Stay With Me

by Astfalk, Carolyn

  Rubbing her heel, she gave Rebecca a once over.

  “What?”

  “You need a makeover. I don’t have time to take you to my favorite stores, so this is going to have to do.”

  What’s wrong with what I have on? Pleated jeans and a pink button-down blouse. The sound of metal hangers smacking against one another drew her attention back to Abby, who was rifling through a rack of skirts.

  “How do you get off wearing mom jeans anyway when you’re not even a mom?”

  Rebecca thought she was immune to Abby’s criticism, but today it made her squirm. Why? Was it because of Chris? She had to admit she’d been thinking more about her appearance lately, especially when she knew she’d be seeing him.

  Abby held up a short, turquoise, flared skirt and a fuchsia camisole. She twisted her wrist to show Rebecca the front and the back and then thrust them at her. “Here, try these on.”

  “Abby, that skirt is too short, and how do I wear a bra with …with that?” She looked with disdain at the clothes Abby had piled into her arms.

  “That skirt is no more than two inches above your knees, and you don’t need a bra with the cami; it’s got an underwire.”

  Shoving the individual plastic hangers backward on the rack, Rebecca looked at the clothes with exaggerated horror. The colors were pretty, but she’d feel nearly naked in that outfit.

  Abby huffed out a sigh and threw another article onto her pile. “There. Matching shrug. Go try it on.”

  She turned to survey the racks around her, biting her bottom lip. Surely there was something else here that would please her and satisfy Abby. Her eye caught on a pale yellow dress with eyelet trim and a Peter Pan collar. She grabbed the hanger with her free hand and held it up. “Only if I get to try this on, too.”

  Abby wrinkled her nose. “Fine, but make it snappy.”

  Rebecca hurried to the changing room and latched the half-door behind her. Forgettable soft rock music hummed through the overhead speaker as she hung the garments on the hooks and decided to start with the yellow dress she’d picked out. She removed it from the hanger and held it against her as she looked in the full-length mirror. It was simple but pretty. She pulled it on and turned back and forth in front of the mirror. Abby rapped on the door three times.

  “Coming.” Rebecca unlatched the door, and Abby greeted her with a frown. “What? I think it’s very nice.”

  “That’s the problem, Becca. It’s ‘nice.’ It’s also pale and shapeless, and you’re not, yet somehow it makes you look that way.” She looked her up and down. “You look like a boy.”

  Glancing at her chest and back up, Rebecca lifted her chin. “I do not.” Abby could say what she wanted, but Rebecca was better endowed than Abby, nursing or not, something that irritated Abby to no end when they were teens.

  Abby glared at her and conceded. “Except for your boobs.”

  Her jaw tensed and Rebecca gritted her teeth. “Breasts. They are breasts. You know I hate that word.”

  Abby muttered several more crass synonyms for breasts but ignored Rebecca, who had to bite her lower lip to keep from snapping at her sister.

  Stepping away from the changing rooms, Abby’s eyes darted back and forth, as if she were looking for something. Her gaze locked onto the rack of cheap sunglasses, and she grabbed a pair with mirrored lenses and handed them to Rebecca. Rebecca didn’t know they even made mirrored lenses anymore. “Here. Put these on.”

  Doing as she was told, Rebecca slipped them on, and then Abby grabbed her hand and walked several yards to the main aisle. They stood for only a second before Abby stopped a college-aged man. He had short, black, spiky hair, sleeve tattoos on both arms, and at least three piercings on his face.

  Abby stepped forward. “Excuse me. Can I get your opinion on something?”

  If only the floor would open and swallow her whole.

  Abby tugged Rebecca’s hand, dragging her closer. “My sister is blind, and she doesn’t trust my judgment.” She waved her hand up and down the length of Rebecca’s torso. “What do you think? Spinster or siren?”

  He let out a laugh that could only be described as a guffaw before he said, “No offense to your sister. She’s cute…in a conventional sort of way, but even my mom wouldn’t wear that dress. Definitely spinster.”

  Abby had said she was blind, not deaf. Abby thanked the jerk before she led her back to the changing room.

  “See? Spinster. All you need is a pair of granny glasses and half a dozen cats.”

  Rebecca took off the glasses and planted her foot into the floor. Hard. “His opinion does not count. I’m obviously not his type.”

  “He’s a man. That’s all that’s required for this little experiment. Now, go try on the outfit I picked out.”

  Rebecca twisted her lips. “Don’t you have a nursing baby to get home to?”

  Abby looked down at her watch. “Joel can deal for ten more minutes. Go.” She swished her hand at the changing room, and Rebecca relented.

  A few minutes later she emerged, tugging at the hem of the skirt and straightening the camisole where it tucked into the waistband. This time Abby smiled and gave a low whistle. She grabbed Rebecca’s hand again and marched her to the aisle while pushing the sunglasses onto her face.

  A balding, middle-aged man approached with a boy she guessed was his teenage son.

  Rebecca leaned into Abby. “This skirt is too short.”

  Abby looked her over again. “Maybe for an Amazonian queen, but not for a near-midget like you. Becca, you can show a little leg and not have people mistake your boyfriend for your pimp.”

  “Huh?” What on earth was she talking about?

  “Chris could wear a pinstripe suit with a fedora and carry a pimp cane, and no one would mistake you for a floozy in this. I’ll prove it to you.”

  The last of the wind left Rebecca’s sails, and she fixed her face straight ahead while she listened to Abby go through her spiel about her blind sister ending with “Classy or trashy? Babe or bimbo?”

  Where was that hole in the floor? Lord, take me now.

  Rebecca watched the boy’s cheeks redden, but he didn’t speak. It smelled like either he or his dad had bathed in cheap cologne, and Rebecca suppressed a cough. Apparently being blind did sharpen your other senses.

  The dad gave her a warm, appreciative smile and said, “Classy babe. I wish my own daughter would dress a little more like that. Everything she wears is black and skintight. Leaves nothing to the imagination.”

  Abby had issued an invitation to ogle, and the adolescent boy’s gaze roamed up and down Rebecca’s body and snagged on her bust. Heat blazed her cheeks, and not caring if she spoiled Abby’s blind sister ruse or not, she pulled the top of the camisole to obscure any possible glimpse of exposed cleavage.

  The dad elbowed his son in the side and murmured something in his ear that made the kid’s cheeks redden even more. He cleared his throat. “Definitely babe.”

  Abby thanked them and, placing her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders, turned her around and walked her back to the changing room. “Now you have something to wear on your next date. My treat.”

  Rebecca knew Abby expected a thank you, but she wasn’t going to get one. At least not yet. Of all people, Abby should understand how difficult it was for her to wear anything that could possibly attract what their dad called, “the wrong kind of attention.” After all, it was Abby’s hand-me-downs that had filled her drawers and closet. Still, she knew Abby meant to help. Maybe Rebecca could loosen up a little when it came to her wardrobe.

  ***

  As she waited outside Chris’s apartment on Tuesday night, Rebecca recalled Abby’s insistence that she wear her new outfit on her next date. At the last minute, her nerves got the better of her, and she decided to save the skirt and camisole for the weekend.

  She hadn’t been to Chris’s place before, but he’d invited her over for dinner. He had the front half of the first floor of an older home that had been split into th
ree apartments. The smell of basil and oregano wafted out through the screen door. There was no door bell, so she tapped her hand against the door frame and called, “Knock, knock.” She turned back toward the street as a pair of boys whizzed by her on their bikes, nearly knocking her over. “Sorry, lady,” a chubby kid on a banana seat bike yelled.

  Reckless bike-riding kids aside, Chris’s street seemed peaceful compared to hers. At home, honking horns and squealing tires startled her multiple times a day. So far, a week hadn’t passed without a fender bender.

  When she faced the door again, Chris stood inside, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

  “Sorry. I was making the salads. Come on in.” He rushed toward the countertop apparently intent on finishing his task. “I’m almost done with this.”

  She set her purse on the narrow counter lining the interior wall that extended into a short hallway and surveyed the small kitchen and round table set for two. The smell of tomatoes drew her to the stovetop where the red sauce simmered and the pasta boiled. “Do you need any help?”

  “Nope. Got it all under control.”

  Rebecca bit back a grin. The meal looked under control all right, but her host—not so much. Tidbits of baby carrots flew off the cutting board and landed with tiny plunks on the tile floor. Without so much as a glance at the renegade carrots, he continued chopping until he cursed and swung away from the counter holding his left index finger in his right hand.

  “Here, run it under cold water.” Rebecca walked to the sink and turned on the faucet for him. “Where can I find a Band-Aid?”

  Chris stuck his hand under the water and cursed again as a red stream swirled into the drain. “Medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Down the hall on the right.”

  She had thought the bathroom would be behind the closed door on her right, but apparently not. It must be his bedroom. How odd to have a bedroom attached to a kitchen. She walked the short hall to the bathroom, which was small and smelled of Lysol. He had probably just cleaned it. The box of Band-Aids was right where he had said. She pulled one from its box, removed the wrapper and took it back to the kitchen. “SpongeBob Squarepants Band-Aids?”

  Chris had a paper towel wrapped around his finger and was scouring his sink with his non-injured hand. “They were on sale.”

  Peeling back the adhesive ends of the Squidward bandage, she wrapped it around his finger and placed a kiss on it. “There. All better.”

  “You don’t need to patronize me.”

  Did she hear irritation in his voice? Chris was always so even-keeled. She didn’t think she’d ever heard that tone from him.

  “Sorry. I’m a little stressed. I rushed home from work, and I wanted this to be perfect for you. Now do you believe my culinary skills are limited to cooking over a campfire?”

  Her tummy growled and she placed her hand over it. “It all looks good to me, and I think it’s ready.” The microwave timer beeped, confirming her assessment, and Rebecca washed her hands and sat while Chris drained the pasta and filled their plates.

  The oven had been hiding warm rolls that he placed in a basket on the table alongside a stick of butter and their salads. He opened the refrigerator and stared blankly before he murmured, “Cheese and salad dressing.”

  “I’ve found it’s not the cooking that’s so hard, it’s timing everything to hit the table at the right time. That’s another reason I like baking. It’s done when it’s done. Less stress.” She started to sip the water Chris had set out when she remembered dessert. “Oh, my gosh, I almost forgot the pie. It’s in the car.” She leapt up and grabbed the keys from her purse before heading outside.

  When she returned with a small peach pie covered in aluminum foil, Chris stood alongside the table filled with steaming spaghetti and sauce. A single red rose, its petals perfectly opened, laid across her napkin.

  She placed her purse and the pie on the counter and walked to the table where Chris held out her chair. “Thank you,” she said, but before she could sit, Chris took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  “I didn’t even greet you when you came in.”

  When his hands dropped back to her chair, she sat, and he pushed her closer to the table. The chair legs dragged on the floor, and she sat too far from her food, but it was the thought that counted.

  Dinner was delicious, and he had obviously thought a lot about making their meal as perfect as possible. Could Abby’s assessment be right? Could he be smitten with her?

  When their plates had been emptied and Rebecca had put the leftover pie in the refrigerator, Chris insisted she allow him to do the cleanup.

  He returned the cheese, butter, and salad dressing to the refrigerator. “I’ll rinse these dishes off and be right in. Make yourself comfortable in the living room.”

  Rebecca walked down a short hallway to a small but homey room not equipped for a whole lot of living. A sofa, end table and floor lamp lined one wall, and a flat-screen TV hung from the opposite wall. Against a third wall stood the only interesting thing in the room—a large, oak bookcase.

  Board games and puzzles filled the top shelf. The second shelf held books, a mixture of history and thrillers. The bottom two shelves held books as well. The shelf in the middle caught her eye.

  On the left stood a framed, five-by-seven photo of Chris and his family. Chris wore a black cap and gown, and she assumed the photo memorialized his college graduation. He had one arm around Alan and one around his father. His mother stood on the end, next to her husband. The photo next to it made her heart stop before it started up again at a rapid clip.

  Oh my. How can I get a copy of this, and would it be considered obsessive if I had it blown up to poster size?

  The burnished silver frame surrounded a black and white picture of Chris wearing boots, jeans, a leather jacket, and sunglasses while straddling his Harley. The barest hint of a smile graced his lips. A small piece of folded cardstock adhered to the upper right corner of the frame. Rebecca lifted it to reveal a feminine handwriting in red ink. Her heart seized a little until she saw the signature. It read, “If you’re not careful on that thing, I’ll kill you. Love, Mom.” She smiled. She’d only met Chris’s mother briefly at Alan’s wedding, but she knew he got his sense of humor from her.

  An older photo showed two young boys with an elderly couple. Chris and Alan with their grandparents? She picked it up to take a closer look at the young faces and noticed it had been resting on a couple of identical three-by-five prints.

  She picked up the prints and set the picture of the boys back down. As she peered at the photos, a smile spread across her face. She hadn’t heard him coming in from the kitchen, but suddenly Chris stood beside her.

  “Jamie gave me those. Apparently someone caught us on one of those disposable wedding cameras.”

  She looked down again at the photo of them kissing and then up at Chris to see if the fact that someone had immortalized that moment pleased or bothered him.

  He shrugged. “I’m kind of glad. It’s a good shot for those cheap cameras. I only wish I had thought to have someone take a picture of us that actually showed our faces.”

  Rebecca thought she’d like one of those, too, but the one she held was invaluable. “Maybe the photographer got a shot of us, and we didn’t even realize.”

  “Maybe. One of those is yours if you want it.”

  “Oh, I want it.” Should she ask for a copy of the one with the motorcycle? She was torn between her desire to keep that picture close to her at all times and the fear of looking like a besotted twit. Her pride won out, and she kept her request to herself.

  Chris laid a hand on the top shelf. “Want to play a game?”

  “Sure.” She loved board games, but like outdoor activities, neither her father nor her sister was keen on them.

  “Yahtzee?”

  “Okay.” Less chance to make a fool of herself playing that than, say, Trivial Pursuit.

  Chris removed the box from the shelf and set it in the middle of the floor bef
ore sitting down alongside it. “Care to make it interesting?” That wicked look shone in his eyes again.

  “As long as the stakes aren’t too high. I don’t get paid until next week.”

  “I wasn’t thinking in terms of money.” He paused and let her squirm for a few seconds. Did Strip Yahtzee exist?

  “Best of five. Winner gets to choose his or her bounty.”

  “Bounty?” Rebecca kicked off her flat shoes, folded her legs beneath her and smoothed out her linen slacks. “You make it sound like someone’s going to get his head lopped off.”

  “Only if she loses.” He grinned as he opened the box and removed the score sheets, pen, dice, and cup. “Okay. Winner decides on the loser’s punishment.”

  It took less than three seconds for Rebecca to decide. “I’m in.”

  “Okay.” He smiled as if he had pulled something over on her. Well, wait until he heard what he’d have to do when he lost. “You first then.”

  “If I win, you have to take me for a ride on your motorcycle.”

  The smile left his face in an instant.

  She anticipated him being hesitant. Since he hadn’t taken her out already, she assumed there was some reason for his reluctance, but she didn’t know what. The surprised—or alarmed?—look on his face had her wondering.

  In a flash he recovered.

  “Okay. A motorcycle ride. And if I win . . .”

  He made a show of scrunching up his face and looking up at the ceiling as he puzzled over what would be an appropriate “punishment” for her. She doubted he needed any time to come up with something. After all, this had been his idea.

  “If I win, you have to kiss me.”

  “Kiss you?” Rebecca gave him a sideways glance meant to question his sanity. “That’s it? It’s not like I’ve been playing hard to get in that regard.”

  “Well, this would be different.”

  “Oh, I think I see.” Her cheeks grew warm. “This is about Saturday and how I—”

  “This is about my desire for you. And how maybe it would be better…be easier for you…if you knew what to expect without me barreling ahead, not being sure if that’s what you want.”