by Mary Campisi
“Sort of.”
“Oh.” She eased back, folded her arms, crossed her right leg over her left and started kicking it back and forth. “That makes a lot of sense. You dated these toothpicks and only found them sort of attractive?”
“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean, I did…” He closed his eyes, ran both hands over his face. “Hell, I don't know what I mean.”
“Matt?”
He picked up the cracked cup, tossed it in the air, caught it. “What?”
“Are you involved with someone?”
“No.” No. No!
“Oh.” She shifted in her chair. “Were you involved with someone?”
“It's over.”
“Oh.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “She wasn't one of your super skinnies either, was she?”
“No, she wasn't.”
That had been the end of the discussion, not that his sister wouldn't have loved to sit there until dawn, perched on the edge of her chair, dissecting every word, analyzing every movement, interpreting every silence. But he'd ended it there, walked away, and refused to let her bring it up again.
But Amy hadn't forgotten, not that woman. When he'd visited her, Nick, and the kids two days ago, she'd leaned in close and whispered that sister's intuition told her he was still mooning over that woman. Did he want to talk about it, maybe air out his feelings a little? Just a little? Matt had forced a smile and told her she had the most active imagination he'd ever seen and maybe she should have been the writer. And right now, he wished to hell she were the writer in the family instead of him. Then he wouldn't be standing in the middle of a hotel room, half hyperventilating because he had to do a book signing.
He wanted this to be over. Why was he so uptight? He'd done hundreds of book signings. No big deal. But never in the same city as the woman who had jilted him the night before he would have asked her to marry him.
She'd never show at his signing. And if she did? Hell, he didn't even know what she looked like. And that was more pathetic than anything.
There'd been an opportunity, once a few months ago. Adam had come into his study, carrying a large manila envelope.
Matt had ignored him, until he shoved the envelope under his nose.
“Rex gave me this.”
“What is it?” He'd picked up the envelope, turned it around.
“Pictures,” Adam had said. “Of you and Sara.”
Then he'd turned and left. Matt remembered sitting there, in his chair, touching the envelope, tracing the lines, so slowly, like a caress. Once, he'd almost opened it. He'd even lifted the metal fastener and reached inside, brushed his fingers over the glossy prints, felt them almost pulsing under his skin. Sara… Oh, God, Sara… Then he'd yanked his hand away and tossed the envelope in the garbage. He was a fool, a goddamn, pathetic, miserable fool. But that knowledge didn't stop him from wanting to see her face, look into her eyes, even if it was only a picture. He'd tortured himself, staring at the manila envelope sticking out of the garbage can, battling between need and self-preservation, desire and logic. One look and her image would be ingrained in his mind forever. Eyes, nose, lips, hair. What was wrong with him? She'd gone home to Pittsburgh, back to the sonofabitch who'd answered the phone. That's when he'd pulled out a match and burned the damn envelope.
But there hadn't been a night he hadn't wondered what she looked like. Hadn't thought about the envelope. Hadn't tortured himself with memories of her.
He glanced at his watch. It was time. He picked up the leather jacket on the bed and headed out the door.
***
Sara stood in front of the bookstore, staring at the huge glossy in the window. It was Matthew Brandon, larger than life, staring down at her with those piercing, silver eyes. He was in there, right now, just a few hundred feet away. So close.
Three weeks ago, she'd been flipping through the morning paper, when Matt's silver gaze had jumped out at her from the front of the Arts & Life section. ‘Hometown Boy Returns’ was the headline. She'd spent the rest of the day alternating between hysteria and depression. Time had not lessened the pain. The wounds were as deep and raw as they'd been seven months ago. The only consolation she had was knowing she'd done the right thing by leaving him before he dumped her. And he would have, she had no doubt. If he'd cared about her, really cared, he would have come after her, demanded answers, tried to work things out.
He’d done none of those things. She'd read in the paper that his vision had returned, though he'd not been spotted much in the social circuit. In fact, reports had it that he hadn't been spotted anywhere. A few magazines speculated as to the possibility that months of blindness had made him ‘see the light,’ while another headlined with ‘Matthew Brandon on the Enlightened Path.’ Every few months or so, Jeff dropped snippets of information about Matt's progress, referencing it as casual points of information.
Only once had Jeff asked her about her level of involvement with Matt. It was the morning after he got back from his two-week stay in California. Sara had just handed him his first cup of coffee, black, no sugar.
“It's good to have you back,” she'd said. “Jessie and I missed you.”
“Good to be back.” He'd taken a sip of coffee and said, “I don't think my stomach could have taken another week of Rosa's cooking.”
It was such an innocent statement, but the mention of Rosa linked Sara to other people in that house, people she'd been trying to forget. She'd forced a smile and nodded, saying nothing.
“She made this one meal, rice with pork and chunks of tomatoes…and lots of red pepper.”
“And habaneros piled on top?”
“That's the one. Rex called it Firestarter.”
She laughed, remembering how she'd guzzled a full glass of water after her first bite.
“Matt called it TNT.”
The laugh died in her throat.
“What? What did I say?”
“Nothing.” She was getting used to walking around with her heart scabbed over, until somebody mentioned Matt’s name and ripped it open all over again.
“Sara?”
“I'm fine.”
Jeff set down his mug, rubbed his chin. “Funny, Matt says the same thing when I ask him why he looks like he's been shot in the gut every time I mention your name. Fine, fine, fine. That's all I get.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “What happened out there, Sara? What happened between you two?”
“Nothing.” She stared into her coffee mug.
“Come on, it's me you're talking to, remember?”
She shook her head. “It's too difficult to talk about.”
“I see.”
Sara met his gaze, blinked back tears. “Then you understand why I can't talk about it.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Let's just say that once again, I learned that one-sided involvements don't work.”
He must have gotten the message because he never asked again. And now he was too busy playing daddy to his little girl to contemplate something as depressing as a friend's broken heart.
The wind sliced through her gray sweat outfit, jarring her back to the present—to the bookstore where her ex-lover's face was plastered against the window. She'd spent the last three weeks planning this meeting, from the oversized thermal sweats, size XXL and plain blue ball cap pulled low over her eyes and hiding most of her hair, to the folded note in her pocket feigning laryngitis. She wanted to see him, just this once, get close enough to breathe in his scent. She could be in and out of there, mission accomplished in less than fifteen minutes with enough memories to fill her sleepless nights for a long time.
Sara started for the entrance, forcing herself through the double oak doors. Keep moving. Just keep moving. She followed a group of women around a display of books. Off to the right and in full view, sat the man everyone had come to see. Handsome, smiling, self-assured, Matt shook hands with a beautiful blonde and handed her his book.
Oh God, how I've missed you.
She took her place at the end o
f the line. There were about thirty people in front of her, mostly women, mostly beautiful, mostly blond. Sara looked down at her sneakers and felt safe. With all the designer bodies strutting around, he wouldn't give her a second look.
He was still as handsome as ever, his silver gaze intent, dark hair curling up around the collar, tanned skin giving him that healthy California look. But there was something different about him, something that had nothing to do with his renewed eyesight. She studied him. There were lines around his mouth, deep brackets carved into skin, much more severe than before. And his eyes…they were guarded or guarding, as though…as though someone had hurt him.
Ridiculous. Matt Brandon never let himself care enough to get hurt, and if he had made that mistake, it had nothing to do with her. She was long forgotten. It was probably some new love. Maybe that's why he hadn't been in the news lately. Or maybe he'd finally fallen for Gabrielle Jontue. Loving her could make a man look like that, and then some.
She heard his voice—low, deep, sweeping down the line, drawing her to him. She pushed her cap lower, reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper.
There were two more women in front of her…soon…
“How would you like me to sign this?”
It was him. Sara shook her head, stared into Matt's silver eyes.
He gave her a gentle smile.
She thrust the paper toward him.
He scanned it, his smile deepened. “Laryngitis, huh?” He took a copy of Over the Edge and scrawled a few words followed by his signature on the inside cover. “Hope you feel better soon,” he said.
He started to hand the book back to her, then stopped. His face turned white under his tan. “That scent you're wearing,” he said, his eyes narrowing, his words slow, cautious. “What is it?”
The perfume! How could she have forgotten about the perfume?
“What is it?” he repeated, his smile fading.
She had to get out. Now. Sara grabbed the book and ran, ignoring the deep voice a few paces behind, calling after her. She picked up speed, darted out of the building, zigzagging through the streets. Not until she was three blocks away did she collapse against a brick wall, and gasp for air. Even then, she kept turning around, looking for him.
Nothing. Thank God he hadn't followed her.
Her hands shook the entire twenty-minute drive home. How could she have been so stupid? She never should have gone. What had it proved? That he could still make her heart do flip-flops? That when he smiled, she grew light-headed and breathless? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
By the time she pulled into her drive, she had a monstrous headache. Her sweats were damp, soaked in some spots from the puddles she'd blasted through on her escape route. But she was safe now. Her house was less than twenty feet away. She scrambled from the car and rushed toward the door. Once inside, she put the kettle on for a cup of chamomile tea and stripped off her sweats, opting for her faithful blue flannel bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. Two Tylenols later, Sara was snuggled in her grandmother's blue-and-yellow afghan, a cup of hot chamomile blend by her side, and a copy of Over the Edge in her hand.
She traced the embossed lettering on the cover. She'd helped create this book, or at least part of it. Slowly, she turned the book over and gazed at the photo on the back. Dressed in a black turtleneck and faded jeans, Matt was leaning against a stucco wall, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring straight ahead, his silver gaze pensive.
This picture was different from the other jackets. It was more reserved, less inviting. Again, she thought of the look, guarded, she would call it, as though he were protecting the space between himself and the reader, lest one of them saw too much, uncovered too many secrets. The jackets of his six previous books, lying photo-side-up on the floor next to her bed were all casual, relaxed, open. She touched a finger to his mouth, traced the outline of his lips, remembering the feel of them on her skin.
Gently, she turned the book over and opened the first page. Thank you for coming, laryngitis and all. The next page was the dedication. One single line, that's all it was. To everyone who believes in forever, this one's for you. Tears blurred her vision. She swiped her eyes, grabbed the box of tissues beside her tea and turned the page.
At three thirty in the morning, she pulled the last tissue from the box and sniffed her way through the final sentences:
‘He gazed into her amber-green eyes, knowing he'd never find another love like Sara. Marry me, he said in a gruff voice, pulling her into his arms. Her smile was all the answer he needed as he lowered his lips to hers. Their love for one another would carry them through today, tomorrow…and forever.’
Forever. Why couldn't you have loved me? Sara closed the book, great sobs tearing her soul, ripping her heart, as she gave herself up to a lifetime of lost forevers.
Chapter 20
Matt shifted in his chair and pulled his cap down low. The wind whipped through Three Rivers Stadium, belting the crowd with big gusts. He pulled his jacket closer to him. Damn, but he wished he'd gotten second-row seats, number one and two. He liked those best. They were the ones he and—he pushed the thought from his head. There was no reason to want those particular seats other than the view was better and he'd had them before. It wasn't because she'd been sitting beside him at the time. He just liked the seats. Period. She had nothing to do with it.
But there was already a woman in seat two and an old man in seat one. That had been his seat. So he'd settled for row four, seat four. His gaze floated back to the man and woman. It didn't look like they were together. He was one of those die-hard Pirates' fans, outfitted in black and yellow, with a radio in one hand and a small television in the other. Probably some retired steel worker, spending his golden days following the home team.
The woman was younger, thirty-something and could have been the man's daughter, but Matt doubted it. They hadn't said two words to each other. She was all huddled up, like the cold bothered her, even though she wore jeans and a down jacket. And black mittens with yellow thumbs. She had on the same ball cap as Matt, pulled low, so he couldn't see her eyes or much else, except for her lips that were kind of pouty, no smile.
A roar from the crowd brought his attention back to the ball field. Foul ball, far left field. The rest of the inning and the next two were uneventful—five pop-outs, two grounders, three strikeouts, a double, and a single. Every now and again, he'd look at the man and woman in seat one and two. The old guy was totally engrossed in the game, radio blaring, hot dog and beer wedged between his legs. The woman just sat there, staring straight ahead. Her body might be in the seat, but her mind was definitely somewhere else.
Damn, if she wasn't going to watch the game, she should give up her seat. To him. Maybe he should ask her if she wanted to trade—she wasn't watching the game anyway. He thought about it a few minutes, decided against it. She didn't look like she was in the mood for any kind of conversation, let alone a favor. Three beers and four innings later, the old man gathered his belongings and moved to an empty seat in row one. Matt eyed the vacant spot next to the woman. What the hell? Two minutes later, he slid into the seat next to her.
Might as well be polite. “Hope you don't mind…” he began, turning toward her.
She jerked her head down, like a turtle trying to get back into its shell.
“Excuse me,” he began again, “I hope you don't mind if I sit here.”
The woman shook her head, pulled her cap lower.
“What do you think of the game?” Do you even know who's playing?
She shrugged.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly.” It was a boring game, maybe that's why he'd been paying so much attention to the crowd, the woman and the old man, in particular. They had his seats, after all.
“You know you've got one of the best seats in the house.” He slid his gaze back to her. “And I've got the other one.”
She didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that he'd sp
oken, just kept her head bent, looking at…what? What was wrong with her? Why didn't she answer him? Was she upset? Depressed? He knew what that felt like. Maybe her boyfriend had just dumped her, or her husband. He knew what getting dumped felt like, too.
He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”
“Hmm hmm.”
Progress. She'd made a sound. He should just leave her alone. What business was it of his if her boyfriend or husband had another girlfriend, or a boyfriend, for that matter? He should shut his mouth and watch the game.
But God, she looked so absolutely pathetic, sitting there all hunched over like the life was shriveling out of her. He knew what that felt like too. “You seem…like something's bothering you.”
The tears started then, a stream, slipping down her cheeks to her chin onto her coat “Hey, I'm sorry. It's none of my business, I know. I'll shut up, okay?” Now he’d really done it. More tears, harder. “It's about a guy, isn't it?” The words were out before he could stop them.
The woman swiped her black-and-yellow mittened fingers across her cheeks, jerked her head up and down one time.
Of course, it was always about a guy. Or a woman.
“Married?”
She shook her head, sniffed twice.
“Hmm. Doesn't want to commit?”
Her head dipped forward so far all he could see was the back of her cap and a tiny swatch of brown hair.
“Maybe he just needs a little time to get used to the idea.”
Silence. Thousands of people all around him and all he could hear was this woman's silence.
“Some guys get scared no matter how great the woman is.” He should know. “They run, at least for a while. But if the relationship's got any substance, if it's worth it, they come back.” And the woman's waiting for him, arms wide open. Unless she's found someone else. “And if not, well...” He couldn't tell her the truth, not his truth ... Then you feel like the biggest sucker in the world. And you bleed. And the bleeding doesn't stop; it just keeps gushing out, more, more, draining you, leaving you lifeless until you're numb from the pain of it. After a while, the hole in your soul scabs over... but it's always there, ready to break open and bleed all over again. And the bitch of it is, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Not a goddamn thing. No, he wasn't going to tell her any of that. It would be too cruel. He opened his mouth to push some balm-filled words out, but it was too late. She was already gone.