Bring Me Back (Forever Book 1)

by Karen Booth

  “Claire, you sound tired. Get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” The whole scenario was so strange. It seemed impossible that Christopher Penman would want to talk to me on the phone even once, let alone two days in a row.

  “Yes, go to bed. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Goodnight, Claire.”

  I floated off to sleep in exhausted bliss, the sound of his voice my only fading thought.

  Chapter Nine

  I was up with the sun to see Sam off to school, just like my mom used to do for my sister and me. My mom also served us homemade granola and did Tai Chi in the kitchen until the bus honked at the end of the driveway, so I wasn’t mirroring the family tradition in every way.

  After Sam left, I cranked the shower and let the water run. I tossed my overnight bag onto the shabby chair in the corner, finding my blue sweater slung over the back. The steam began to escape the bathroom, but I was overcome by a flaky compulsion to smell the sweater again. I knew it was crazy. There was court-ordered therapy for this sort of behavior. One more time. Sadly, his scent was nothing more than a shadow.

  I worked through lunch, making little progress with transcribing the interview tape. The welcome interruption of text messages from Chris all afternoon made it impossible to focus.

  Just got to studio. What r u doing?

  Fun. I’m writing.

  About what?

  Ha. You know.

  Engineer has big hairy mole.

  Where?

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Ewww.

  I think he likes me.

  Ewww.

  You’re just jealous.

  The phone rang and my heart leapt when I saw that it was Patrick from Rolling Stone returning my call. Even though I’d only called him that morning, it felt like I’d been waiting forever to do my victory dance.

  “Claire. I’m glad I caught you.” Patrick’s voice was cold. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Of course,” I replied, irked that he wasn’t allowing me to launch into my account of what I hoped would prove to be the pinnacle of my journalistic career.

  “Did something happen between you and Chris Penman on Monday?”

  My heart wormed its way into my throat. “I’m not sure I understand.” My voice came out in an anxious flutter.

  “Let me send you something. Are you at your computer?”

  Seconds later, Patrick’s message appeared in my in-box. I didn’t recognize the web site, but I clicked on the link and waves of nausea struck me as I watched the image load. I’d seen similar photos before, candid shots of someone at a restaurant or outside of Starbucks. It was so disorienting; it was hard to believe I was one of the people in the picture.

  Chris’s arm was slung around my shoulder as he wore a smug grin, his silver aviators magnifying every facial asset. I was only in profile, gazing at him with my mouth agape, looking as if I’d been struck in the butt by cupid’s arrow. The caption read: “Former Banks Forest guitarist Chris Penman out for a romantic mid-day stroll on the streets of New York with a mystery woman.”

  “That’s you in the picture, isn’t it?”

  My stomach churned. “Uh, yes, it’s me. We were walking back to the hotel from lunch. We were on our way to finish the interview.”

  “You two look awfully chummy.”

  Now I wondered if Kevin was on to something. Maybe Chris had requested a female writer and Patrick had agreed. “I don’t know what to tell you. Nothing happened.”

  He stuck me with the ominous clicking of his pen. “I’ll have to take your word for it. I hope it’s understood that anything like that is unacceptable in my book. That’s a great way to keep yourself out of the magazine.”

  I swallowed. “Of course. It’s not an issue.”

  “How did the interview go?”

  “It was amazing,” I answered, feeling deflated. “I think you’ll have everything you wanted.”

  “Good. One more thing. I want you to review Penman’s new record and we’ll run it as a sidebar with the story. I don’t want to waste space with a stand-alone review if his new record is as bad as the last one.”

  * * *

  That night, Sam and I had pasta for dinner with what was left of last summer’s pesto. The fragrance and taste of basil only made me crave the warmer days ahead. It was probably odd to most people that I had such a hatred for the cold since I’d grown up in Minnesota—common sense suggests that it would feel familiar. Although the winters in North Carolina were a vast improvement from endless months of snow, even a mild winter was still winter to me. There’s no pretending it’s something else.

  I moved to North Carolina, to Chapel Hill, to be closer to my dad after my mom passed away. He’d told my sister and me that he was moving to Asheville, in the mountains, because he’d always wanted to live there. In truth, it felt as though he’d closed his eyes and dropped a finger on the map. I knew the real reason he chose a place as different as could be was because he needed to get as far away as he could. He couldn’t survive in that house any more—the three-bedroom with a porch swing and crooked front steps that my parents had occupied since they were married in 1965. They’d brought home two daughters to that house and raised them, and my mom took her final breaths there, skinny and frail in a bed full of pillows and plastic tubes. He couldn’t spend every day knee-deep in memories with the ghost of his wife, my mother, in attendance. It was too much.

  Sam and I were finishing the dishes when there was a knock at the door—the arrival of Andrew, for their first homework date. She was off in a flash, leaving me no time to do anything about my t-shirt, wet with dishwater.

  Andrew had been like a baby giraffe the last time I’d seen him, with an abundance of knobby limbs, but all six feet of him had evened out since then. His light brown hair was messy, an accurate portrayal of a skater boy along with his clothes, worrisome for many moms, but not me. I suspected that Andrew was a good kid behind the skinny black jeans and studded belt and most likely refrained from murdering squirrels in his spare time.

  “Hey, Ms. Abby.” Andrew waved, staring at his shoes.

  “Thanks for bailing me out on the Physics homework. I’m sure Sam will enjoy your help much more than mine.”

  Sam shot me a look and was quick to end my interaction with Andrew. “We’re going to go study.”

  Andrew followed Sam and I smiled when I caught sight of him reaching for her hand at the top of the stairs. I waited for the recognizable click of the bedroom door latch, but it never came and I decided to give Sam the trust she’d earned.

  Listening for the door brought me back to Monday night—the lump Chris put in my throat when he’d locked his hotel room door. I had an irrational longing for a different memory of that night. The adolescent parts of my brain had since concocted several alternate endings to our evening, none of them G-rated.

  I decided to be bold. I decided to send Chris a text.

  Going to bed soon. R u busy?

  My pulse raced for nearly an hour as I checked email and waited for my phone to do something. I tried again.

  R u there? U must be busy.

  Thirty minutes and there was nothing. I put my laptop to sleep and laid my head on my desk. My expectations needed an overhaul and I knew it—it was staring me in the face. He was probably only calling and sending texts so he could make sure I didn’t screw him over with my story. He’d probably been nothing more than bored last night. He’d probably sent those text messages to charm me. It was foolish to believe it could be anything more.

  Chapter Ten

  I woke the next morning full of disappointment from what hadn’t happened—no phone call from Chris, no returned text message. I rolled out of bed and sought coffee, resenting everything that dared not cooperate with me. The coffee grinder was acting up and I came close to chucking it in the trash, but that would’ve meant no coffee and that would’ve been a disaster
.

  I ignored my email and went straight to work, but quickly remembered how atrocious my writing could become when I was pissed off. I’d write a line or two, become disgusted with myself, and then delete. I did that non-stop until my cell phone rang after ten. I looked at the Caller ID and it was as if the bluebird of happiness had landed on my windowsill.

  “Morning, Claire,” Chris said, with a sleepy velvet tone to his voice.

  My shoulders dropped in relief. “Good morning,” I replied, hearing my own voice dip toward his octave.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. Things got incredibly busy. We had a long day mixing and I didn’t want to wake you last night.”

  His voice made me appreciate why I’d been so annoyed when I woke up—I’d already learned to miss him.

  “So, how does it feel to be the mystery woman?” he asked.

  I gulped. “You saw that.”

  “A friend sent it to me. He’s very curious about you.”

  “My editor called about it. He was sure something had happened between us.”

  “Did you tell him it was just sparks?”

  “What? Huh?” My left eyelid twitched like crazy. “Oh, you’re joking.”

  He chuckled. “Come on, Claire. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel something between us on Monday. That picture is compelling evidence. We look great together. We’re clearly enjoying each other’s company.”

  The corners of my mouth popped up and I felt my face turn into a moon. “I figured you have that with every woman.”

  “Sure, with most women, but not to that degree very often. Maybe it was because you were flirting so mercilessly with me.”

  “I was not. You were flirting with me.”

  “The skirt you wore to my hotel room. That wasn’t flirtation? What about the shoes? Those were some sexy shoes, Claire.”

  My heart squirmed at the subject. “Don’t you need to get to the studio or something?”

  “Oh, I see. We’re going to live in denial. Okay. I won’t give you a hard time.” He laughed again, under his breath. “You know, my label called this morning. They wanted to make sure I get them a CD for Claire Abby as soon as possible. She’s very important.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, realizing it wasn’t the slightest bit humorous.

  “I told them I’d take care of it personally since we’re friends now. I’ll make sure you get one late next week.”

  “You told the people at your record label that we’re friends?” Things were becoming more tangled at every turn. We could be caught doing this, whatever it was, and that would mean I was screwed, royally.

  “Sure. It’s the truth, right?”

  I sighed, uneasy. “Of course.”

  * * *

  Everything blew up in my face the next morning. Patrick called, roaring with anger.

  “Claire, I can’t ignore the rumor mill. Even the interns are talking about it. You two have become friends? Seriously? How are you supposed to write an unbiased piece if you’re in his back pocket?”

  “Well, you know, that’s not really fair—”

  “And after that photo ran. Was that not enough to convince you that people will talk and always assume the worst?”

  “I, uh…”

  “Look, don’t even bother. I don’t know what’s going on and frankly, I don’t think I want to know. I just want to make sure you’ve got your priorities straight. This is your shot. This could open a lot of doors for you.” The pen clicking began—never a good sign. “It’s your choice. Either you’re known as the one writer on the planet who could convince him to talk or people think of you as one of Penman’s dingbat bimbos.”

  My heart pounded when I hung up. It felt as if the universe was sending me an unsubtle hint to put an end to childish flirtation. I was so close to reaching a turning point in my writing career and I couldn’t squander it for a few minutes on the phone with a man, even if the man was Christopher Penman.

  I pushed his number on the speed dial, my finger twitching, but not out of my usual capricious anticipation. This was cold, dark dread.

  “Hiya,” he answered. “This is a nice surprise.”

  His voice dug into me, and I sighed, feeling sick and already regretful. “Uh, hey. Listen, we need to talk. We can’t do this anymore.” All I could hear was his breathing, making me feel as if I might drown in the quiet.

  “And what are we doing?”

  I groaned. “This. We can’t keep talking on the phone. Everyone at your record label is gossiping about us.”

  “They are? I wasn’t aware we were engaging in any nefarious activity. Aren’t we entitled to be friends?”

  “No. Everyone assumes that if you’re friends with a woman there’s something else going on. I can’t risk this professionally.”

  “Are you asking me to stop calling you?”

  That sucked the air right out of me, like a hot, gnarled rusty nail through the arch of my foot. I was asking Christopher Penman of all people, to stop calling me, to stop flirting, and to stop making me feel amazing. “I think it’s for the best.”

  “That’s too bad. I thought we were having fun.” The moment of silence on his end of the phone was agonizing. “Best of luck with everything. Bye.” And then he hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  I stared at my phone for two days. I did some other stuff too, but I was going through the motions. What did I do? I’d rejected one of the most amazing men on the planet, certainly the best one I’d ever met. He just wanted to be friends. I couldn’t begin to think of a time when I’d been a bigger idiot.

  I threw myself into my writing because I had to, my deadline moving in like a dark menace, but that only reminded me of what was wrong. My mom wouldn’t stop stomping around in my thoughts. She was disappointed—I hated it when she used that word because there was no defense against it, it was daughterly kryptonite. She thought I should follow my heart, insisted that everything else would take care of itself but my heart needed help, it needed encouragement and constant bolstering.

  On the third day, I couldn’t take it. Mom was talking to me inside my head all day, every day, sometimes when I was sleeping, wearing me down like a woodpecker with great attention to detail. I decided to send a text to see what would happen; knowing the embarrassment of a snub could be enough to last a lifetime.

  Hi. Do u hate me?

  My message went unanswered for several hours, each minute an excruciating lesson in humility. I imagined him reading the text and deleting it, perhaps commenting to someone nearby that I must be patently unbalanced.

  Then, finally, there was a glint of hope.

  I don’t hate u, waiting for u to call.

  I couldn’t help it; the giddiness worked through me, it wouldn’t stay out of my veins.

  How long have u been waiting?

  Since u dumped me.

  I didn’t dump u.

  Call me. My thumbs r tired.

  I dialed, exponentially more anxious than the first time I’d called him. “Hi,” was all that came out of me when he answered.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  I held my breath, feeling as if I’d called the most popular boy in school only to discover he didn’t know I existed. “Uh, it’s Claire.”

  He laughed heartily. “You’re too easy. How are you? It’s nice to hear your voice.”

  I melted into my office chair and began spinning, propelling myself with a kick of my foot. “It’s nice to hear your voice, too. What are you doing?”

  “I just got to the studio so I only have a few minutes. Does this mean you’ve reconsidered?”

  I smiled; continuing to spin, embracing lightheadedness and watching my office go by in a blur. “Yes, I’ve reconsidered. But we have to keep this a secret. That’s my only condition.”

  “Keep what a secret? Our entirely innocent phone friendship with a thinly veiled attempt at flirtation?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”

 
; “Whatever you want. Mum’s the word.”

  Chris and I exchanged dozens of text messages that night and then slipped into a routine effortlessly, talking every morning and texting when he was in the studio mixing.

  Things had to stay top secret, especially since we usually only talked about personal things—pet peeves, grade school crushes, and drinking stories. We nudged the boundaries every day and Chris seemed to be quite comfortable as chief of nudging. I was his sidekick, the adoring follower, and I mostly did whatever he wanted me to do.

  He told Banks Forest stories one day, still unaware of my love for the band. That information could stay under wraps forever, but I closed my eyes and sighed when he told me about the night he and the drummer, Nigel, smuggled a live goat into lead singer Graham’s hotel room. I didn’t even think to ask where they got a goat; I simply soaked up every tasty piece of backstage shenanigans.

  Everything took a turn the next day.

  “So, Claire,” he started. “I want to know if you’re ready to take our relationship to the next level.”

  I giggled. “The next level, huh? What did you have in mind? Web cam?” I flopped down on the couch and cradled the phone in my neck.

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that? You’re such a clever girl. No, I was thinking good old-fashioned phone sex. We’ve been on dozens of phone dates and there’s been nothing. I’m beginning to think you’re a tease.”

  I could see his devilish smile in my head. I knew I should be strong and resist, but I didn’t really want to. “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Why should that stop us?”

  “I’m not a phone slut. You’re going to have to romance me if you want phone sex.” The embarrassment of admitting that I was incapable of talking dirty on the phone would be more than I could take.