Make You Miss Me

by Celeste, B.

  Comfort.

  Attention.

  Affection.

  Attraction.

  I swallow. “I’m terrified of you.”

  His entire body goes rigid, and in a strained voice I’ve never heard from him before, he says, “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  Another swallow, this one getting stuck in my throat thanks to the ball of emotion wedged in my windpipes. “I know,” I croak. “I’m not afraid of you like that. I’m afraid because you’re the type of man that any woman would be so lucky to have. You’re the man that women would kill to have all the attention from because you’re wonderful, kind, and caring. And I’m…”

  Broken.

  Healing.

  Lost.

  Searching.

  “I’m still trying to figure it out,” I whisper, more to myself than him.

  For the longest time, it’s quiet. Nothing but the water boiling on the stove and the sound of our breathing fills the room. Then, Fletcher lowers himself, so he’s right in front of me. Not touching me but showing me he’s here.

  Giving me space while owning it too.

  “I’m not here to take anything away from you, Stevie. The only thing I’m here for is dinner, then helping you take down your Christmas decorations, and maybe, if you’re willing, we can do it again. Dinner. Lunch. Breakfast. We can go on walks with Admiral and talk about anything or nothing at all.” His brown eyes pierce mine. “If we do this, we do it on your terms. We take our time. Because there may be other women who want my attention, but it’s not them I’m looking at.”

  I suck in a small breath.

  “Just dinner,” he repeats.

  I manage to nod slowly.

  “Decorations,” he adds.

  Another nod.

  “I want to be clear here, honey. I’m not stepping into your life to tell you what to do or how to do it. Your decisions are yours alone, including whether you’ll let me be a part of them in the future. Get me?”

  I’m quiet, stunned speechless.

  “Who you choose to be in your life,” he looks away, “what you decide to do with your body—” His jaw gets tight. “That’s only going to be my business if I’m the one invited to do something about it.”

  When his eyes get dark, they’re dark in a whole different way than they were when he thought I was being hurt. This time, it’s lust fueling those dilated orbs. “And trust me, Stevie. If you give me a chance, I’ll make sure your body, your mind, and everything in between is handled right.”

  We stare at each other, a stuttered breath escaping my lips, while he keeps an even expression on his face the whole time. When his eyes move, they trail over mine, then down to my nearly straight nose, and finally my parted lips.

  He doesn’t make a move.

  Doesn’t take what I can tell he wants.

  He’s waiting.

  For me.

  “I’m too old for games,” he concludes, voice serious. “Too old to not be honest about what I want, and what I hope to get in return. Because that’s what a relationship is. Equal and mutual respect for the person you’re giving yourself to. It’s never letting one person become bigger than the other. So, I’m laying it down right here, right now. I like you, Stevie. I respect you. And I’ll wait until you’re ready because I have nowhere else to be. I’m in no rush.”

  Fletcher stands again, giving me one last look, body looser than my shocked-still posture, before dipping his chin once and then going back to the food.

  He cooks us dinner.

  Pours me more wine.

  And after we’re done, we wash the dishes together and start working on taking down all the holiday decorations in peaceful silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I stare at the email that had come through my phone during one of my lessons and scan the screen for the third time to be sure I’m reading it right. The salad in front of me is neglected, the smell of the light ranch coating the leafy greens unable to draw my attention back to the slight hunger that’d gnawed at my stomach an hour leading up to my lunch period.

  HCross88@hotmail.net: Stevie, can you find time to meet me and talk?

  I scored an 800 for both reading and writing on my SAT exams back in high school, so I know I’m not reading this wrong. Still, I can’t help the feeling that bubbles in my stomach seeing an email address I haven’t since we’d communicated about lawyer fees and legal representation amid our divorce.

  As if that’s not enough, there’s a second one waiting for me sent eighteen minutes after the first was sent and delivered in my inbox.

  HCross88@hotmail.net: Please?

  He hasn’t used my number since the first time or sent anything to the house. I’d hoped after seeing him at The Penny that he’d understand. That, somehow, telepathically, he’d know I didn’t want to address anything that had to do with us.

  But I know that’s not realistic.

  Setting my phone down, I poke at my salad, moving around a crouton and piece of chopped carrot before blowing out a breath.

  The problem is, Hunter is persistent. Another trait I blindly admired during our time together. If he wanted something, he went after it without giving up. He did his best to train and beat his fitness scores and build enough muscle to bench press 300 pounds when he was challenged. Once, he’d managed to convince one of the most stubborn elderly women I’d ever met in my life to let us build a fence between our properties. We’d talked about getting a dog, one I could take care of and have near me when he was away.

  He never did get around to building the fence, using it as a reason not to get a dog. His mother had told him to hire somebody to come to get an estimate to do the work and then talked him out of that when she’d suggested holding off from investing money in it in case we moved. It wasn’t until much later I’d wondered if they’d talked about moving long before Hunter had brought it up to me.

  Then again, it wouldn’t have been the first time I was the last to know something.

  “Whoa, what’d that salad do to you?” Sonia asks, poking her head into my room. “You look like I do when the Starbucks lady gets my order wrong in the mornings.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s dangerous. I’ve seen you without coffee before and it’s frightening.”

  She walks in and settles across from me at a desk too small for even her lean body. “So, why do you look mad like your salad isn’t magically turning into a pizza?”

  Smiling a little, I give her the roundabout answer. “Just some things on my mind about my ex.” I can tell she wants to ask more, but I don’t give her a chance to. “How are things going with you since you decided to go on a diet for the New Year?”

  Sinking into the seat, she groans. “I failed on day three. It wasn’t my fault though. I couldn’t let the chocolate in my house go to waste. Or the leftover pizza I may or may not have ordered on day one and then felt slightly guilty about, so I only ate one piece.”

  I snicker.

  “Now I see why you didn’t make any.”

  That’s not entirely true. I made some resolutions but kept them to myself. Some things are too personal to post online or share with coworkers.

  All I say is, “We all strive to be better than the year before.”

  She snorts. “Not everyone. Miles is engaged.”

  If I were eating my salad, I would have choked. “Engaged as in…to be married?”

  “What other kind is there?”

  I blink. “Haven’t they only known each other for a couple of months?”

  She nods, looking way more excited than anything. “Barely. It’s going to be a total shitshow.”

  Instantly, I give her a look. “Sonia, that’s horrible. Take it from somebody who rushed into things with a person. It’s not fun.”

  Guilt takes over her expression. “Sorry, I forget sometimes. But, I mean, you dated for a while before getting married.”

  She’s right, but that still doesn’t stop me from wondering i
f waiting would have changed anything. “True, but we were still young. Too young. Maybe if we’d held off, if we listened to everybody, things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did.”

  Her head tilts. “Do you think you would have gotten married if you waited?”

  Rubbing my lips together, I contemplate my answer. “I don’t know. If we’d waited a few more years, maybe we would have matured as two separate people before becoming one unit. Or maybe we wouldn’t have worked out because we’d lived our own lives and got a taste for that.”

  “You talk about it easier than you did.”

  She means I don’t cry anymore, which I’ve noticed too. So, I give her the best explanation I can. “Turns out, it takes knowing the right person to realize the wrong ones don’t matter as much as you thought.”

  Her lips part.

  Close.

  Then part again.

  But, for once, Sonia is speechless.

  I smile to myself, pull my salad toward me, and pick up my fork.

  It doesn’t matter that I’ve known Hunter Cross for seventeen years or that we’d been together for the majority of those. Because nothing compares to what I’ve learned in the short time that I’ve gotten to know Fletcher Miller.

  Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. I think about all the times I’d seen the man living across the street in passing. It may not have been often, but he was there. Nearby. In Hunter’s life, and because of that, in mine.

  The truth is, you’ll never meet the right person until you fully let go of the wrong one.

  So, I forget about the email and stab a few pieces of lettuce. “So, how’d you find out about Miles’s engagement?”

  Dad grumbles when I show up at his house with groceries that consist mostly of fresh produce and a few other healthier options since last time I was here, the only things he had around were Little Debbie snack cakes, sodium-packed premade microwavable meals, and whatever Mom would give him to heat up. He can cook, he just rarely does it. He says he’s “too busy” to worry about getting his vegetables in.

  Helping me unload the bags of food, he decides to focus on other things. “You’re about due for an oil change,” he says, huffing over the low-fat yogurt I’d picked up for him. “I can get what I need tomorrow and do it then.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my lips from curling up, and he notices it since he’s trying not to scowl at the head of broccoli and bananas on the counter. So, I tell him that it’s been taken care of already.

  He doesn’t hide his surprise, his furry white brows arching up on his forehead. I’d had the same reaction when I woke up to a noise outside my house early this morning. I’d slept in for once, so when I’d adjusted to the light and looked out the window, I saw Fletcher underneath my car. I’d watched Dad change my oil enough times to know that’s what my neighbor had been doing.

  I got dressed, brushed my hair, and poured two cups of coffee, bringing them outside to have with him. He’d sat up, accepted the mug, and simply said, “Morning.”

  Then he went back to work.

  I forgot I’d even mentioned having my dad do my oil when I visited. Apparently, Fletcher decided to take care of it knowing I’d never ask him. I’d even offered to repay him for what he’d bought to do it, but he’d given me a look that said shut up, Stevie, a look I’m sure many of his soldiers had gotten over the years, and that was that.

  Giving Dad a lesser version of that, simply saying a neighbor with experience working on cars had done it for me, I finish putting away his groceries. I know he wants to ask for more information, but unlike Mom, he doesn’t pry. Instead, he lets it be, picking up one of the oranges I bought and says, “Why are these so damn small?”

  “They’re called Cuties,” I explain, smiling to myself in amusement. “They’re popular with kids because they’re smaller and easier to peel.”

  I think he said, “I’m not a damn kid.”

  Simply patting his shoulder, I nod and watch as he peels it anyway and starts picking apart the pieces while I think about the man who’d left my house this morning with oil staining his hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When I arrive at the bar, it’s loud. My phone’s battery on a low charge and not delivering any messages since I left the school. I frown at my empty inbox when I check it to see if Vickie or Sonia texted.

  Stumbling when someone bumps into me, I get a soft-spoken apology from the man before his eyes do a doubletake and trail up and down my body with a look of interest crawling over his face as he swigs his beer. I’m nothing to look at, today, especially. I look disheveled and probably as tired as I feel after a long workday and back-to-back meetings. But I know the jeans I changed into fit my legs snugly, and the sweater and jacket covering my torso aren’t too baggy or too tight, showing off what little curves I have. And based on the stranger’s slow curling smirk kicking up the corners of his lips as he lowers his bottle, I’d say he appreciates it.

  Even if I don’t.

  I offer a civil smile and look around the crowded room, glancing between the patrons and phone to see if I can get a message from my friends about where they are. I’d wanted to back out and get their forgiveness another day, but Vickie wasn’t having it. She’d said if Sonia could come after having just as long a day, I could too.

  So, here I am. Reluctantly.

  “Wasn’t expecting you here,” a low voice says from right behind me.

  When I turn, I can’t help but let the civil smile grow into a larger, more genuine one when I see the man standing there. Without hesitating, I step into his side, and he wraps a bulky arm around my back and draws me in closer. Something presses against my head, and I know after a moment that it’s his lips.

  Stepping back, I look up at him. “What are you doing here?”

  He gestures toward the bar. “Meeting an old…friend. He’s not here yet. Want a drink?”

  Fletcher’s mild hesitation over who he’s meeting makes me want to glance at him longer than I do, but instead, I give another look around the room before turning back to him. “I don’t see my friends yet either, so sure.”

  I follow him to the bar, where he parts the crowd with ease, nobody standing in his way once they see him coming. His hand reaches behind him, clasping mine and making sure I keep close instead of getting eaten by the amount of people demanding drinks and waving money at the two bartenders behind the counter.

  Staring at our threaded fingers, his long ones interwoven with my short makes the exhaustion I was feeling when I arrived disappear. In its place is something energetic and exhilarating, stirring the beat of my heart in a heavier rhythm until I can feel the thump, thump, thump in my eardrums. I don’t know why, but I find myself squeezing his palm, getting the same response back and absorbing the warmth his hand offers as he gives one of the bartenders our order.

  He doesn’t have to ask.

  Red wine for me.

  Beer for him.

  I know from the times we’ve hung out at one of our houses when Dominic is with his mom that he prefers Samuel Adams IPA over Bud Light even though he’ll drink whatever is offered to him because he’s “not picky”. I could tell the kind I’d given him at my place wasn’t as good as his normal because I caught the face he made when he took his first sip. Since I like keeping things on hand for our visits, I replaced it with Sam Adams, catching the small smile on his face when he accepted it, popped the cap, and told me about the newest automotive project he was working on for a friend of a friend.

  Since the dinner, we’d seen each other a few times a week. Sometimes, I’d find myself waiting for him hoping he’d come over even if we didn’t make plans. Usually, he didn’t disappoint, like there was some mutual feeling that told him to knock on my door, sometimes with Admiral, other times by himself.

  Either way, we always sat down, had something to drink, whether it was coffee or something stronger, and found things to talk about. Movies, which Fletcher isn’t a fan of. B
ooks, which he likes to read during his down time, and his family, which he talks to regularly and sees a few times a month with Dominic. He’s closest to his mother and one of his younger sisters, and they all adore Nicki.

  Not that I’m surprised by that.

  Fletcher hasn’t told me whether or not Nicki knows of my friendship with his dad. I don’t know what I’d even say, considering he’s giving me time and space, letting me be the one who sets the pace of whatever this is. Friendship. More. He made himself clear the day he made me dinner for the first time, and each word he spoke to me that night has stuck with me since. If I ask him what his son knows, it could jumpstart something that I may decide I’m not ready for.

  Something beyond the platonic nature of our back-and-forth conversations, slightly longer-lasting hugs, and house visits.

  Maybe it’s because Valentine’s Day is right around the corner, but I can’t help but wonder what I am to Fletcher or what he wants me to be to his son. Even though there’s no real policy against teacher’s dating parents, something I found myself looking up two weeks ago when the hug Fletcher had given me had lasted a lot longer and felt a lot tighter, than any of the other ones we shared, I still can’t help but feel like waiting would be a better option.

  I’m sure Ms. Clifton would have something to say about it if word got out that I was romantically involved with a student’s parent. I’d like to avoid that conversation for as long as I can.

  Not to mention Mom. She’s avoided the dating topic since the holidays. Nevertheless, I can tell she wants to ask, especially when she brings up her friend’s grandbabies and how much she’d love to be able to hold one of her own someday. “When you’re ready, of course,” she had made sure to add when both Dad and I gave her the same exasperated look.

  Fletcher hands over the money and takes the drinks set in front of him, turning and handing me mine. He leans forward, lips brushing my ear until goosebumps cover my arms from his warm breath, and says, “There’s a table over there.”