by J. R. Rogue
“I wasn’t ready for you to tell me it wasn’t time yet, I guess.” I laugh. “You make promises to people. You make promises to your children, and you’re supposed to keep them. Did you ever make me a promise? Maybe before you left?”
“I don’t know,” he says, sighing.
“Did you make a promise to her?”
“Who?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. I see the movement of bodies behind the curtain. His new wife and his new daughter.
“My sister.” I run my palm over my jeans. “I think it’s time you keep your promises. Even if they’re not to me. Don’t hurt her. Be there when she graduates. Walk her down the aisle. Be there when she gives you grandchildren. Just be there, and never leave. Promise me you’ll never leave her. I’m absolving you of guilt when it comes to me.”
My voice cracks at that, and the tears stain my shirt. “I’m never going to show up on your doorstep or your street again. I’m never going to message you again. My mom is a good fucking mom. I love her, and that’s enough. You were a shit father to me, but maybe you’re a good one to her. And if you had to learn how not to do it with me, that’s okay. But I can’t keep reaching for someone who isn’t reaching back.”
When I blink, I see the salt around his eyes. It hurts, these mistakes we make in life. But sometimes, forgiveness is offered. Second chances are offered. We either take them, or we don’t.
I start the car, and my father stands. I make it to the end of the street before I have to pull over. The road is blurry, and I sit in my anguish, with my broken heart and my tears for ten minutes.
When I start the car again, I can see the road ahead of me, and I can see the path I want to take.
This Ain’t Tennessee
Hunter
Sonnet is on her way to me. Six chances. She said we’ve had six chances, and that is four too many. People deserve second chances, but beyond that, they are just fooling themselves, she says.
I’m gonna make this seventh chance worth it. I’m gonna make it work. I pull up to the airport an hour early. Then, I pace. The parking lot. The ticketing area. The baggage claim area.
When I get the alert that she’s landed, I start to sweat.
I don’t know what it’ll be like having her here. Will I wave at her? Will she hug me? Will I hug her? Will we hold hands on the way to the car? Is this like picking a friend up at the airport, or is it like picking up the woman I’ve loved for ten years and taking her home to convince her love is worth risks? Overthinking is not something I do, but falling in love is also not something I usually do. Not for a long time now.
She’s wearing a black dress, and her dark hair is up in a bun that looks like it’s about to fall down. One of those donut pillows is around her neck, and EarPods stick out from her ears.
She looks tired, like she slept on the plane. A leather jacket is around her waist, and she has huge fuzzy socks sticking out of her white Doc Martens. Jesus, there are Christmas trees on them. She looks beautiful. Goddamn perfect, and if I’m bein’ honest, I want to take her to the parking lot and kiss her senseless.
Her eyes flutter over me a few times before she scowls, searching her bag and finally pulling out a pair of glasses.
When she can see, she sees me, and she smiles. No teeth, but still happy to see me, with a blush in her cheeks.
I reach her in a few long strides, take her into my arms, pulling her feet off the ground. She has her arms around my neck when I speak, my voice in her hair as I say, “Thank you for coming.”
“It was either that or be on edge waiting for Sera or Andrew to stab me in the back.” She laughs.
When I set her down, I take her hand. The back and forth worry over what we would do seems dumb now. We always know what to do near each other. The present is always easy for us.
It’s the future we struggle with.
I’m ready to end that.
The drive from the airport is full of conversation, easy and flooding. I laugh, and she bounces her legs in the passenger seat. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s been on a plane all day or because she’s nervous. I take her to my favorite restaurant, and we let the afternoon pass slowly. I watch her fidget, knowing she’s struggling with her newfound sobriety. I’m proud of her, and I want to see every damn awkward moment she’ll allow me to.
When we get close to my house, I ask Sonnet to close her eyes and cover them with her hands for good measure. She gives me narrowed eyes, but still does as I ask. She argues for a minute about not taking orders, and it’s this banter I’ve missed most.
“I told you that you take direction well.”
“Fuck off,” she says with a laugh.
I can tell she’s focusing on the sounds around her, the telltale crackle of gravel beneath tires. With one hand, she fumbles around the door panel, rolling the window down. The Georgia air is crisp, and I can hear the breeze making the windchime sing, the one the girls put up nearby a few summers ago. I stop at the end of my driveway, checking the mail, drawing everything out.
“Jesus, why do I have my eyes closed, again?”
“Why are you always so impatient, woman?” I like that about her, but I’d never tell her.
I park on the side of the house, and before hopping out, I tell Sonnet she can uncover her eyes. When she does, she squints in the light, looking around. I don’t know what she’s looking for, and when her eyes land on me, there’s a question there. I just shrug and shut my door.
“Why did I have to close my eyes, Hart?” Her use of my last name is supposed to be a warning, but I don’t bite.
“I just wanted to make you nervous,” I say, hoping the lie sticks.
Sonnet rolls her eyes, then hops out of the truck. “Can I see the property?” She rubs her belly, and I hear it rumble. She barely ate at lunch, and that’s not like her. I wonder if it’s due to nerves.
“Okay, quick tour, then I’m going to feed you again.” We walk toward the garden, all but dried up.
“You garden?” she asks.
“Best cucumbers in the county come from that patch of land. The girls wanted it. They had a garden at their mother’s and wanted one here too. The deal was that they needed to take care of it, but then they got older and there were so many after-school activities. So, I get up every morning to water it. And then I water it when I get home.” It’s dry now, but come spring, I’ll be up earlier than usual again to take care of it. For the last time.
“Isn’t that how a lot of things happen with kids? They want a dog, and they’re supposed to take care of the dog, but then the parents end up taking the bulk of the responsibility?”
“That can happen. The thing is, children have the attention span of a squirrel. There’s always something new. And shit, kids have so much going on these days. I don’t remember it being like that when I was a kid.” Between homework, FFA, softball, chores, college applications, and the rest of the shit on my daughters’ shoulders, they barely had time to breathe.
“Why didn’t you just let the garden die off?” Sonnet kneels down, runs her fingertips over a disc in the ground. It has handprints on it. Below each hand, I see my daughter’s names. “How’s college going for Savannah?”
“Good. She’s busy, but home now. She’s ready to go back, though. I think it’s breaking her mother’s heart.”
“And yours?” She smiles, knowing me. And isn’t that what we’re searching for? Someone who knows us?
I cock my head. “The nest will be empty soon.” I’m going to have a vastly different life soon.
“Is that why I’m here?”
I shake my head. “You said you wouldn’t wait for me.”
“I haven’t.” Sonnet wrings her hands, and I don’t know that she believes her own words.
“Why are you here, then?”
She stands, shrugs. “Free vacation.”
“You miss me as much as I miss you when we aren’t near each other,” I argue, bordering on smug.
Her eyes roll, but I can see th
e ghost of a smile on her lips. “Yes.”
“C’mon,” I say, smiling.
She follows, dropping her arms but not her attitude. When she finally catches up to my long strides, I’m standing in the front of my house. My arms are crossed now, but not for the same reason. Okay, maybe I do feel a little smug.
“What? What did I chase you around here for?”
I nod my head, and Sonnet looks at the sign in my front yard.
The one that reads: FOR SALE.
“You’re moving,” she whispers.
“I’m moving,” I repeat.
“Why are you moving?”
“It’s time to move back home.”
“Home? This is your home. You’ve stated that a million and one times, Hunter.” She looks at the sky, clear and blue. The color has nothing on her dark eyes.
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“Where is home?” She steps closer.
“In Nashville?” I question, because I still have such a complicated love for the city. “Where you are. Where music is.” That much I know is true.
Sonnet is backing away from me now. Not rushing to me or even sidling up to me. “Did you have me fly all the way out here just to show me you’re selling your house?” She squints her eyes.
“No. I had you fly out here so I could tell you again that I want to be with you.”
“I said I wouldn’t wait for you. You want to be with me next summer? When Harper graduates?”
“No, and I know you said you wouldn’t wait, but aren’t you? I’m not going to apologize for wanting to be in my daughters’ lives, day in and day out. It’s what you do when you have kids. You give something up. You give up your dreams for a while. You give up living selfishly for a while. You’re the most selfish thing I’ve ever wanted. Even more than I wanted music. I missed them so much those years I lived in Nashville. I thought I could juggle it all. And I could’ve, if I half-assed being a dad. I wanted you, too. But you couldn’t move to Georgia for some guy you had a one-night stand with, and I get that. And, damnit, I couldn’t do long-distance with you. It would have killed me to see you just a couple of weekends a month.”
“Isn’t that all you’ve allowed yourself to offer any woman who’s wanted you, anyway?” She arches a brow, catching me.
“Yes, the weekends I have my girls, that’s my time with them. I don’t want to share that with anyone else, because it’s my time to bond. You’re gonna have to decide at some point to introduce your kids to the person you care about, or just spend every other weekend with them. With my proven track record of never getting past a few nights, there’s never been a woman worth introducing the girls to. It’s not fair to bring a woman into their lives, to let her become part of their lives, just for me to break up with the poor girl—which I always do—so my girls lose a friend.”
Sonnet’s eyes are large, a little glassy. “I get it, I do.”
“But do you? I wanna wake up to you, every day. I want us to share a home together. I want you to be in my life, and theirs. You know I’m in love with you, dontcha?”
She drops down on the grass then, buries her face in her hands. “Fuck.”
Fuck, indeed.
Learning to Live Again
Sonnet
What’s worse than pain? Numbness. The void. I felt it for a long year, then I went to the mountains, and I was emerging.
Now, I pull myself up, walk to Hunter’s large porch. I can hear him behind me, his long strides keeping him close.
“I can’t be with another normal person.” Love. He’s in love, and I’m in love. Where did that get us before?
“Who says I’m normal?” Hunter balks, reaching the top of the steps before me.
“Me. I’ve had it before. You can’t understand me, you’ll never be able to. You make jokes and you’re happy and you see the bright side of everything.” I’m trying to talk him out of it because to be loved in return is scary as fuck.
“That’s bad?” He walks backward to his front door. An I love you, and I haven’t even been in his house yet.
“I can’t compete with it. All I think about is how I’m the negative Nancy.” Hunter’s called me that before, joking. But what happens when he’s faced with it around the clock?
“Listen, I think you can be kind of a Debbie downer sometimes, but I don’t think you’re negative. How can someone love Christmas as much as you and not have hope? How can someone love to laugh over her own Friends references like you and not have joy? Maybe being negative about your positive traits is a little bit of a bad thing, but don’t just assume everyone sees you as some dark cloud. I sure as shit don’t.”
Hunter turns and reaches for his front door. “Come in here. I want to show you somethin’.”
His cabinets are white, and the house looks lived in, but show ready. It’s so clean, and I wonder how many rooms are here.
“I love your house,” I say, running my hands over the granite countertop. I remember loving his downtown apartment in Nashville. He has excellent taste. Maybe not in women, but in décor.
How many young girls has he brought here? I bet they fantasized about making it theirs. Young girls do that. They go home with a guy, and they check out his place. And coming to a house like this, not some shit that looks like a frat house, is always a jackpot moment.
It’s only natural to start moving yourself into the house of the guy you’re getting naked with—at least in your head. It’s the adult equivalent of drawing your name in a heart with your crush’s name. Or seeing how your first name looks with his last.
And the man in front of me, with a FOR SALE sign in his yard and an amused look on his face, is in love with me. He’s smiling, and I’m blushing in my black dress. It spreads to my shoulders, my neck. I untie my leather jacket from my waist, hang it on the barstool closest to me.
When I reach Hunter, I reach for him, but he skates away, to a door off the side of the kitchen. “Keep walking, Rosewood.”
He opens the door to a basement, stepping in. I see natural light at the bottom of the stairs. It must lead out behind the house, to the side I didn’t walk.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, my breath leaves my lungs. I reach for the railing, stopping short. “Jesus Merry Christmas…”
There are Christmas trees everywhere. White lights and blue lights and pink and red and green. They’re real trees, not artificial, but I’m not complaining one bit. The basement has a bar, and it’s covered with nutcrackers. There’s mistletoe and streamers. There are lights everywhere, and they glitter in the setting sun.
“What is all of this?” My voice is caught in my throat.
“Your Christmas.”
“Are these all your decorations?’
“No, Harper helped me get more. She knows you love Christmas, and she wanted to get a bunch of stuff you would like. So we hit up every after-Christmas sale, and grabbed all the trees headed for the chipper.” He shrugs, as if what he just said is a small thing. A simple thing. He knows it isn’t.
“You fucking asshole.” I laugh, and there are tears. My eyes are stinging, and my knees feel wobbly.
His daughter considered me. She thought of me. She knows we care about each other, and she helped him with this because he’s been telling her about me.
“She’s not out of high school yet,” I say, taking the last step.
“I know. But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t keep my feelings for you bottled up anymore. I want us to be together. I want you to know my daughters. I want all my girls in my life. I can’t keep y’all separate anymore. Maybe I could never fit any of it before because none of the other girls were you. I’ve been looking for every one of them to be a poem, but they’re not.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, let him pull me up into him. He feels solid and warm. I wet his shirt with my tears as his hands stroke my back.
“I have a gift for you,” Hunter says, setting me down. He pulls a small box from an inner pocket of his gray hoodie.
>
My heart skips a beat. It’s not a ring. That’s a dumb thought. But sometimes, stupid ass thoughts flutter through our minds, and we can’t control them. I didn’t expect his ass to tell me he loved me when I flew out here.
That silly thought brings out a scarier one. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I imagined it, even when I promised forever to someone else. I wipe at my eyes, reaching my hand out for the little box.
Hunter’s eyes are on me as I tear the tiny bit of wrapping paper on the small little box.
The paper is red, a sliver of silver ribbon around it, and the box is white. I pop the lid off, finding a silver bracelet. With a disc, like a compact disc. In small cursive writing, a line is written: All I Want For Christmas Is You.
I drop the box—not to be dramatic—but I don’t want it in my hands. I never want anything in my hands other than this bracelet. And maybe Hunter’s hand.
He stands closer, taking the bracelet. My wrist is upturned, and his fingers are there, grazing it, as he fastens the clasp.
I turn my wrist over to look at the writing again. “This is my favorite Christmas song. And a very sentimental gift. You’re not sentimental.”
“I know. And I’m only sentimental when I can make it cheesy. It’s a safety net. Is this not a little cheesy?” He sounds unsure, like he can’t read me right now, and I don’t blame him.
I’m a jumble of emotions, still aching from the goodbye I had with my father, still pulsing with this hello we’ve just had between us. “Yes, and it makes me happy.” I laugh and cry, all at once.
“It brings you joy. It makes you feel hope. Right, Sonnet? Because your heart isn’t black. You believe in romance and hope. I see it in your words, and I see it in you.”
“You do?” I ask.
“I always want you to feel that way. Always.”
That’s What I Get For Loving You