When You Come to Me

by Jade Alyse

  “Where the fuck have you been, man?” Scotty had asked him.

  “Around,” Brandon said, plainly. “And I’ll be home soon…”

  He came coursing into the city limits of Athens shortly following their phone conversation, trembling at the sight of all the memories that he left behind, feeling as though the city had changed and the people in it.

  He’d returned to Athens, praying that she’d receive him as wholeheartedly as she’d done before. He desperately wanted forgiveness for his foolishness, for his stupidity. She simply had to know that they were meant to be…they were always meant to be – although there was no way of knowing whether or not she’d still be there. Perhaps she’d decided to flee as he had done; perhaps the memories were just too much for her to bare. But no, he didn’t give his Natalie the credit that she deserved – she was a fighter, a stubborn, effervescently beautiful fighter, who thrived in finishing the things that she started, no matter how arduous, no matter how dreadful.

  He was walking downtown his first night back, reveling in their familiar haunts, en route to meet Scotty at a pub at the corner of Brent and Laurel. He’d passed by Sabby’s Caribbean, had glanced through the window, and spotted a girl who sat close to the wide-paned glass that looked very similar to Natalie. He’d slid his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, narrowed his eyes and glared at her. He’d identified the smoothness of her brown skin, the way her nose wrinkled when she found something to be really funny. He’d recognized those brown ears, that stuck out whenever she wore her hair in a tight ponytail, and he’d watched her eyes change the way they only did when she felt really vulnerable.

  She sat across from another guy, at a small, round candlelit table, sipping her drink bashfully, watching the guy lean into her and reach for her hand delicately. Something inside of Brandon made him feel sick, and he resisted the urge to run inside, knock the guy’s lights out, and take Natalie away from him. That was his answer – the one that he’d dreaded learning – Natalie Chandler had moved on.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  He met up with Scotty at the bar, sat beside his friend on the stool, and had downed the first bottle of Budweiser that was placed before him with masculine ease. Hell, if I can’t have you, I can have this and be just as satisfied…you’ll see…

  He then turned his head to the right, just before he poured all of his sorrows into a shallow glass of scotch that followed, and Sophia appeared through a break in the crowd, standing alone, sipping slowly from a martini glass, her loose curls pinned up nicely, her black dress clinging to each part of her body. She’d approached him slowly, and that same sneaky grin that had captured him so many years ago, left him spellbound. She was a welcomed dark silhouette, a stunning vision to both his blurry vision and wounded heart.

  “Well, hello, there, Randy…”

  Calling him that took him back to the moment when he’d first told her that he loved her, sitting outside of her dormitory on the rickety porch swing. They were only eighteen, and he’d pushed her flaxen curls out of her face, had kissed her full lips softly, had told her that he loved her, and she’d called him Randy. He could have sworn that she was an angel then, and he’d thought that nothing made more sense than being with her, had fallen in love with her baby hands, her porcelain skin, her light giggle.

  Calling him that had pushed him, in pure, uninhibited disorientation, to go to her apartment the afternoon following their bar encounter. It rained, hard and uncontrollably, and Sophia Christine had opened the door to find him a drenched mess. He’d missed those green eyes and the light in her hair. His mind thirsted for the way things were.

  He desired nothing more than her curves, than cupping her buttocks between his hungry hands. And the blond vixen, the greedy nymphomaniac, took him inside, removed all of his clothes in rapid motion, and as the winter rain poured, she left him satisfied, left him with the feeling he’d been needing for some time, left her mark, left her scent, all over him.

  “You’re the only one,” she’d whispered to him afterwards, the white sheets, clinging to their skin. “You’re the only who could ever fuck me right…”

  He remained silent, quivering in the feel of his tainted body while she traced her fingers along the chiseled lines in his chest. Her touch was foreign, cold, her fingers unsettlingly spiny. He could feel her eyes wandering the length of his naked body, hungering for more. And when she pressed her small pink mouth against the space near his brown nipple, he innately flipped her on her back, affixed his hands to her narrow curves and took her love once more.

  And as he lay motionless the second time, he thought of Natalie, loving her still. He swore his love, somewhere deep down in his gut, though he frequently sank into the soiled sheets of Sophia’s bed, where a prison often mounted comfort and familiarity, where a lack of completion lied.

  Sleeping with Sophia was to only temper the sting of his lonely nights. And as much as the naked Sophia stood on her bed, kneeling before him, pleading, her light eyes cast sweetly in moonlight, he always found an excuse to leave. He’d drive his green truck down the freeway, feel the breeze comb his hair, see Tallie in the stars, and remember things between them that he only wished he'd forget.

  He would leave Sophia’s bedside and he would come home to his dark house of blue siding, would strip himself naked, climb into the shower and run the scolding water over his body, hoping to wash it all away; all of his guilt, the remnants of Sophia that laid along his skin, wash away the tears, and the part of him that still held onto the notion that he’d return to Natalie one day, and she’d accept him with open arms.

  But, despite his love, he continued in this same bizarre pattern. He ran back to Sophia’s nest every time he felt that carnal sensation in his gut, knowing that she was just that easy. He refused to think that many guys had been in his same position since his departure over a year ago.

  One night, after a fairly long session, she stopped him before he could reach for his underwear on the floor, and whispered, “Stay".

  She then proceeded to convince him to accompany her on a business trip to Tampa for a week. They would stay in Pass-a-Grille when she wasn’t working and relax. They would take walks on the beach, do dinner overlooking the ocean.

  Looking at Natalie on the beach in Passe-a-Grille, made more sense to him than anything else in his life. It brought back all of the regrets of leaving her, in his bed, drunkenly asleep, unaware. He remembered all of the memories of them pouring through him at that moment, shrouded in darkness, reaching out to touch her face, just that last time, realizing, of course, that it hurt that she was not ready to be with him for forever.

  How could she not comprehend how much she’d hurt him? Could she not sense how angry he was with her?

  He had always wanted to marry her.

  And that ring, damn that ring! He figured that Natalie had found it, figured that she, knowing her tendency to overanalyze any situation placed before her, had come to her own conclusions, even before dinner had been served, and figured, at the peak of her intentional drunkenness, that what he said to her wouldn’t matter.

  She didn’t want forever with him.

  He’d bought the ring some time during the Christmas holiday, the same year that Natalie turned twenty. Asha and Scotty had even gone with him to the jewelry store downtown to help him pick out the right one. The ring had to be perfect, had to symbolize Natalie. At the seven months that they’d dated, he knew that he wanted to propose, knew that Natalie was the one.

  He simply had to garner up enough nerve to ask her.

  For the weeks following his purchase he carried the ring with him, whenever they went out somewhere, waiting for the right moment to tell her how much he loved her, get down on one knee and ask her to be his wife.

  He looked at Natalie on the beach in Passe-A-Grille, in that white dress, her image of innocence wrapped in its delicate fabric, and it all made sense.

  #

  He sat up on the bed, th
e coils beneath the surface, creaking beneath his weight, and Sophia stirred softly. With his head hung low, his hands clasped together, he felt the breeze from the cracked veranda door before him, cool the sweat upon his heated skin, his long body cast in the unruffled shadow of night.

  Natalie ran through his mind.

  He got to his feet, stretched his long arms high, yawned, and walked, slowly, long feet dragging, towards the veranda.

  He gripped the wrought iron railing, felt the breeze about his skin, felt the urge to jump into his car, get the hell out of Passe-a-Grille and run to Clearwater Beach as fast as he could. Snatch her up. Take her away.

  He would call her to tell her to meet him outside…they could make a quick break…nobody would have to know.

  He crept back into the room, searched for his phone with desperation, felt it luckily in the back pocket of his jeans on the armchair by the door…

  He dialed the familiar number, heard the first ring, then the second…then…

  “I knew this would happen,” Sophia was standing behind him, blond curls wild. Even after so many years had passed, she was still as beautiful as the first day he’d seen her. But even that didn’t replace his emptiness.

  She had just begun to cry; he saw the glistening of the saltwater about her cheeks. He dropped the phone, glared into Sophia’s eyes, stood motionless.

  She folded her arms tightly, sighed heavily.

  “I saw it…on the boat,” she said quietly. “Saw that look in your eyes…she was wearing that pretty dress…she had her hair all pretty…and she was with another guy…you didn’t want her to be happy, did you? You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

  No. He arrogantly wanted to believe that the only way that Natalie could ever be happy is if they were together, loving each other.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. He forgot how it felt, forgot the feeling of the tightness in his throat, the hard pound in his chest, the twisting in his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed. And he truly was. He was sorry for his baffling behavior, for sleeping with her, for making her believe that they could be something together again.

  She remained calm, shockingly so, and he watched her take a deep breath, and say, “Don’t be sorry…you have no reason to be sorry…I should have known better…you love her…”

  Yes, he did, more than he allowed his eyes to reveal then, more than he ever loved the Sophia Christine Baldwin that stood before him.

  “I’m messed up,” he told her. “And I’m sorry…”

  “You shouldn’t be sorry, Brandon Greene,” she told him. “We had a good run, didn’t we?”

  He nodded. Brandon and Sophia. They were something remarkable, once upon a time. But they had some sort of lustful, passionate thing, didn’t they? Their mental connection was a complete façade.

  He remembered the arguments.

  “What the fuck were you thinking going to a party like that?” he’d yell at her.

  “I wasn’t thinking…I wasn’t thinking, Sophia…”

  “You never think, do you, Brandon Greene? You’re supposed to be here, with me…”

  “I need my freedom, Sophia…why can’t you grant me that sometimes?”

  “Who is she, Brandon? Hmm? What’s her name? Is she a good fuck?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Every time you start talking that ‘freedom’ nonsense, there’s usually a girl involved…so be honest with me…be honest!”

  The bouts of jealousy.

  “Why were you looking at her like that?”

  “Looking at who?”

  “The girl at the bar…was she pretty?”

  “I wasn’t looking at any girl…you’re delirious…”

  The angry tone in Sophia’s raspy voice would always stick out in his mind; and her cursing, her smoking, her lasciviousness, the late nights with her sorority sisters that left her passed out on the bathroom floor.

  She was always one for a good party.

  Sophia was never the friend, was rarely the comforter, the supporter, the source of intimacy, but was the first to jump on his case for talking to Susan from his Economics class or Jessica, his next door neighbor.

  Natalie was air, was peace, was rooted soul, calmed him.

  “Brandy, stop staring at me…do your homework…”

  “I can’t help it…”

  “You’ll be able to when you fail…”

  “Have I told you how much I love you lately?”

  “Have I told you how much I hate doing your homework for you?”

  “Because you care about me…”

  “You’re crazy…”

  “Admit it…”

  “Will you finish your homework and stop looking at me all creepily if I do…?”

  “Scout’s honor…”

  “If I didn’t…would I be sitting in this dirty place you call a bedroom all the darn time?”

  “Thought so…”

  He realized then, looking into Sophia’s tear-smeared eyes, that her presence in his heart had died…a long time ago, even…and she’d realized it too. He could plainly see that strange shutter in her body

  He knew instantly, watching Natalie Chandler from across the deck that night, “The Way You Look Tonight” playing annoyingly in his head, Sophia gripping his hand uncomfortably tight, that he’d always been in love with her...always…the extent of which was foreign to him, the idea of which allowed him to believe in a world of idealism, awakened every numb nerve of uncertainty inside of him.

  Sophia slept in another room that night. He didn't care.

  Damn.

  Instead, he reached for his phone again, dialed the number, watched the moon glow, heard it ring three times.

  “Natalie…it’s me…I need you…”

  Moving On...

  SHE OFTEN ENVISIONED living in Athens on a more permanent basis, after the storm of medical school died down, and she could form her world around the life she’d always wanted to lead. She always believed that the city was a perfect reflection of herself: quiet and comfortable with just a tinge of pleasant quirkiness. But it now took on a ghostly feel, and she found herself wandering around aimlessly like a disillusioned nomad, as pain and misperception disembodied her in a series of fragmented parts, and she persistently struggled to put herself back together again. She was viewing what Athens used to be to her through a thick, grey cloud that had everlastingly settled around her head and shoulders, and it refused to dissipate.

  She never anticipated that she’d feel this way about a city she’d grown to love and appreciate for both coddling her and forcing her to grow up in a way that benefitted her. But now her mind and heart surged through a chain of roller coasters, driving her to the edge of her previously steadfast rationale, and she couldn’t come to terms with the idea it may be gone forever.

  The methodical aspects of her mind realized that she didn’t understand much about romantic love, as easily as she understood platonic and familial love. But she understood that unlike Athens, it purposely opposed her as if it were the spiteful aspect of herself that she’d purposely chosen to suppress: it was impractical and untimely, cruel and devilish. And she couldn’t understand why she chose to succumb to it. She felt poisoned; and she was driven to act in ways that her previous self wouldn’t have allowed.

  In the middle of the week, where she’d previously promised to meet Anthony for lunch at his favorite place, she strangely cancelled at the last minute and she couldn’t tell him the real reason why.

  “I told Asha that I’d go to the doctor’s office with her,” she told him instead. “She’s afraid to go alone.”

  “I love you,” he told her simply. She mumbled through it vacantly in return and hopped in her car. Her mind often wandered to the dark niches in her thoughts that internally wished for Anthony to end it with her. Maybe that would be easier than admitting the truth to herself…maybe then she could find the answer she was searching for.

 
She glides effortlessly across town and onto a collection of familiar roads. She feels thoughtless and selfish and empty, but her plaguing curiosity still manages to slide through the cracks. She feels a peculiar aching in her chest as she veers onto a proverbial tree-lined street. She then feels her breath escape her. She knows that this is no casual drive to clear her head; and those who care about her would think she was crazy. She applies pressure to the brakes as she reaches the end of the road and she idles near a house of blue siding on Trent road. Although it’s been several weeks since Clearwater, she swears she can still taste his lips, she can still smell his smell. And for a second she’s almost certain he’s by the pond, watching the ripples progress into nothingness as his thoughts drift with the breeze.

  And she smiles, killing the engine.

  His dirty soccer cleats are sitting in the dried grass of the front yard, right where he left them; a UGA flag from a yard sale a couple of years ago still swings off the porch; but most notably, his green Explorer is parked in the driveway. It still has the same New York license plate, with the same seven letters and numbers.

  Brandon Greene is home again. She just needed to see it for herself.

  There’s a fleeting tick where she believes that she’s coming to see him after her shift at the library is over; she’s tired and all she can think of doing is curling up on his grandmother’s old sofa and napping till he gets home from class.

  She still has a key, and she questions whether or not she should just walk in.

  There’s a part of her that would get a kick out of surprising him, but the other part of remains perfectly still, as if some greater power is telling her not to move an inch. So, she inevitably chooses to scour through her thoughts meticulously. She knows that acting hastily would only end disastrously, and she can’t imagine feeling any worse than she already does.