Bring Me Back (Forever Book 1)

by Karen Booth

  He lifted my chin and kissed me, his tender lips hot against mine. “If anything comes to mind, I’ll be sure to share.” He pushed my hair from my face, refusing to let me hide, and he gazed at me without a word. Smoothing a hand around each of my hips, he tempted me toward him and then back to settle my body down on his. As we began moving together, I pushed away to sit back, but he stopped me, pulling me forward. “Stay here. I want to keep you close.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The sun was decidedly un-sunny the next morning. I’d watched it come up, completely failing to herald a new day the way it should have. Instead, it forced the pain deeper inside me. Chris was finally stirring, rolling to drop his arm around my waist. I stared out the massive bedroom windows with my back to him, wanting to shrink away from everything I had to do once I got out of bed.

  There was no getting around it; we needed to find a different way to continue. The ebbs of joy and sadness involved with coming and going were too much.

  “If I pin you to the bed, you can’t go to the airport,” he said into the back of my neck, prodding my hair away with his nose. He inched closer and pressed himself against me. Even though we hadn’t parted, the desperate longing for him had already taken root in my body.

  “I wish that were true.” My voice cracked and I had no strength to fight it.

  He rubbed my shoulders like a trainer does to encourage his fighter after he’s been punched in the face so many times he can’t see straight. “Don’t be sad. I’ll come and see you this weekend.”

  I turned back to look at his incredible face, full of life in the morning light. “Then what? I can’t fly to LA every other week. It’s not fair to Sam.”

  He seemed deep in thought, concentrating on my face. “You’re right.” He pushed the hair off my forehead with his thumb. “Don’t worry, we’ll come up with something.”

  The goodbye at the airport was more of the same, sad and arduous. I couldn’t help it—I instinctively took survey of everything and where it was going. Perhaps it was something women were wired to do, survival of the fittest, but I didn’t want the words “Let’s talk about our relationship and where it’s going” to ever pass my lips. I didn’t want things to happen like that.

  Chris gave me countless kisses and many long, reassuring embraces; every loving gesture only underscored how painful it was to do what we were doing. I couldn’t even pucker long enough to return a real kiss. My mouth was busy turning down with sadness, my lower lip a quivering mess. He rocked me back and forth in his arms and pressed his lips to the top of my head until it was time to go through security and walk away.

  My highlight today, seeing Sam, was still ahead, but with that would come the unavoidable back and forth with my dad. I was an overflowing vessel of emotion when his preference is pleasantly even and well tempered. Whenever I had problems beyond a dishwasher on the blink, I was being difficult.

  The lights were on when I got home, but I didn’t see anyone downstairs. “Hello? Anybody home?” I set my keys and bag on the counter, noticing that the kitchen was immaculate. I’d never realized the counter was that particular shade of gray.

  Sam came thundering down the stairs. “You’re back.” She gave me an enthusiastic hug, an unusual teenage greeting. “I saw the magazine today. Leah brought it to school. Are you totally freaking out? Don’t worry, I didn’t show Grandpa.”

  “Hi, honey.” I held her arm, realizing how much I’d missed her and the way she loved to launch a glut of information at you at one time. “Leah brought it to school?” I rubbed my temple. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, her mom bought an extra copy. We were careful not to let any of the boys see it, but I think some of them already had.” She winced as though she was waiting for my reaction.

  I shook my head. “Where’s your grandfather?”

  “At the store. He’s been driving me crazy.” She made a choking sound and crossed her eyes. “He was a total grump when Andrew came over last night. He wouldn’t let us go upstairs so we had to watch TV in the living room and he kept checking on us.” She smiled at me, shyly. “We still kissed without getting caught.”

  The girl who’d been devastated by Jean-Luc seemed to be fading away.

  “That’s my girl. But we’re still keeping Andrew on probation, right? He needs to prove he can be a good boyfriend.”

  “Right.” She held a look of quiet assurance. “Oh, and you got a giant thing of flowers. I didn’t read the card, but Grandpa did and said they were from someone named Chris.” She snickered. “They’re in your office.”

  Chris had sent tulips again, my favorite, deep pink this time. There had to be seven or eight-dozen—an enormous arrangement in a modern glass cylinder with a matching wide satin bow. The envelope was tucked back in the plastic florist’s fork, as if I wouldn’t notice that the flap was torn. The message was simple: Miss you madly, Chris.

  The back door slammed shut and I took a few quick breaths as I reminded myself to be a good daughter. “Dad, hi.” I drew out the “hi” in an attempt to sweeten it and gave him a kiss on the cheek as he set the grocery bags on the counter. He leaned in, without warming to the kiss at all.

  The reliability of his wardrobe never faltered. He was wearing the same flat-front khakis, brown belt and neatly pressed light blue button-down shirt he’d worn every day of his life for the last forty years. The gray Members Only jacket was his attempt at being cool and I wasn’t about to tell him he was thirty years too late.

  “I went to the store to buy all of that fancy stuff you like. Soy milk, baby carrots, wheat bread.” He was already making small talk.

  “Thanks. That was nice of you.” I let the grocery comment slide, undoubtedly the first of many things I would let go over the next thirty-six hours.

  “I want to take care of my little girl.” He smiled, my father’s one-sided grin, and folded the paper grocery bag neatly while Sam sauntered back from the pantry with a package of Oreos. “Sammy, bring Grandpa some of those good cookies.”

  She smiled at him warmly, making me struggle with the “Grandpa’s driving me crazy” comment. “Grandpa buys all the junk food you never let me have.”

  “I do,” he said. He winked at her before downing a cookie as Sam poured them each a glass of milk.

  “I buy junk food,” I said, defensively. “But it’s easier to resist if it isn’t in the house.” I took a cookie and my shoulders dropped at the first bite. “Believe me, I love Oreos,” I said, through a mouthful of chocolate crumbs.

  The two of them at the kitchen counter scarfing cookies were fascinating. He had such adoration in his eyes when he looked at her; I had to ask myself if he’d ever felt that way about me for one day, other than the day I was born.

  Sam excused herself to go upstairs and finish homework, leaving me alone to face the inevitable inquisition.

  “Thanks, Dad, for keeping an eye on Sam. I hope it wasn’t too much work.”

  He washed and dried his glass. He used the towel to wipe away the droplets of water left in the sink and polish the faucet. “I love my time with my granddaughter. We’re two peas in a pod.” There was an uncomfortable moment of eye contact that he put to a quick end. “I finished everything on your to-do list. The hot water in your shower is fixed and I caulked everything in there too. You need to keep an eye on that or you’ll end up with water damage.”

  “Great. Thanks. That’s a big help. I’ll try to be better about the caulk.” I was such a bad daughter; I was already formulating my plan of escape, lining up my excuses in the event that one or two of them failed.

  “Flowers came for you. I was on my back working on that clogged drain trap in the bathroom when the deliveryman came. Hit my head on the darn vanity.” It couldn’t be that I’d simply received flowers; it had to be that he was inconvenienced and injured while slaving away in an uncomfortable position on my neglected plumbing.

  “Sorry about that. I hope your head’s okay.”

  “Are they from someone
special?”

  He couldn’t even look at me when he asked such questions, pretending to scan the headlines of the paper he’d surely read. “Yes, they’re from someone special.” I took a deep breath. “The friend I went to see in Los Angeles. His name is Christopher.”

  He looked up from the paper, but not at me, addressing the doorway into the living room. “I see. I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me from the get-go. You know we can talk about anything, Ladybug.”

  “I know.” I made my own lie, in response to his. “I’m sorry. I haven’t told anyone about him.” My eyes were suddenly so dry that my lids were sticking to my eyeballs.

  “Must have a lot of money, sending flowers like that. What does he do for a living?”

  Here it comes. “He’s a professional musician.” I crossed my fingers that the word professional would throw him off the trail.

  “Not again.” He groaned. “It never works out with these guys. When are you going to learn that?”

  I sighed and crossed my arms, jostling my bracelet.

  “Is that from him?” he asked, reaching for it.

  “Yes.”

  He studied the charm, peering through his thick, rimless glasses. “Tiffany? This guy certainly likes to throw his money around.” He turned the charm to the other side before releasing my arm. “Is this serious? Does Samantha know?”

  “Yes, she knows. She’s met him, and it’s a little serious, I guess. Not super serious.”

  The reaction in his eyes suggested what was coming. “Excuse my language, but what in hell are you doing? You’re thirty-nine years old and you’re flying across the country to see some man, another one of your musicians.” The word tumbled out of his mouth as he began pacing, looking everywhere except at me. “He sends fancy flowers and buys you an expensive Tiffany bracelet and you don’t know if it’s serious?”

  As annoying as it was, he hadn’t pointed out anything that wasn’t true. “I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing.” I struggled to keep my cool.

  “You’re a smart girl. You’re pretty.” He started to walk away, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to settle down with a regular guy like your sister. She’s very happy.”

  My dad adored my sister Julie, the golden child, straight-A student, driven to succeed. She’d married the first reliable man who wanted her virginity. I’d been the one with a B average and a lack of focus who dumped the good-looking guy who got me pregnant.

  “I’d love to settle down with a nice guy like Julie, but I haven’t been as lucky.” I followed him, determined to keep the conversation from ending on this point. “I’m happy too.”

  “Your sister isn’t lucky, she’s sensible. She knew a good thing when she met Matt. You always had to chase every guy you couldn’t hold on to. And Ladybug, I’m sorry, but you’re not happy. You’re all alone. What are you going to do next year when Samantha goes off to college? Get a house full of cats?”

  “No,” I huffed. “And what’s wrong with cats? I love cats.”

  He crossed his arms and looked at the floor. “You know, my granddaughter has missed out, not having a father figure. She was stuck to me like glue all weekend. It’s obvious she needs more attention.”

  The tears welled in my eyes. I didn’t want him to have the satisfaction of making me cry. My jaw tightened and I lowered my voice. “Your granddaughter has not missed out. Yes, she has seen me struggle, but I’ve taught her a lot about self-reliance. She knows she doesn’t have to depend on a man for happiness.”

  He shook his head in slow motion. “I’m glad your mother didn’t have to witness this. She’d have been very disappointed that you never found a husband.”

  That broke the dam in my eyes. “That’s not fair. You don’t know how she would have felt about it.” It was a horrible thought, but at that moment, I wished it’d been my dad who was gone and not my mom. She would’ve found a way to love me and be happy for me because that what was what she did. She always found a way.

  “I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  It felt as if he’d dug extra deep for the most dismissive way to end his side of the argument. “I can’t talk to you. I’m going to bed.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I welcomed the alarm at six the next morning the same way I might regard a red-hot poker in my ear. Mustering every ounce of energy and determination I had, I rolled out of bed. It would’ve been so easy to hit the snooze and bury my head in the pillow, but I wanted Sam to have a hot breakfast before school.

  I rapped on her door, mom as the back-up wake-up call, and cringed with disappointment when I reached the end of the hall and smelled coffee. My dad was already up. Knowing him, he was probably shaved and dressed, even wearing shoes. Sam and I were always walking around the house in bare feet; a practice he saw as another sign that our society was crumbling.

  “Morning, Jellybean. Coffee’s on,” he said.

  I poured myself a cup and joined him at the kitchen table, still emerging from the stubborn effects of a sleeping pill and jet lag. He offered a section of the paper but I passed, knowing he would tell me what was in it anyway.

  “Boy, people sure are upset about the library expansion. It says here that the town wants to delay it again.”

  The heat from the mug spread through my hands and I tightened my grip. “Fascinating.” I stared off into space, doing my best to still listen.

  “Looks like we’re going to have a good day today, almost sixty degrees. There’s a thirty percent chance of rain tonight. Hopefully that won’t interfere with Sam’s science fair.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain.”

  Sam stormed down the stairs with a head of wet hair and her enormous backpack.

  “What can I make you for breakfast this morning?” I asked, grinning at today’s wardrobe choices, the highlight of which were red and pink argyle knee socks.

  “I’m totally late, I forgot we have study group for Spanish this morning. Andrew’s picking me up in a minute. I’ll just take a banana.”

  “Okay, honey, whatever works.” I got a kiss on the forehead, she was out the door, and just like that, I was back where I’d started, stuck in the house with Dad.

  “Dad, what do you want to do today? I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I was thinking I should replace the screen in that back door today. I’ll go to the hardware store and get that puppy fixed for you.” He smiled. Manual labor was his way of apologizing. If it weren’t for the one-inch rip in the screen, he would’ve found something else that was wrong or invented a project, all to keep the balance of power straight.

  The phone rang and I jumped, hurrying to my office. The name on the caller ID was unfamiliar and I answered nervously, thinking it was never good news when someone called so early.

  “Hello. May I speak with Claire Abby?” a woman asked.

  “This is Claire.” My mind scrambled as her voice failed to register.

  “Hello. My name is Nicole Fowler. I’m a writer for Star Magazine. Can you tell me the nature of your relationship with Christopher Penman?”

  My hands went cold. This was an unimagined scenario. I’d certainly never taken the time to mull over possible answers to this question. I’d done such a horrible job explaining it to my own father; there was no way I’d fare better with a stranger.

  “Uh, he’s a friend.” Wait. Was I supposed to say ‘no comment’?

  “And can you tell me the nature of your recent trip together to St. Barts?”

  Crap. My heart sank. Every word out of my mouth would only keep her on the phone longer. I was digging myself a hole and it wasn’t like I could afford to tell her the truth. “I’m sorry, I know you’re just trying to do your job, but I can’t discuss this right now. I have to say no comment. Goodbye.” I felt terrible, knowing what it was like to be on the other side of that conversation.

  My father, the snooper, was all over the situation. I’d
watched him sneak closer the instant I answered the phone. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.” I answered, dazed.

  “Who was that on the phone? Why would you need to say “no comment” to someone?”

  I should’ve known he would never accept my non-answer. “It was another reporter calling about a story I wrote.”

  “But what about the first thing you said? He’s a friend?”

  “Dad. Please.” A headache with an uncanny resemblance to my father began growing between my eyes. “It was nothing.”

  He watched me, narrowly. “All right, Ladybug. I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  To escape further scrutiny, I took my chance to call Chris while my dad was at the hardware store. It was still early on the West Coast but I called him anyway, deciding that being a girlfriend got me a free pass on calling at odd hours.

  “There you are,” he answered, with gravel in his voice. “What happened last night?”

  “I’m sorry, I collapsed when I got home. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m awake but I’m still in bed. I’m too tired to get up and get in the pool. I couldn’t sleep last night. All of my pillows smell like you.”

  If I closed my eyes, I could still feel what it was like to wake up in his bed tucked under rumpled sheets with the ultimate view of him and his messy morning hair. “Thank you for my flowers. They’re beautiful. It’s a humungous arrangement. You didn’t need to do that.”

  “Sure I did. I tried to send more, but that was everything they had.”

  I smiled and cradled the phone closer while the tingles branched out across my chest and over my shoulders.

  “How are things with your dad?” he asked.

  “I’m surviving, but we butted heads last night. He was asking questions about you and the flowers and the bracelet.”

  “I hope I’m not in the dog house with Richard.” He snickered. “May I call him Dick when I finally meet him?”

  I laughed, a bit sad. “Not if you want him to like you, although I’d love to witness that exchange.” I sighed. “He said some things about you that pissed me off, but it’s okay, he goes home tomorrow.”