Wings Over Poppies (Over #2)

by J. A. Derouen

  “I didn’t know that. Is that what this painting is about? The loss of a solider?”

  I chuckle softly and lower my head. “It’s much more complicated than that.”

  “Isn’t it always? Alex, you know I’m here if you ever want to talk, right?”

  I remember my conversation with Cain about Celia’s past, and I feel like she may be the perfect person to help me figure out what to do. I’d love to get her insight, but I know I need to tread lightly. I would never want to hurt Celia needlessly or reopen old wounds.

  I’ve only known Celia for a few short months, but I’ve never once seen her angry. It’s not uncommon to find a fresh flower behind her ear, and she always has a smile on her face. Of course, I know better than anyone, looks can be deceiving.

  “Can I ask you a hypothetical question, Celia?” Keeping the conversation in that way may serve to take the sting out of my questions. She nods and smiles after hopping onto a nearby stool.

  “What if you had the opportunity to talk to someone who has been lost to you for years? And by someone, I mean someone who meant everything to you. Someone who never strayed very far from your thoughts over the years.”

  “I wouldn’t have to ask myself the question. That’s a no brainer, Alex.” Celia shrugs and purses her lips.

  “Even though he could have contacted you and never made any effort to do so? It’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s one explanation, but there could be a number of reasons.” Her voice drops down to a whisper as she stares at her clasped hands. “You know, I lost someone very close to me years ago, Alex.”

  “I’ve heard that, but I don’t know any specifics. I’m sorry, Celia. I didn’t mean to upset you—”

  “No, I’m fine. You don’t have to tiptoe around me,” Celia interrupts, her tone laced with quiet determination. “But let me tell you one thing. I would give up anything in this world to have ten minutes with the eighteen-year-old Lucas. There are so many things I would tell him. There are so many things I never had the chance to say.”

  “But he couldn’t come to you. He couldn’t come find you. That’s an entirely different circumstance.”

  “Just like you, things aren’t quite that simple. But this isn’t about him, is it? It’s about you. Or the hypothetical you.” She laughs as she throws her hands in the air, rolling her eyes.

  “At this juncture, the hypothetical me wants to punch him in his hypothetical face.” I toss the paintbrushes into the washbasin with a little extra force.

  “And you should have the opportunity to tell him that. Look, this may be the beginning of something new, where you find out things aren’t exactly as you think. Or this may be the end, where you realize he’s the jerk you think he is. If he’s a jerk, don’t rob yourself of the opportunity to tell him to fuck off,” Celia says with an innocent smile plastered to her face.

  “Fuck off, huh?”

  “Those two words can be very cathartic. You should give it a try sometime.” Celia shoots me a wink and throws her purse over her shoulder as she walks toward the exit.

  “Wait, Celia. You never said why you stopped by.”

  She gives me a dismissive wave and shakes her head. “Nothing that’s as important as your hypothetical situation. We’ll talk later. And, by the way, just in case you’re wondering, my lips are sealed.”

  “Therapist’s code?”

  She shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “Nope. Friend code.”

  So what’s the appropriate attire for visiting someone you love, who you haven’t seen in over six years? A tank top and yoga pants that says, “I happen to be in the neighborhood and this means nothing to me…”? Full-on pageant make-up and a sequined top that says, “I’ve finally found you, now let’s get married…”? A tight mini skirt and tube top that says, “I’m way hotter than the wife you probably have…”?

  After rifling through my closet for an hour, I decide to just do me. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-four years, and it’s been working just fine. I choose a cream, vintage lace sundress with a denim shirt, and a wide brown belt cinched at the waist. Throw in a pair of brown leather slouch boots, my leather bracelets, and a few small braids throughout my hair, and I think my outfit says, “I’m still Alex, the same girl I’ve always been.”

  Holly begged to go with me. It’s strange enough, just dropping in on someone after all these years. It would be totally awkward if I had Holly with me to act like my guard dog. And that’s exactly what she’d do, too. Besides, I don’t see the need for her to make a two-hour drive when there is a chance I may not find him today.

  After going back and forth about it, I finally decide to try to find him at work instead of his house. Something about being in a public setting lessens my apprehension, although I’m not sure why.

  I turn the crumpled piece of paper over in my hand and try to smooth out the wrinkles. After Caroline handed it to me, my fist curled it into a tight ball. It’s not like I need the piece of paper anyway. Both of the addresses are indelibly marked in my memory. I couldn’t forget where to find him even if I wanted to.

  Ten miles.

  That’s the distance separating our houses. I always thought if he were that close, I would feel him. The physical therapist’s office where he’s employed is even a bit closer. How many times have I passed him on the road? Have we ever been in the same place and happened to never cross paths? I’m sure of it. Providence is just not that big.

  I wonder if he’s ever seen me and turned the other way…

  Providence Sports & Rehabilitation Clinic is located near Providence General Hospital like so many other doctor’s offices and medical companies. Other than the sign located near the road, the office resembles a small house with a quaint porch and two rocking chairs on either side of the door. I pull my Matrix into one of the empty parking spaces and shut off the engine.

  I know I can’t sit here long without melting. The Louisiana heat is relentless. With the air conditioning turned off, I can feel beads of sweat trying to erupt on my forehead and upper lip. My raging nerves aren’t helping the situation either.

  “You can do this, Alex. Just get out of the car,” I whisper, hoping no one is watching my one-way conversation.

  Out of the blue, I imagine Marlo giving me a once over and saying exactly what’s on her mind. She’d say, “Pull up your big girl panties and get out of the goddamn car. You’re Alex Fucking Fontaine for Christ’s sake. Act like it!”

  A whoop of laughter escapes me, and I shake my head at the thought. Who knew Marlo would be my virtual cheerleader today?

  I get out of the car and strut across the parking lot. Yes, strut, because I’m Alex Fucking Fontaine. I hold my head high, my shoulders back, and I grab the doorknob of that office like I own that bitch.

  When I played this over in my head the past few days, I always thought I would have a moment. A few seconds at the very least. I’d ask the secretary if West Adler was available, and she’d retreat to the back to find him. There would be a minute or two where I could take out my phone and pretend to be engrossed, or grab a magazine to flip through and keep my hands busy.

  I never imagined those dark eyes that have overwhelmed my thoughts and dreams would fall on me the moment my feet crossed the threshold, causing my heart to nearly seize in my chest.

  “Almost Lover” by Fine Frenzy

  A CHIPPER VOICE keeps singing in the background, but I can’t give it a second of my attention. My eyes are locked with his and nothing else matters. Not calling or writing for six damn years? Forgotten. I see my pain and longing mirrored in his expression, and my eyes close at the enormity of it all. How can one look erase all those years of hurt?

  When I open my eyes, his head is lowered, and I watch him inhale deeply before lifting his gaze back to mine.

  But my West is gone.

  The emotion pouring out of his deep brown eyes is missing, replaced with emptiness. His face no longe
r looks open and loving. His expression is unwelcoming. Hard. Calloused. A small frown tugs at his lips. He sports a full beard now, but the frown is still evident. His bottom half is hidden behind the counter, but his chest is broad and his arms push the limits of his shirtsleeves.

  “Miss? Can I help you?” The chipper voice penetrates this time, and I shift my eyes to the secretary. She’s wearing pink scrubs that are so bright my retinas may actually start bleeding. Her high ponytail bounces from side to side as she tilts her head in question.

  I hitch my purse on my shoulder, only realizing now that it had fallen. I smile at her and start walking toward the reception window.

  Before I can answer her, a deep voice only vaguely resembling the boy I knew fills the room.

  “Alexandra, what are you doing here?” His face remains trained into the slight frown, the forward motion of my feet stopping abruptly.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Last night while lying in bed, I went over every possible scenario for this meeting. I mentally played each of them out in great detail. I smiled sweetly and responded appropriately while he showed me pictures of his wife and kids. We recalled old memories long forgotten (not by me) and laughed at how we’ve both changed. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t give a little headspace to the possibility he may be single and miss me as much as I’ve missed him.

  But I never thought for one second I’d be met with annoyance.

  “I-I came to see you, West. I didn’t realize you were home,” I stammer, giving him a confused look. I don’t know this man in front of me. I know my West is in there, because I saw a glimpse when I stepped through the door. He was gone as quickly as he came, and now I’m left baffled.

  “Is there something you need?”

  The hint of irritation lacing his words causes my nose to tingle and my skin to flush. I will not cry. I will not let him see me cry.

  “I thought you might want to grab a coffee together. Maybe catch up or something?”

  He looks to the side in frustration and sighs heavily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  I raise my eyebrows in question and place my hands on my hips. I wait for some kind of explanation, but he remains silent. The bastard even has the nerve to raise his eyebrows back at me. While total shock and supreme sadness are the emotions of the day, full on pissed off is about to make an appearance.

  My gaze shifts to the secretary with a front row seat to the horror show that is my life, and I see pity in her eyes. I completely understand the look, because I feel pretty damn pitiful at this point.

  “Not a good idea? I haven’t seen you in six years, West. Would it kill you to have a cup of coffee with me?” My voice sounds shrill, even to my own ears, and I feel myself quickly losing control.

  My words have no effect on him whatsoever. He remains cold and distant as he picks up a file up from the counter and tucks it underneath his arm.

  “It’s nice to see you, Alex. You can see yourself out, I’m sure.”

  He walks out of sight without another word, and a single tear escapes, running down my flushed cheek. When I look toward the secretary, she busies herself by shuffling papers on her desk and concentrating on her computer screen.

  I turn quickly and race to the exit. I’ve had enough humiliation for one day. I don’t need to let her see my tears.

  What just happened? To say I’m confused would be a gross understatement.

  I walk out of the office in a daze and trudge through the parking lot to get to my car. I shuffle my boots across the concrete, lacking the energy to pick up my feet. Luckily, there’s no need to search for my keys. Our conversation was so brief I never had the chance to put them in my purse.

  I start the car and throw it in reverse with one thought running on replay through my mind. Get me the hell out of here right now! I told myself to be prepared for the worst-case scenario. Unfortunately, the reality made the worst-case look like a goddamn cakewalk.

  I push the gas pedal, trying to focus through tear-filled eyes. I turn the wheel and look in my rearview mirror just as my head jerks forward, and I hear the crunching of metal. I turn in my seat and realize I’m up close and personal with the bumper of a white Honda. My shoulders slump, and a sob escapes me.

  “I can’t go back in there. I can’t go back in there,” I whisper to myself as tears fall onto the steering wheel.

  A slight tapping noise gets my attention, and I lift my head to see hot pink secretary knocking on my window. I quickly wipe underneath my eyes and roll down the window.

  “That’s my car,” she says in a gentle voice.

  “I’m s-s-so sorry.” At this point, I’m unable to stop the tears. “I have a tendency to p-plow into stationary objects, and y-you’re my latest victim.”

  “Hey, it’s all right. It’s just a dented bumper.” She reassuringly rubs my shoulder through the window, and I think we both know I’m not crying about the wreck. “Both of our cars are still drivable, so why don’t we just exchange insurance information and let them sort it out?”

  I nod my head in agreement and dig in my glove box for my paperwork. Tara returns to my window with her information in hand, which is how I learn her name. After writing down the pertinent things and programming our numbers into each other’s phones, I manage to calm down, if only slightly.

  “I’ll call my insurance company as soon as I get home. Thank you for being so cool about this, Tara.” I try my best to muster a genuine smile.

  “It’s all good, Alex. We’ll figure it out.” She taps my door two times before walking away, ponytail swinging in the breeze.

  I may be leaving with a dented bumper and an insurance claim, but I also got one more thing I needed. Closure.

  No way will I give West Adler one more minute of my time. I have everything I need to walk away free and clear.

  Thank you very much, West.

  You huge fucking prick.

  “Slow, Comfortable Screw Up Against a Wall,” Marlo says with a saucy grin.

  “Screaming Orgasm,” I shout back over the thumping bass.

  “Dirty Red-Headed Slut.”

  “Wet Dream.”

  “Clit-Licking Cowgirl.”

  “Buttery Nipple.”

  “Buttery Nipple? Really Alex, this isn’t amateur hour. You’ll have to do better than that.” Marlo crosses her arms and shakes her head in disappointment.

  “Okay, okay. Let me try again.” I laugh. “Leg Spreader.”

  “Alabama Slammer.”

  I shake my head in mock disgust and taunt her with her own words. “Really Marlo? Sounds like amateur hour to me.”

  “Well, honey, that all depends on who’s doing the slamming.” She slaps her hand on the bar and directs her attention at the bartender. “I need a Leg Spreader for my friend here. Yes, my sweet Alex, you won this round. Just for that, I’ll buy your drink.”

  “Why in the world do you know all these drink names anyway, Marlo? You don’t even drink.”

  Marlo is the life of every party. She’s glitter and glam at it’s best, and she never does anything half-assed. She’s the first one to hit the dance floor, the first to crack a joke, and the last to leave the bar. But she never, ever drinks. She swears by the mood-inducing abilities of Diet Dr. Pepper and stays high on life. She also never, and I mean never, gets serious about any particular guy. She likes to keep the sex scorching hot and the dating super casual—her words, not mine. I think her current flavor, Mike the paramedic, would like to change her wandering ways, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.

  “I don’t have a dick either, but I try my best to be an expert in that, too. All skills, no matter how seemingly trivial, have their place.” Marlo smiles and bites the straw of her DDP.

  “I guess that’s true.”

  It’s been weeks since the great West Adler dress down, and I have hit the dating scene with a renewed fervor. I’m done pining away for someone who couldn’t give two fucks about me. I needed to feel that from him
to move on, and now it’s full speed ahead. Well, the term “full speed ahead” is relative, seeing as every date seems to be one speed bump from hell after another.

  My improved dedication to the dating scene is why I’m spending a Wednesday night with Marlo at The Keg, otherwise known as the Providence Meat Market. The bar is filled with strobe lights, exposed cleavage, and cheap men’s cologne. Do I think the man of my dreams is milling around in this place? Probably not, but crazier things have happened, right?

  “Ooh, Alex, what about that guy?” She points conspicuously at a man sitting about three barstools down from us.

  I grab her finger and push it into her lap as I check out the merchandise. Good hair—blond and a little shaggy. Muscular build—broad shoulders and trim waist. He stands up beside the barstool, and I get a good look at his ass. He’s got definite possibilities. He turns to the crowd and spits into an empty beer bottle.

  “Nope! No dipping.” I shake my head. “Sorry, Marlo. It’s a hard limit for me. I will not have a spittoon on my porch.”

  She holds up her hands and giggles. “All right, all right. I hear you loud and clear. We’ll keep looking. Honestly, I’m just glad you agreed to come out with me tonight. Since Sara and Adam called it quits, I can’t get that girl out of her yoga pants and sweatshirt. Seriously, she’s starting to smell.”

  Adam and Sara’s relationship came to a screeching halt earlier this week with the fight to end all fights. Adam has four-year-old twins—a girl and a boy. He’s been very careful about separating his relationship with her from his kids, and it all went down in flames when Sara took over babysitting duties from Celia this week. Adam said things he can’t take back, and I’m not sure Sara can forgive him.

  “It may be time for an intervention. I’m not above dragging her—kicking and screaming—out of the house. I’m sure I can get her to meet us at the studio this week,” I suggest.