Bring Me Back

by Micalea Smeltzer

  The door opens behind me, and I swing my head in that direction, expecting to find Ryder, but instead it’s Amy. The woman who got the extra chair for me last week. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes look tired, much like mine. She’s dressed in a black pencil skirt, pink blouse, and black heels like she came from work to here.

  “Hey.” She approaches me slowly like I’m a wounded animal that might rear-back and pounce on her if she gets too close. “Ryder asked me to check on you.”

  I turn away from the sink completely and face her. “I’m …” I don’t know what I am.

  “Please come back, Blaire,” she pleads. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Sometimes listening to other people helps distract your mind. At least, it works for me.” She shrugs and her heels clack against the tile as she comes a bit closer.

  I don’t realize it until she grabs both my hands and forces me to loosen them that I was digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands. She releases me and tilts her head, studying me.

  “I was you, once. Still am, I suppose. Every little thing made me jumpy. I would overthink everything instead of allowing myself to be in the moment. This group … it’s really helped me—all of us. Trust me, you’ll feel better if you go back in there and stick it out.”

  I nod. “I don’t even know why I freaked out,” I tell her, my lower lip trembling with the threat of tears.

  “Overthinking,” she repeats, and taps her index finger against the side of her head. “We’ve all done it.”

  “Even Ryder?” I find myself asking. He’s so calm, cool, and collected that I find it hard to see him ever losing it like me.

  She raises a brow. “Especially Ryder. He might be the head of Group now, but he still has his moments where it gets to be too much.”

  “Just give me another minute,” I tell her. “Please?” I add when she doesn’t move.

  “I’ll be waiting outside the door,” she says. I hear her warning loud and clear—she’s not going to let me sneak out of the building. I wasn’t planning to anyway.

  Once she leaves, I turn back to the sink and twist the knob for the cold water. I splash some on my face and pat the back of my neck. I turn the water off and grab a paper towel to dry my hands.

  As promised, Amy is waiting outside the door. Together, we head back inside the room and take our seats. No one looks at us. They go on with what they’re saying, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m allowed to fade into the background.

  But when I look up, my eyes connect with the dark-brown of Ryder’s, and I know he wants to speak to me. I quickly look away, hoping to avoid him calling me out.

  When the hour is up and Ryder launches into his “goodbyes” and “see you next weeks”, I grab my purse and get out of there as quickly as I can without running away … again.

  I’m almost to my car when I hear footsteps pounding behind me.

  I know it’s him, but I don’t stop or turn around. He jogs in front of me and stops, forcing me to stop as well.

  “What do you want?” I ask, my tone sharper than normal.

  Ryder’s tall, like really tall, so he bends down a bit so he can look into my eyes better. I think he’s looking for something in them. “To make sure you’re okay,” he answers me.

  “I’m fine.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not fine or you wouldn’t have run out. It’s okay to get scared and not want to talk. What I want to know is, would you have told me if it was just the two of us?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly, adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder.

  “Try it now,” he says, tapping his chest. “Tell me why you’ve had a rough few days, Blaire.”

  I look away. I don’t want to talk even though the words are right there, bubbling at the surface.

  “Come on, Blaire,” he says again, getting right in my face. He’s not mean about it, just persistent. “Talk about it.”

  The words burst forth from me like water breaking free from a dam. “My life sucks right now,” I shout into the empty parking lot—since everyone has either left or is still inside the building. “I’m having a baby and Ben’s dead. I miss him so damn much and I’m going to have to raise our child all by myself,” I cry. “How can I teach my baby to love someone they’ll never know?” I choke on the last part.

  Ryder stands there, seeming to think carefully about what he’s going to say.

  “I know it seems impossible,” his voice is soft, “but you’ll find a way.”

  “I won’t.” I shake my head.

  “You will.” He touches his hand to my arm.

  I bite my lip and look up at him through my damp lashes. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I did. Granted, my son’s only two, but I make sure he knows who his mom is and that she loves him even though she can’t be here. I know he loves her too, because he’s always asking for her. Her picture, at least.” He shrugs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And as he gets older, I’ll continue to tell him stories about her and what a wonderful person she was. It’s not the same as her being there, but it’s enough.”

  I inhale a shaky breath and choke on a sob. “How do you do it?” I ask him. “All on your own?”

  He nods. “It’s just me and Cole. My parents help some, and Angela’s parents too. They all love Cole to pieces, even if he’s a little hellion most of the time.” Ryder smiles fondly. “I know things probably seem impossible right now, but trust me, once that baby is in your arms all that goes away. Heck, maybe even sooner for you,” he says. “As a dad, I don’t think it really hits you until the baby’s here.”

  “I’m scared,” I confess. I don’t know why, but I find it easy to talk to Ryder. Maybe because our situations are similar, or maybe it’s just him. He has this sweet, easy way about him that instantly puts me at ease without him even trying.

  “I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t scared,” he says. “I was scared shitless when Cole was born and knowing that Angela wasn’t going to be around much longer. I didn’t even know how to change a diaper. I’m pretty sure the nurse in the hospital rolled her eyes at me fifty billion times before we left. I bet you at least know how to change a diaper.”

  I giggle and he grins, having had his intended effect. “I do,” I say.

  He touches my arm again briefly. “You’ll be okay, Blaire. Not today, or tomorrow, or even the next day, but I promise you this: one day you’ll wake up and say I’m okay. After a time, you’ll even wake up and say I’m good. And then, I’m great. But healing doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time and you have to allow yourself to do it. Let yourself feel the pain; your heart will mend itself.” He looks down at his watch and cringes. “I have to go. I’m late to pick up Cole. You have my phone number, though. If you need to talk, call me. You won’t bother me.”

  “Do other people call you?” I ask quickly. I don’t know why, but I need to know. I want to make sure he isn’t offering me special treatment.

  He shrugs and his t-shirt stretches over his firm, muscular chest. “Sure. Sometimes.”

  I nod and tuck a piece of hair behind my ear so that it’s not blowing in the wind.

  “Bye,” I call after him. When he turns and smiles at me over his shoulder I add, “Thank you. I … I needed that.”

  His smile grows. “You’re welcome.” He tips his head at me and then ducks into his SUV.

  I shiver from the cold air and get in my car, cranking up the heat.

  I sit there a moment, marveling at how one conversation made me feel a thousand times lighter, before I finally drive away and head home.

  Morning sickness is the worst, but I refuse to complain. Okay, maybe a little bit.

  I stand and wipe my mouth on a damp washcloth before washing my hands and brushing my teeth.

  I’m silently thankful that I work from home and don’t have to endure this while at a job.

  I pull my hair back in a sloppy bun an
d a few strands fall forward to frame my face. My hair has gotten pretty long, longer than I’ve worn it in a while. I should probably schedule an appointment and get it cut, but I don’t feel like parting with it.

  I turn off the bathroom light and step into my closet. I change into a pair of jeans and a loose purple sweater that falls over my shoulder. It’s comfy and one of my favorite outfits.

  When I get downstairs, my mom is already waiting with a steaming cup of hot tea. Since I’m not allowed to drink coffee, hot tea has become my go-to drink.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I kiss her cheek.

  “You look nice,” she says, rummaging through the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of eggs.

  “Thanks.” I look down at my plain outfit. There’s nothing that nice about it, but I quickly realize this is one of the first mornings I’ve come down dressed in regular clothes and not my pajamas. I’m sure my mom is about ready to burn all of my pajamas so she never has to see them again.

  “Morning, Kid,” my dad says from the kitchen table. “Sleep good?” he asks, looking at me over the top of the newspaper he’s reading.

  “I did, actually.” It’s one of the first nights I haven’t fretted before falling into a fitful sleep. Talking to Ryder yesterday has really helped.

  “Good.” My mom positively beams as she cracks an egg into the pan. “Your dad wants an egg sandwich; do you want one?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I shrug and take a seat next to my dad.

  Her smile widens in surprise. “You want it the same way you used to like them?”

  I nod. “Yeah, cheese, tomato, and mayonnaise,” I tell her. My stomach rolls. “You know what, scratch the tomato.”

  She laughs. “Okay, then.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Casey.

  Casey: Can u do lunch 2morrow with the girls?

  Me: Yes.

  Casey:  Great! You know the place. ;)

  I set my phone aside. “I’m having lunch with the girls tomorrow,” I announce. My parents exchange a look from across the kitchen. “What?” I ask.

  “Glad to see you acting normal, Kid. You might not need us around much longer.”

  Panic seizes me. Not too long ago I would’ve been thrilled for my parents to head back home to Florida, but now I need them here.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

  They exchange another look. I don’t want to know what that one means, so I don’t ask.

  My mom finishes making our breakfast sandwiches and sets the plates in front of us. She even brings over the carton of orange juice and glasses. I make a mental note to get her something nice like a gift card to her favorite store. She deserves it. She’s kept this house running while I’ve fallen apart.

  I thank her and dig into my sandwich. For the first time in weeks I actually have an appetite. I’m not sure if my lack of one has been due to being pregnant or a part of the grieving process. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

  I eat every morsel, and my mom grins at my empty plate. “Want another one?” she asks, all too eager to hop up and make it.

  “No.” I wave her down before she can jump out of her seat. “I’m full, but that tasted great.”

  “If you change your mind and want another one, all you have to do is ask,” she assures me.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I stand and pick up my plate, rinsing it off in the sink before sticking it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to go work for a bit.”

  “But it’s Saturday,” my mom says, a wrinkle forming in her brow.

  “I know, but I haven’t exactly been working consistently and I need to make up for it.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.” Her frown leaves, replaced once more with a smile.

  I hug my dad as I pass and kiss my mom’s cheek before heading up to my office.

  Today, so far, is a good day. I haven’t had many of those in the last two months.

  I lose myself in my work for a few hours, and I’m amazed by how much I’m able to get done. By the time I finish up for the day, I’ve made a decent dent in planning two events and I’m all caught up on emails with clients and potential ones. It’s nice to feel on top of things for a change. I don’t know how much longer it might last, but I take this as a small victory, because that’s what it is. One small win in a battle to heal.

  Today is not going to be a good day. I wake up and immediately want to go back to sleep. I don’t want to have to get out of bed and deal. The empty space beside me in bed suddenly feels ice cold and as vast as the ocean. I stretch my fingers across the cool expanse, reaching, searching, hoping. But Ben’s not there and he’ll never be there again.

  I’ll never get to wake up to his smiling face while he says, “Morning, beautiful,” and I complain about my stinky breath when he tries to kiss me. He always said, “I don’t care,” and kissed me anyway.

  I swallow thickly, and a tear leaks from the corner of my eye, falling onto the sheet. I roll to my side and close my eyes. If I think hard enough, I can picture him in my mind. Tousled blond hair, soft but firm lips, wide grin, and bright-blue eyes. But his voice … I’m forgetting what his voice sounded like, and that scares me more than anything. I don’t want to forget anything about Ben. Not ever.

  “I miss you,” I whisper. “So fucking much. It still doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “I keep feeling like someone’s going to jump out from behind a wall and say, ‘Haha, got you.’”

  My eyes are still closed, and the Ben I see in my mind laughs at me.

  I unconsciously scoot closer, but instead of being met with warm, inviting arms, there’s just sheets and blankets. I slowly peel open my eyes and take in the emptiness of the bed once more.

  No amount of imagining is going to bring him back. I wish it was that simple.

  I roll back over onto my back and cover my face with the crook of my arm. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go about my day like everything’s okay when it’s not.

  And then, like a swift kick in the stomach, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I throw the covers off my body and run to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet.

  Morning sickness. Lovely.

  I have to laugh, though, at the irony of it. All I wanted was to stay in bed and mope and my unborn baby is having none of it. Their dad was the same way—always pushing me. I feel like this is my baby’s silent way to encourage me to get up and deal.

  “You’re already bossing Mommy around,” I say when I stand up and flush the toilet. “Your daddy would be proud.”

  I brush my teeth and wipe my face off.

  When I look in the mirror, I want to cringe. I look exhausted despite getting a full night’s sleep. I look haggard and I’m not even thirty-years-old. I know I’m supposed to meet the girls for lunch, but I find myself coming up with every excuse possible in my mind—they all sound ridiculous.

  I glance longingly through the doorway at my unmade bed. It calls my name, but I don’t allow myself to succumb to the temptation.

  Instead, I do something completely out of character and call Ryder.

  As the phone’s ringing, I realize that it’s probably way too early to call on a weekend. It’s barely seven in the morning. Before I can hang up, though, he answers.

  “Hello?”

  I pause. “Um, hi … It’s Blaire.”

  “Hey, Blaire,” his tone of voice brightens, “are you okay?” Before I can respond, he says, “Dumb question, you wouldn’t be calling me if you were okay. What’s up?”

  I hop up on my bathroom counter and let my feet dangle. “Today’s a bad day,” I say simply.

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I was wondering if maybe we could meet for coffee or breakfast or something,” I ramble.

  He hisses between his teeth. “I can’t, sorry. I have Cole today.”

  I wince. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

  “You could come by my house, if you don’t mind?” he asks. “I’d
suggest meeting at a park so Cole can burn off some energy but it’s too cold.”

  “Um …” I pause, nervously wringing the fabric of my pajama shirt in my hands. It feels awkward and like I’m crossing boundaries to go to his house, but then again, that’s silly. We’re two adults having a conversation, that’s it. “I can do that,” I finally say after a lengthy pause. “Can you text me your address?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And, Blaire?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring coffee.”

  I smile. “I can do that.”

  “Good. See you soon.”

  I hang up with Ryder and I already feel lighter. I change into a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I don’t feel like dressing nice, and I think Ryder will understand.

  I slip my feet into a pair of flats and grab my purse, stuffing my phone inside.

  Downstairs, my mom’s already awake, sitting on the couch reading a book.

  She closes it immediately when she sees me and launches into a million questions, not even giving me a chance to answer. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? Are you hungry? Do you want juice? Tea? Is there anything I can do? Blaire?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’m … meeting a friend for breakfast.”

  Her brows furrow. “I thought you were seeing the girls for lunch.”

  I sigh. “I’m meeting someone from Group, okay, Mom?”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, and her mouth parts slightly. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” I hedge toward the door. “So, I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Is there anything you want in particular for dinner?”

  My mom, always concerned about what I’m going to eat. I think, for her, she feels like it’s one of the only things she can control in the chaos that is my life now.

  “No,” I say, picking up my keys from the side table. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  I can feel her frustration from across the room, but she only says, “Okay,” and goes back to reading her book.