Here He Comes Again

by Melissa Shirley

  Sauntering out of the kitchen, I passed Keaton and Simon in the hall. They’d been listening and wore big grins across their envious faces. Obviously wishing they could be as cool as me.

  “Hey,” Keaton called. I turned to look. “Someday you’ll fall in love with me.”

  I laughed out loud. “I doubt that. You’re not my type, pretty boy.”

  He grinned and it actually took my breath away. I covered it with a cough.

  “Pretty boy, huh? I knew you thought I was hot.”

  “Get over yourself.”

  Dear God,

  Thank you for crowning me queen of the dorks.

  Sincerely,

  Jocelyn.

  “You’re gonna love me someday. Wait and see.” He wiggled his eyebrows, all kinds of cocky confidence with hair pushed back from his face, eyes flashing a dare, and better-than-chocolate-cake-with-mint-ice-cream smile.

  All his beauty had stolen my comeback powers. “Whatever.”

  Chapter 3

  Present July 12, 2009

  I stood elbow deep in royal blue fondant when Keaton strolled into the bakery I owned with my best friend, Lizette. She watched the counter while I decorated a cake in the backroom. The jingle of a bell alerted me to a customer, and I glanced through the glass door. When Lizette looked up at him standing at the counter, her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, eating up the space of her forehead.

  Her slow-witted shock said she didn’t know he’d returned to town.

  They spoke for a second--or to be more precise--he spoke and she pointed without ever closing her mouth. Apparently, his beauty affected all women with equal intensity. He turned toward me, and I averted my eyes, taking another good swing at the fondant.

  He ambled through the swinging glass doors that allowed customers to watch the cake decorating magic happen. The ovens sat idle, which basically removed the danger of me turning him into a barbequed delicacy in a pair of charred Levis.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Don’t call me that.” The ice in my voice would have warned anyone else away, but not the fearless Keaton Shaw.

  “Don’t be like that, baby. I wanted to see you. I couldn’t wait any longer.” He leaned on his elbows across the table from me.

  I ignored him and continued to pound the fondant.

  “You look like a Smurf.”

  My ungloved hands glowed blue from the coloring in the icing. At some point I’d wiped my forehead, leaving a streak there as well. With the blue icing and the tall white chef’s hat I wore he probably called it right, but I flipped him a bright blue finger anyway.

  “Okay, but let’s get lunch first. That way I won’t feel as cheap and you’ll be able to keep up. Can’t have you dehydrating during the main event.” He added a slow wink. Recreational dehydration sounded good to me. I quickly shook the idea off, as the picture of Danielle’s legs wrapped around his waist flashed into my mind. Recreational dehydration? Out of the question. “It wasn’t an offer, and I don’t have time for you or lunch.”

  He chuckled and my heart quickened, turning traitor. Apparently, my heart didn’t get the memo that the rest of me still didn’t like him.

  “Oh come on. It’s your birthday. You gotta eat.”

  “I am. Just not with you.” I draped the final layer of the four-tiered wedding cake in the stiff icing and began trimming the excess from the side, my back to him.

  His hands crept around my waist and pulled my body back into his. I cut two inches too high into the icing. Damn it.

  “Do you remember…” he began, his lips trailing down my neck. My head tilted, allowing him further access. Like my heart, my body bypassed my brain and took its cues from a mind of its own.

  Thankfully, my mouth sided with the part of my brain that was still angry with him. “Is this how you turned Danielle on, too?” I snapped my head straight.

  “Too?” His lips stilled and he pulled his hands away, dropping them back to his sides. His body, still in my personal bubble, inspired a bout of dizziness.

  “It turned you on, then?”

  “Don’t get cocky. It’s been a while. A dial tone could turn me on right now.” Not my finest moment. Warmth crept up my neck to my cheeks. I kept my back to him hoping to hide the effect of my uncensored admission.

  “I could help you out with that.” His voice, a crushed velvet blanket, wrapped around my senses, warming my body from the inside out. “You know, for old time’s sake.”

  If I turned around, all of our fun parts would be pressed together, but if I continued facing my table, it would look as though I couldn’t control his effect on me, or worse, that I feared it. Keaton epitomized temptation, wrapped in denim with his shocking green eyes and the curls that touched the back of his neck. Temptation won. I turned around, and almost automatically his arms encircled me. All of my focus and energy went into keeping my body rigid until I could get myself back under control, but the effort exhausted me and I swayed. At least, I blamed the sway on exhaustion.

  “Thanks, but you destroyed our old times when you cheated on me with Danielle. I’m not interested in a walk down that bumpy little memory lane.” The only way to stay immune to his incredible hotness required I continuously remind myself he cheated. But, my oh my, he smelled so good. He trapped me in his smoldering gaze, and I felt my undergarments melting away. It took every ounce of willpower, but I mentally commanded myself not to lean in and inhale his intoxicating male scent.

  His eyes darkened from crisp green, to a fiery dilated black. His arms dropped to his sides, but he didn’t move away.

  “I did not cheat with her,” he ground out.

  He’d clung to the same sad tale for the last three and a half years.

  “Well, the lipstick on your face said differently and lipstick don’t lie.” I pushed past him as the painful memories of that night flooded back.

  In my life, I forgot many things. However, the picture of her body pressed into his, her lips tasting his skin, remained as vivid as if it happened four minutes ago rather than three years. And it made me bitter. “Go now, Keaton.” Sparring with him no longer sounded interesting, since I knew there would be none of the uber-fun making up we used to engage in.

  “No.”

  His whispered, almost pained, refusal touched a soft spot in my heart.

  Well, dandy. Three years too late he decided to stand up and fight the good fight. This could go two ways--one: I could say something ugly so he would leave with the undeniable knowledge I meant business, or two: I could shut up and take advantage of what he offered. I’d been without a man for a long time. In all our time apart, I never admitted to missing Keaton, but I could safely, and without reservation, say I desperately missed sex with Keaton.

  “Then what do you want?” I knew the danger in those simple syllables as soon as the words blew out from between my angry lips. I deserved whatever answer he gave me, since I’d been dumb enough to ask. Still, I braced myself, trying to prepare for an undoubtedly smart ass reply.

  “I want to know you better this time, pay attention to the things I missed.”

  His words, his eyes, the scent of him worked together in an attempt to seduce me.

  “I want to know what makes you laugh and smile, your favorite color, and your favorite song. I want to watch you sleep.” His voice went low, the tone that always caused my heart to race and my stomach to quiver.

  “Stalker.” I called on my sarcasm as a defense mechanism. He’d always called it part of my charm.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I took a minute and considered him through narrowed eyes. “And if I say I’m interested in you, but not in all that. What then? What if I say, I don’t want the relationship part?” Quicksand. I buried one foot in it and left the other right on the edge. I needed the expensive kind of mental help that would allow my therapist to put the Brady Bunch kids through college.

  He cocked his head to the side and
regarded me with hooded eyes. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “That I don’t want a relationship. We did that already, and it didn’t work out so well for me.” His brows laced together, and his mouth formed a tight line--his puzzled look. I found it funny that while he collected letters after his name like other people collected stamps, I needed to explain my words. Nothing about his college education spoke to the complexities of real life, but rather provided a textbook perfect world in the safety of classroom lectures.

  Unfortunately, my explanation didn’t make me one bit proud. “I don’t care what your favorite color is, or what kind of music you like. I don’t want to pretend we weren’t married and you didn’t mangle my heart. But”--I looked down at the glop of icing on my white shoes, studying it to keep from having to say the words--“you’re still fun to look at, and you know how to…” I couldn’t think of a delicate way to say it. My mouth snapped shut.

  “How to what?”

  He smirked at me, and I didn’t care for it one bit. I whirled away from him, changing my mind. Thanks to him, celibacy didn’t sound bad, and I’d already survived a good three years of it, anyway. “You know what? Forget it. It was a stupid idea. I can't even believe…” I began punishing a new batch of fondant.

  Considering even a hug from this man, said that I’d been alone way too long. To be honest, for those last few minutes I’d been contemplating a lot more than teenaged petting. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I punched the icing, sending a pain shooting up my wrist.

  He took three steps and grabbed my arm with his gentle hands. “It’s a deal.”

  I whirled as though someone grabbed me by the top of the head and gave me a spin. “I-I didn’t...” My voiced rasped, sounding weak, and my face burned. The line I crossed could never be uncrossed.

  “Oh, yes, you did. And I accept.” He licked his lips, and my mouth went dry. “And now we are going to seal it with a kiss.”

  His lips caressed mine before I could lift a hand to push him away. Lord, the man always could kiss like a porn star, and time only honed his skills. My body went liquid, his hands the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.

  “I’ll swing by your place at around eight tonight.” He cocked his head to the side and regarded me curiously. “Be ready.”

  “Okay,” I squeaked as he strode confidently to the door.

  After he left, I plopped down on a stool. He’d come home. A little glimmer of hope shined in my heart. Maybe he’d come back for me. I couldn’t deny it anymore; I wanted our lives to resume as though we never split up. As if Danielle Ranier never happened to us.

  My mind told my heart to shut the hell up. He cheated, then lied about it. Broke me. Still, I wanted him. I’d always wanted him and probably always would. Being with Keaton always seemed like swimming in the deep end of a swimming pool. I never knew if he would hang onto me, and never completely trusted him enough to give myself to him. Yet, I always knew I wanted him even when I denied it or hated him for it. Sure, he claimed to want me now, but once upon a time, he rejected me with such ease. Thinking of it brought a smile to my lips as the memories washed over me.

  Chapter 4

  Past, December 23 - Age 16

  Christmas with my mother lit up our house like the North Pole. Special themes ruled the holiday season, and every one of the five trees in our house followed the rules. Chef ornaments and custom crafted Campbell Soup kids decorated the four-foot White Pine in our kitchen. The Blue Spruce in our family room memorialized the handmade ornaments Simon and I made every year in elementary school. The formal living room boasted a spectacle of an evergreen, which nearly reached the peak of the cathedral ceiling. Mom spent hours placing long streaming gold ribbons and sparkling red bulbs brightened by pure white lights. The dining room glittered with ginger bread men, candy canes, and multi-colored lights, while the foyer transformed into a tribute to all the ancient Santa Claus figures she'd ever purchased on all of her ridiculous honeymoon travels.

  Alex, Simon, and Keaton spent three treacherous days on our icy rooftop hanging thousands of lights to impress the guests who would arrive for her annual party. Our Christmas spectacle could be seen for miles.

  The party, a formal affair, always began at eight on the dot with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres served by tuxedoed waiters. After cocktails, a champagne toast, at which time Mom handed out personalized gifts to the hundred or so neighbors, co-workers, and friends who'd received their hand delivered invitations. The party went on long into the night as the drinking and socializing continued. Because my mother staked her own happiness and her party planning reputation on this annual event, each party needed to out do its predecessor.

  Old family money along with her high six-figure income allowed her to spend lavish amounts of money without a single thought to her checkbook balance. As I grew older, I learned to appreciate that fact and developed an entirely new relationship with her.

  As a teenager, I used our new relationship and her desire to be closer, to delve deeper into my big bag of wicked ways. As we sat in the beautician chairs at her shop getting our pretty on for the night’s gala, I said, “Mom, I met a boy.” Not quite the headline news I’d made it out to be. I met boys all the time and proclaimed each and every one the love of my life. When she turned her skeptical, one-eyebrow-cocked gaze on me, I clarified. “I mean, I met a boy I really like.”

  She allowed her stylist to shove her head back into place while she continued to regard me from the corners of her eyes. We didn’t talk much about the boys in my life. If she ever discovered the truth, I’d be locked in a tower like some wayward Rapunzel. I could see her mind working hard trying to form a question, which wouldn’t make me cut her out again.

  “Do I know his family?”

  Her genuine interest would have been hard to fake. Fortunately, ignoring it came easily.

  “Oh, I doubt it.” I swallowed hard, channeling Simon’s look of bashfulness--a look I recently added to my collection of mom fooling tricks. “He’s from Swan City.” The devil lived in the details. I’d picked a town far enough away she couldn’t claim to know them and close enough that she would feel comfortable letting me visit.

  My mother’s brow wrinkled. “Where did you meet a boy from Swan City?”

  I’d been practicing this story for seven whole days. “Remember last week when I babysat for that new couple over on Charles Dickens Lane?”

  “The ones who came home late?”

  I barely escaped her fury when I snuck in the door at four-thirty in the morning. She’d threatened to call them until I hauled out my “their car broke down and they feel terrible” story. In truth, I’d no more babysat than she’d ever endured natural childbirth. Instead, Eric and I lied about my age to get into a club, and he bought me drinks I used to water plants, rinse out sinks, and burn the stains out of toilet bowls in the ladies’ room.

  “Well, that was his sister and her husband.”

  “How old is this boy?”

  “He turned sixteen in October.” Four years ago, I added silently. “His name is Eric Destin.” Of the entire story I’d created, the truth lived only in that single line. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could go to his house tonight and meet his parents. I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours.” I gave her the pouty lip look I’d spent hours in front of the mirror honing to near perfection. “His brother will pick me up on his way home from work and bring me home later.” Eric didn’t have a brother.

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  I worked on this plan harder than I did on any homework, and I couldn’t find it in myself to give up without a fight. “You can call his dad when we get home.” I reached into my pocket of secrets and lies, then used my last resort of the parent to parent phone call. His real parents lived in Atlanta, so Eric would actually be using whatever acting skills he possessed to make this work. He lived here for college, but never went to class. In my naivety I believed he’d chosen to stay be
cause of me.

  “Well.” She sighed. “I suppose I can call his father, but his brother needs to come in to meet us. Then, I guess I’ll suffer through a couple of hours without being able to show off my princess at the party.” She smiled as though she’d granted the slaves their freedom.

  An hour later, heart beating like a hammer drill in my chest, I handed my mom the phone. “His dad’s name is Eric, too.”

  “Hello, Mr. Destin. This is Candace Rogers, Jocelyn’s mother.” I listened to her speak, trying not to smirk. “Yes. She said your older son would be picking her up. As long as she’s home by eleven, it will be fine.” She patted my arm. “Oh, you must come by one evening for a drink. My husband would be delighted to meet you.” I almost swallowed my tongue. She finished the call and hung up. “His son, Matthew, will be here at seven, and he assured me Matthew will bring you back by eleven.” Her eyebrows raised and her tone changed, letting me know that a minute after my curfew would have a result I probably wouldn’t care for. Of course, I planned to be late, but that bridge would burn later.

  Inside my head, I did the happy dance. Outside, I nodded to let her know her words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. The solemnness of my wide eyes said I would absolutely not take advantage of her trust. A mental eye roll followed my mental happy dance, and I raced up the stairs to get ready.

  The doorbell rang at seven on the dot. Because I wanted to make Eric wait, I stood in front of the foyer mirror, eyeing my makeover, and let Simon answer the door.

  “Mom!” he called. “He’s here!”

  Car alarms down the block protested the volume of Simon’s bellow. All tuxedoed and bow tied, he couldn’t wait to be shown off like my mother’s prize pony. To pacify Simon, Mom included the evil Danielle on her parents’ invitation. Anticipating my moves like only a twin could, Simon put himself in charge of answering the door. He wanted to make sure I didn’t scare off the newest in a long line of Simon-loving skanks.