Make You Miss Me

by Celeste, B.

  “Why?” That comes from the very person who asked the question.

  “Because.”

  Another student asks, “But why?”

  I sigh. “They’re my favorite,” I answer, not lying. My mom used to make them into everything when I was little—pies, jams, drinks. All because she knew how much I loved them. Whenever they were in season, I think my parents would buy out the store.

  I clap my hands. “Enough questions. Back to work.”

  “But—”

  “Nope.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” more whine.

  Ignoring them, I grab my textbook and pick up where I left off with a smile on my face when I hear a few grumbles from behind me as I write a new problem on the whiteboard.

  It’s usually never a good sign when the principal shows up at the door of your classroom at the end of the day, even if she’s smiling. I try not to overthink it as I finish cleaning up my desk.

  “May I have a word before you leave?” she asks, still smiling, but her voice has the firm I-need-to-have-a-serious-talk with you tone that I’ve only ever heard from my mother before.

  I smile through the nerves. “Of course.”

  She walks in and closes the door, making the nerves settle into my stomach. I’m not sure what this could be about. There haven’t been any issues that I’ve seen with any of my students. The aide who works with Nicki says he’s been an angel, and I’ve gotten all my reports in on time—before the deadline, even.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something I’ve been hearing,” she begins, smile slowly disappearing as seriousness takes over. “I’ll start by saying that there’s nothing against school policy that says you can’t date a coworker—”

  Internally, I lock up.

  Miles.

  This is about Miles.

  My hands tighten in my lap as she continues. “—but it can be a tight rope to walk if things go awry. Now, I try not paying much attention to gossip, I’ve certainly heard my fair share of false rumors over the years, but I do want to give you a word of warning.”

  It’s hard to swallow as I nod slowly, afraid of what she’s going to advise me about. I’ve always liked her since the day she shook my hand and welcomed me to the team. In a way, she really did remind me of my mother. Firm, serious, and professional. Always wanting what’s best for the people she’s in charge of.

  “You’re a very bright woman, Stevie, and I think it’d be best if you divided your work life from your personal one. I’ve seen time and time again when the two merged, and…well, it doesn’t usually end very well for those involved. It could be worse, I suppose. It could be a parent. While that also isn’t against school policy, I’d advise heavily against that too, for future reference. We should always put our students’ wellbeing first, and that can be hard to do when personal feelings enter the equation.”

  I choke out an “Okay.” Then I blink, realizing that I need to say more to clear whatever gives her that look in her eye. “For the record, ma’am, I’m not seeing anyone. I went out with Miles a couple of times, sure, but once was with a group of coworkers. It’s hardly something I plan on making a habit of. I’m not…” She doesn’t need to hear my sordid past. “I’m not looking for anything. I’d rather focus on my job.”

  The answer seems to appease her, melting the motherly expression as her bright smile comes back. “I’m glad to hear that. From what I’ve seen, your class is doing well. No more incidents with Mr. Miller?”

  I don’t let myself think about why my brain instantly pictures Fletcher instead of Dominic. Brushing it off, I shake my head. “He’s been fine. Settling well, as far as I can see.”

  “I’m glad to hear that too. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you have more exciting things to do than be here talking to me.”

  I manage to laugh a little, thinking about the rain gutters that I plan to clean when I get home with the ladder Bex let me borrow. The nice middle-aged man who comes over every few weeks to take care of my lawn says he could do it if I wanted for no extra charge. I know the only reason he offers is because he’s flirting with me, so the last thing I want to do is give him the wrong impression by agreeing.

  “Oh yeah,” I muse, snickering. “I better get going to enjoy the nice weather.”

  That’s how, two hours later, I end up on the very top of a ladder despite my absolute fear of heights, terrified of moving and clinging to the rain gutter that I’ve barely even cleaned yet. I didn’t realize how much stuff was crammed inside, including things I definitely should have put on gloves to touch.

  I hear a car door close, voices, some laughter from a little way away, and try tuning that out and doing the job. Although, I’m a little irritated with myself for not just letting Mike, the lawncare guy, do this for me.

  I’m teetering as I grab a fistful of leaves and toss it down to rake up later when I hear, “Are you crazy?”

  I don’t expect the low growl to be so close, causing me to lose my balance and nearly fall to my death. Or at least gain a broken arm. I quickly catch myself on the edge of the gutter, hissing when I feel a sharp pain across my palm, followed by instant blood dripping down the skin.

  “Shit,” I curse, shakily retracting my hand and seeing the slice across the palm. Quickly closing it, I carefully look down and see Fletcher looking up angrily at me. “You scared me,” I accuse, keeping pressure on my hand and wondering how the hell I’m going to get down.

  “You shouldn’t even be up there.”

  “I was cleaning the gutters.”

  “I know what you were doing.”

  Tears well in my eyes over the pain from my hand and the fear rising higher and higher as I try to keep my balance. “I cut my hand,” I tell him, hearing the quiver in my voice.

  From below, I hear a quiet curse. “Can you get down?”

  I sniff, fighting back tears. “I think so.”

  I’m surprised when I take each step carefully, knowing I have no other choice unless he’s going to call the fire department, which would be embarrassing. I’m even more surprised when I hear his encouraging “there you go,” and “you’re almost there,” and “a few more steps,” before my feet eventually meet the soft grass again.

  Instantly, I’m turned, the hand balled up and covered in blood being yanked away from me and carefully opened by the man with rough callused yet gentle hands as he examines the wound. He whistles. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it may need glue.”

  I swallow. “Glue?”

  He makes a humming noise in confirmation. “Come on. You need to wash that out, so it doesn’t get infected. Who knows what’s up there.” The last sentence is rough, irritated, and the kindness he showed me suddenly disappears when he follows me into the house and adds, “You shouldn’t have been doing that by yourself. The ladder wasn’t even level. Did you know that? It could have fallen at any time.”

  Not appreciating his tone, I focus on washing my hand without making a huge, bloody mess or crying even though it stings.

  A bulky body comes up beside me, an arm brushing my shoulder, as he grabs the dish soup. “You need to wash it thoroughly.” He pauses. “It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

  Knowing he’s right, I hold out my hand and pinch my eyes closed when he dribbles some of the soap onto the cut and starts softly rubbing it in until it does its job.

  It doesn’t stop me from hissing when it begins burning.

  “Told you it’d hurt,” he murmurs, tugging my hand back under the water and helping me rinse it like I’m incapable. For some reason, I let him. I watch as he adjusts the water and washes the cut and grabs a dish towel that’s hanging from the oven handle before coming back over and drying off my hand.

  After a few moments, he examines the cut again and nods. “It’s not as bad as I thought, but we’ll need to wrap it. It’ll be best if you keep it that way for a few days to give the skin time to start healing.”

  “Do you even know what you’re talking about?” I
blurt, wincing when his eyes meet mine with a brow arched on his forehead.

  He makes another rough sound. “I’ve seen my share of battle wounds on base and off,” is what he says. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

  I point under the sink, watching as he squats down. I try not to stare too long at the fabric that hugs his impressive ass as he gets what he needs before he stands and gestures to the stool by the counter. Not saying a word, I sit down and watch him go through the kit before taking out a few supplies.

  He does know what he’s doing and looks perfectly comfortable as he opens up a few packages.

  So, I say, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “It’s fine.”

  It’s not, but I let it go. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.” This time, he pauses, unraveling the wrap to look at me through his lashes. I bite my lip. “Cleaning the gutters, I mean.”

  And having a man in my house and taking care of me, but I choose not to add that.

  Going back to what he was doing, Fletcher says, “It’s not something you should do on your own. At the very least, you need somebody there to spot you.”

  I know he’s right, but… “I don’t have anyone. I mean, my parents would have come, but they’re busy. Dad probably would have done it himself in a heartbeat if I asked him to, but I wanted to do it myself. This house is my responsibility.”

  “You could have been hurt worse,” he points out in that gravelly tone. “How would your parents feel then because you chose to be independent to a fault?”

  My eye twitches. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being independent.”

  He doesn’t look up, only focuses on how he applies the antiseptic and wrap to my hand as carefully as possible before replying. “There isn’t. But everybody needs help once in a while, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t be so stubborn. I’m sure your family would have come and helped you this weekend.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Or you could have asked me.”

  Him? “Why would I do that?”

  His hands pause on mine for a brief moment before continuing to wrap it. “Because I’m right across the street. If you didn’t want to bother your parents, you could have come knocked. I’ve cleaned gutters before. I know how to set up a ladder right.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m doing the best I can. And if you’re always going to judge me for it, then now you know why I didn’t think, ‘You know what would be fun? Inviting Lieutenant Colonel Miller over so he could grumble under his breath about what he doesn’t like about me.’” I roll my eyes and look away. “I think I’ll pass, but thanks for the suggestion.”

  There’s no doubt his eyes are on me, but I refuse to meet them. Silence passes for a long stretch of time as he finishes dressing my wound. It’s only after he throws out the wrappers and puts the kit away when he says, “I’m retired now. And it’s not that I don’t like you.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I don’t like what you do.”

  I blink, finally acknowledging the way he stares unapologetically at me. “Excuse me?”

  He lifts a single shoulder. “You could have hurt yourself badly. More than a cut. I’m sure if your parents knew what you were doing, they’d say the same exact thing.”

  I’m about to reply, to argue when I decide to close my parted lips and glance down at my wrapped palm. He’s not wrong, so what’s the point in arguing with him about it?

  He shifts, his feet covered in the same work boots that I always see him in. Same jeans and T-shirt combo, too, except this time there’s an unbuttoned long sleeve blue plaid shirt over top of it that makes his brown eyes stand out. There’s a stain on the tee and some wear on the denim, and I find myself comparing him to the only other style I’m used to seeing on a man.

  Unlike Hunter, Fletcher doesn’t seem to mind getting dirty or having flawless clothes, or re-wearing things more than a couple of times. Once, I bought a dress at a thrift store when I was out with Vickie, and my ex-husband told me I should have taken his credit card and got something new instead of scouring other people’s closets. His mother had laughed, my best friend hissed at him, and I’d simply nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.

  I blow out a heavy breath, catching the interest of the man still standing in the middle of my kitchen. “Pretty big sigh for someone so little,” he comments.

  Rubbing my lips together, I offer a limp shrug. “Just thinking.”

  He doesn’t press or seem like he wants to. Instead, he changes the subject. “I’ll clean your gutters, but it’ll have to wait a few more days.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Really…”

  “I don’t do things that I don’t want to.”

  Well…okay then. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that, so I keep quiet.

  He looks around, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I should get going.”

  I nod slowly then remember my manners after a few awkward moments of silence. “Thank you for helping me with my hand.”

  His chin dip is back, not offering me any words with it.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I stand up and walk him to the door. I hear his heavy steps behind me, turning only when I open the door and hold it open.

  He leaves saying, “Don’t do anything else that you shouldn’t on your own.”

  My teeth grind.

  I don’t make any promises.

  CHAPTER TEN

  That weekend, I’m grading papers at my kitchen table when my phone buzzes once with a message somewhere underneath the mess I have scattered in front of me. I search until I find it and glance at the screen, blinking a few times before letting out a short, startled breath.

  Heart beating a little faster, I scan over the number a few more times to make sure I’m seeing it right.

  It took a little over a year before I’d deleted Hunter’s contact info. It was at least fourteen months following our separation before Vickie had said, “What are you keeping it for? Are you waiting for him to change his mind? You’re better than that, bitch.”

  And I was.

  Am.

  But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the number that used to send me sweet texts and funny pictures or call me to check in and say he missed hearing my voice. How could I when I spent so many years of my life with him?

  602-545-0102: Hey, Smalls

  The phone tumbles from my hand onto the table, where I wince at the loud sound it makes when it comes into contact with the wood. I keep it there, the message still front and center, as I stare in disbelief like someone sent me real-life pictures of aliens or something.

  Smalls. It wasn’t an original nickname, but one I weirdly liked. I was short, especially compared to his 6’2”. People would always remark on our height difference whenever we were out. Random strangers at stores, some of our family, a few men on base when I lived with him at Fort Drum.

  I seem to let shock freeze me from making any type of decision. Do I respond back? Not? Should I call Vickie and ask for her opinion? I know what she’ll say.

  Fuck him.

  That’s what she said right before I’d deleted his number from my phone, and I’d asked, “What if he calls?” I’d had multiple what-if scenarios in my head. I was still his emergency contact on all his forms—something that made his mother a little coo-coo when she found out—and was worried I’d miss something from him if anything bad happened.

  But Vickie, my dearest, most honest friend, had given me a firm look and said, “Fuck him. Not literally. Figuratively fuck him and his problems. They’re not yours anymore.”

  She’d been right, so she watched me go to my contacts and delete his name because she knew I’d probably chicken out otherwise if I put it off. It ripped out part of my soul, but I’d done it. If she had her way, I would have blocked his number too. But I didn’t have that in me.

  Now, what the hell do
I do? Mom would basically tell me the same thing as Vickie, but nicer. Dad would grumble and not really give his opinion because even though he liked Hunter to a degree, he definitely wasn’t his fan when the divorce papers came. I was always daddy’s little girl, so anyone who hurt me was immediately on his shit list, with Hunter on the top of it.

  I’m about to pick up my phone and type out a response out of weakness before I hear something rattling outside, followed by a single thump against the house. Standing hesitantly, I walk over to the window and lift the curtains to figure out what’s happening when I see a ladder.

  A ladder that looks way too nice to be Bex’s since hers was covered in rust and dents compared to the shiny, new looking one currently being climbed by the man who I’ve become accustomed to seeing across the street. I still wave, smile, and say hi, and he’ll usually lift a hand, tip his head, or grumble a hello in response. But it’s usually Nicki who greets me with enthusiasm or their dog that barks with the same amount of energy as the youngest Miller that always makes me smile.

  Walking outside, I cross my arms at the slightly chillier weather and glance up at the man currently cleaning my rain gutters. Since it’s obvious what he’s doing, I ask, “Where’s Nicki?”

  He doesn’t even pause. “At his mom’s.”

  Oh.

  He adds, “It’s her weekend.”

  So that means… “Oh,” I say aloud this time, wincing at my weird tone.

  I think he mutters something, but I’m not sure. It’s a few heartbeats later when he says, “I know what divorce is like, too.” He looks down, not even looking nervous at the height. “You look pale.”

  How he could tell that from up there is beyond me.

  “Is your hand bothering you?”

  Almost forgetting about it, I glance down at the dark pink scab along my palm. I’d taken the wrappings off yesterday. It’s still tender and hurts to use, but it’s tolerable. “It’s fine.” I glance at the door and think about the text.

  Lips twitching, I tell him, “I heard from someone unexpected, that’s all.”

  I think he does that chin nod thing, but I’m not sure. He turns back to the gutter and keeps cleaning it out. “Hate when that happens,” is what he tells me.