’t parallel but instead flipped upside down and twisted sideways.

  She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Eyeliner was smudged beneath her eyes, and she looked abnormally pale and drawn. Her brown hair snarled in clumps. Total train wreck. Picking up a toothbrush, she scrubbed the taste of last night from her mouth before running a brush through her hair. Next she pulled on a sweatshirt, not even bothering with a bra, and grabbed a pair of shorts that might have been dirty, or just orphaned from the clean laundry she’d yet to fold.

  Pushing out the door, she prepared herself for facing the boy who had driven her to Hunt. Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t his fault per se. But . . .

  What was he supposed to have done? Kiss her back and declare his love for her? Get real, Summer. Or maybe he was supposed to swoop into the guest bedroom and lift her in his arms as his white steed pawed the expensive planking outside the door. Like he could even lift your fat ass, Sum.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she padded barefoot into the living room.

  Rhett looked up from the magazine her father had obviously shoved into his hands. “Hey, Summer. You just now getting up?”

  Friendly puppy Rhett. At that moment, she almost preferred Hunt’s withering dismissiveness. At least Hunt didn’t pretend to be something shiny. Rhett was like one of those gold chains you won in one of those crane games. Sparkling, but sure to turn your skin green.

  No, that wasn’t fair. She wanted to blame someone for what happened. Rhett wasn’t responsible for her whoring herself out. He’d been perfectly nice about blowing her off, and he’d tried to save her. Sort of. She had to own that she’d drunk too much, allowed Hunt to kiss and paw her, and climbed the stairs to a bedroom like a complete idiot. Rhett wasn’t turning her fingers green. He was exactly who he’d always been—a decent guy.

  Still, she had a compulsion to hit him. To make him feel some small measure of the damage she felt. At least smudge him up a bit and make him . . . irritated, ruffled, something more than so damned nice.

  “Yeah, something like that,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “So why are you here?”

  He stood. “Thanks for showing me that bait, Mr. Valentine. I’ll try using that color crawfish next time I go freshwater fishing.” He turned his baby blues back on her. “Can we go outside or something?”

  Summer shrugged. “Sure. We can sit on the porch.”

  She didn’t wait for him. Somehow her politeness had vanished. The porch wasn’t wide and held only two worn rockers, but that would have to do. Her guitar sat in one of them, and it struck her that Maisie must have been out here playing and left it unattended. Fury washed over her. She spun back around, nearly running into Rhett. “Dad, Maisie took my guitar without permission again and left it on the porch. She’s asking to die a painful death.”

  Summer turned back around and walked toward the guitar, taking satisfaction in hearing her father ordering her sister to come to the living room.

  Rhett looked confused. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I . . .” He paused and ran a h
and through his hair. “Uh, about last night. I, uh, thought maybe I should come check on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. She picked up her guitar and tucked it beneath her arm, cradling the fret board with her left hand. With her fingers she plucked a few chords as she sat in the rocker.

  She wasn’t fine. Maybe she’d never be fine. But she didn’t want to say that because she didn’t want to talk about what had happened the night before. She wanted to forget it happened. Go back to her normal, which was not Rhett Bryan standing on her front porch.

  “You say that, but you seem upset. I know what happened on the beach was upsetting and then I found you with Hunt. Uh, I just didn’t think you were into him.”

  She looked up. “I don’t want to talk about the beach. That was a mistake. I don’t know what happened. Probably the vodka. Not much of a drinker. And Hunt and I were just having fun.” The words tasted like poison. She wanted to spit them out onto the porch. Rid herself of the inky blackness covering her soul. Go away, Rhett. Go find your girlfriend. Leave me alone.

  “You sure?”

  She played a few more chords from the song she’d been working on. Somehow holding her guitar gave her protection. The Martin shielded her emotions, preventing anyone from seeing the shredded parts of her. “Absolutely.”

  Rhett eased into the rocker. “I didn’t know you play the guitar.”

  She strummed a few chords from “Sweet Baby James” and nodded. “I’ve been playing since I was twelve.”

  “You any good?”

  “Decent,” she said, not even bothering to be humble like she would usually be. Yesterday she would have said, “Not really, but I’m working on it.” Because that’s who she was yesterday. She was innocent, polite, and stupid. Today she just felt stupid. And mad.

  “Play something.”

  “I am.” She did a couple of verses.

  “I don’t know that one.”