How Many Times Do I Have to Say I'm Sorry? (Maudlin Falls)

by Lesli Richardson

  And get his keys from Phil. Hopefully, I’ll be driving my guy back here in the morning to pick up his truck.

  I’m tucked behind the DJ stand when Tom returns to his seat two songs later. From his red eyes and puffy nose—and from his playlist, which the DJ let me look at—I suspect he was crying in the bathroom.

  I’m a bundle of nerves when the singer on stage finishes and returns the mic to the DJ. As he passes it to me, he smiles and gives me a nod of encouragement. He’s dropped the song down a couple of keys, but it’ll still be a hard one for me to sing.

  Well, harder. I’m not a great singer to start with.

  That’s not accurate, actually. I’m a horrible singer. I can’t carry a tune in a front-end loader, much less a bucket.

  But for my guy? I’ll belt this one out with everything I have.

  The DJ doesn’t announce me as I walk onto the stage. Tomas now has his phone in his hand and is playing his voice mails, I think, when the opening strains of Chicago’s “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” start playing.

  That’s when Tomas looks up and our gazes lock. I can’t help smiling as his jaw drops open.

  Did I mention I don’t sing well? There are cats in heat who sing better than I do. Nails on a chalkboard is a more soothing sound. Playing recordings of anything I’ve ever sung is a violation of the Geneva Convention regarding torture and humane treatment of prisoners.

  None of that matters. The people here who now recognize me and realize what’s happening start cheering as I step off the stage and walk over to my guy, singing my heart out to him.

  Please, let this work!

  And as I reach the chorus, I drop to my knees in front of his chair. We’re both crying now and he throws his arms around me while the audience bursts into applause.

  I give up singing and hold him tightly. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear. “I’m back for good, if you still want me.”

  “Yes!” The booze on his breath nearly knocks me over as I kiss him again, but I’ll kiss him forever. Someone takes the mic from me and as the song fades out another singer takes the stage.

  I stand, helping my wobbly guy to his feet. “Let’s go home, baby.”

  “My keys.” He nearly falls over as he turns.

  I keep him upright and at my side. “I have them.” I also pocket his cell, which ended up on the table.

  He tries to turn. “I have to—”

  “Already paid. You’re all set, tip and all.” I keep an arm around his shoulders and guide him outside and over to the passenger door of my SUV.

  That’s when Tomas balks, putting a hand against my chest. “Herb did see you this morning! They were all right!”

  Silently swearing, I help him into the passenger seat and buckle his seat belt for him. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I had hoped he didn’t recognize me. I wanted to talk to you after I finished working today.”

  “Wait, what?”

  I kiss him to shut him up. I hold his face in my hands and kiss this man the way I’ve dreamed about kissing him. “We can talk later. I’m here for work, but if you still want me, I’ll come back for good.”

  Wide-eyed, he nods, crying again. “Yes, please.”

  With my thumbs, I gently brush the tears from his cheeks. “Then let me get you home and into bed before you get sick. How much did you have to drink, baby?”

  “I…” His sweet brown eyes go unfocused as he struggles to think about it. “A loooot,” he answers in a sweet sing-song tone I know so well.

  He’s definitely going to be hungover in the morning.

  “Okay.” I close the door and round the SUV, getting behind the wheel. “Time to go home.”

  * * * *

  I hold his hand during the entire drive. I think he dozes off a couple of times, because his grip goes slack before he gives a small jerk, like he caught himself, squeezing my hand as he does. Once we arrive, I hurry around to the passenger side to help him out before he face-plants on the driveway.

  He’s going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow.

  Now I wish I’d taken the time to grab all my things before I left the hotel, but I was in a hurry and didn’t want to jinx our possible reunion.

  He nearly trips and falls while getting out, so it’s a good thing I was there to catch him. He tips his head back, squinting as he stares up at me. “Des?”

  I smile. “Yeah, baby?”

  “Am I imagining this, or am I really drunk?”

  I get him up the front walk. “You are really drunk, but you’re not imaging this.” I’ve already got my keys out and use them to let us inside.

  Jester comes running to greet us and we have to dodge him as he tries to wrap himself around our legs while we head for the stairs. “I told you I would be back, buddy,” I tell the cat as I help Tomas up to the bedroom. “Let me get Daddy into bed.” I darn near have to carry Tomas the last few steps but finally get him into the bedroom and safely sprawled across his bed.

  He stares up at me with those sweet brown eyes of his. “You’re not a dream?”

  “No, I’m not a dream, baby.” I brush a kiss across his lips and start to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s get you undressed so you can pass out.”

  “Oookaaay.”

  More guilt for me to deal with. Had I called him back sooner, he wouldn’t be facing one wicked hangover tomorrow.

  There can be no doubt how much emotional pain he was in, based on the songs he was singing and how much alcohol he consumed. My guy isn’t much into public displays of his pain, so the fact that he was doing it at all guts me.

  I guess I should have planned to see him first thing this morning and caught him early, before he left the house. Damn my mother for calling me, anyway. And double-damn my flat tire, which I still have to get fixed.

  Except I can’t blame Mom for my crummy timing. A contributing factor to this whole mess in general? Yes.

  But I’m an adult and should have stood up to her long before now instead of letting her emotionally manipulate me. Maybe it came from a place of love with her, I’d cut her more slack, but I’m not going to give up this man again.

  Never.

  She’s going to have to learn to deal with that.

  Chapter Nine

  Tomas

  Even though I wake up, I keep my eyes tightly closed and don’t move for a moment. My head’s not just hurting—it feels like someone’s beating one of those large kettle drums just behind my eyeballs. I’m certain I’m going to throw up if I move too soon or too fast.

  It’s obvious I drank waaaay too much last night.

  That’ll teach me.

  I crack one eye open a little, just enough to confirm that I am, in fact, in my own bed.

  Honestly?

  I have no clue how I got here.

  None. Zilch.

  I remember handing over my keys to Deanna at the Falls Inn, and—

  A dream slams into me, of Desi driving me home and tucking me in.

  I close my eye and softly groan. I hope whoever brought me home forgives me for being so danged drunk that I probably made an ass out of myself. Fortunately, I seem to be wearing boxers. Reaching under the covers confirms that. Not sure if I undressed myself or had help in that department.

  Although, come to think of it, as I realize I’m smelling coffee, I must not have been too bad off to prep the coffeemaker after I came home. I can’t even remember doing that. I know I didn’t do it yesterday.

  As I lie there thinking about all of this, that’s when the nausea spikes through my system. I barely manage to untangle myself from the sheets and throw myself out of bed, where I race for the master bathroom and make it just in time to puke my stomach’s contents into the toilet.

  Oh, lord.

  I’ll need to call in sick this morning. I already know it. My head’s splitting, although it feels like I slept well enough for the first time in goodness knows how long. Puking like this means I’m going to feel like crud most of the day.

  Being around oth
er people in this condition is definitely out of the question. Physically, and emotionally.

  Especially since I dreamed about Desi all night. That I was tightly snuggled against him.

  Understandable, right? Considering why I was getting drunk in the first place.

  I dang sure don’t need a bunch of concerned people dogging me all day long about why I look like I feel like crud. Doubly so if whatever story there is to be told about my performance last night has made its way around the town’s gossip circuit already.

  And of course it will have.

  I don’t even remember what songs I sang, although I do remember something by… Chicago?

  A second round of puking hits me as I wonder about my phone. Did Desi try calling me back last night? It seems like I remember maybe looking at my phone after one of my turns at the mic, then someone was singing, and—

  Round three of puking shuts off my brain for a few minutes. I’m in the dry heaving stage now, meaning my stomach should stabilize soon.

  I hope. Once I’m able to get to and stay on my feet, I’ll clean myself up and drink a couple of glasses of water. Chasing that with some ginger ale will help settle things down.

  This is why I don’t drink a lot.

  I wince as my head throbs again. I’ll need to take something for the headache, and then maybe a piece of toast to help keep it all down.

  Yeah, working at the store won’t be possible today. I just hope I don’t have apologies to make to anyone down at the Falls Inn. I’ll wait a few hours before calling a rideshare to take me to get my truck. I mean, I’m assuming I got my keys back before whoever brought me home. If not, I have a spare pair somewhere. If I can’t find mine I’ll have to wait to go until they’ve opened so I can get them.

  Then I think I hear something downstairs. I blame it on how hungover I am that it takes me a moment to register the fact that it’s not a normal noise, like Jester maowing through the front window at people walking past the sidewalk out front. He likes to maow at the kids going to school every morning.

  This isn’t that.

  It… sounds like a voice.

  A human voice.

  And not from the TV, either.

  Using the toilet for leverage, I manage to drag myself to my feet. I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth in the sink, then I creep through the bedroom, over to the doorway, and listen.

  Normally, Jester’s up here with me every morning. It worries me, because it sure as heck sounds like there’s someone moving around downstairs and talking. Usually when I wake up, Jester’s in bed with me. Sometimes, he’s the one who actually wakes me up, if I’ve slept later than he deems acceptable.

  I don’t have any weapons in the house. I don’t hunt, so I don’t own a gun and I’ve never needed anything for home protection here in Maudlin Falls. I mean, there’s an axe in my garage, but I’d have to go through the kitchen to reach it. I could grab a knife out of the butcher’s block just as easily.

  But so could my intruder.

  Dammit.

  I grab a pair of PJ bottoms from the end of the bed where I left them yesterday and pull them on. I really wish I could remember the events of last night. That’s a weird thing to run through my mind as I creep my way down the stairs, but I don’t like having a huge gap in my memory, either.

  There’s definitely someone in my kitchen. And they have the balls to be humming and chatting with my cat like they own the damn place!

  Rage fills me. Throwing common sense and caution aside, I storm down the rest of the stairs and run into the kitchen, screaming like a maniac and hoping it scares them out, just to slide to a stop on the other side of the kitchen counter from the last person in the world I expected to see.

  My intruder is Desi.

  He has the balls to start laughing. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  Bits and pieces of last night float to the surface. “You…you’re…” I swallow against another wave of alcohol-induced nausea.

  “I drove you home last night.” He scowls. “Wow, you really were drunk. You slept snuggled against me all night.” It looks like he’s making French toast. He washes his hands in the sink and rounds the center island. “Karaoke? Apologizing? Do I need to do all that again? Because say the word, and I’ll grovel like there’s no tomorrow, even without the audience this time.”

  Feels like the wind’s knocked out of me. “Apologize?”

  “Yeah.” He takes my hands in his. “I’m back for good. Last night, you said I still had a chance to make this right. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I want to come home and be with you. Please?”

  The room swirls and dips as another wave of dizzying nausea overwhelms me again.

  “Whoa, baby. Easy.” He helps me over to one of the chairs at the small table here in the kitchen, where he drops to his knees in front of me and holds my hand. “Nothing, huh? About last night, I mean?”

  Images I thought had been nothing more than dreams float through my head. “It’s all pretty…blurry.”

  He holds my hand pressed against his cheek. I feel morning stubble there gently rasping against my flesh, anchoring me to the present and reassuring me this is totally real.

  “I worried you might not remember everything.” He smiles. “You were pretty much in the bag by the time I found you there. I stopped by here first, then looked all around town for you. Saw the ad for the Falls Inn in the paper in the living room and realized—”

  “Wait.” I struggle to focus. “You still have keys to the house?”

  “Well, yeah. You told me to keep them.”

  My emotions swing widely and rapidly between overwhelming love for this man, that he kept his keys, and anger that my privacy’s been invaded. “Why didn’t you call me back last night?”

  “I did. I left you a couple of voice mails. I guess you couldn’t hear your phone over the music.” He smirks. “And the alcohol.” Damn him, that’s the same handsome smirk that disarmed me in college and started my fall for him then.

  He releases my hand with a gentle squeeze, stands, and retrieves my cell from the counter, where he’d plugged it into my charger. He returns with it and once more drops to his knees on the floor in front of me.

  I quickly scroll through the call log.

  Yep. He called me back. Three times, and left me two voice mails. I don’t play the voice mails.

  I set my phone on the table. “Okay.” I lick my lips and swallow back another, lesser wave of nausea. “Please start over, huh?”

  He does, telling me what happened and why he’s in town. When he finishes I’m still feeling torn, even more than before. “So you were in town since yesterday morning and didn’t tell me…why?”

  “Because I was afraid. I wanted to show up in person. I was going to do it sooner than I did, but what Keith Barnes told me threw a wrench into my plans. Now, I have to make this right. I got sidetracked researching so I can get everything set up for him.”

  I’m…stunned. “He was going to sell to a developer?” This is news to me. Something that big never stays a secret for long in this town.

  “Yeah.” He reaches up with his other hand and cups my cheek. “Don’t worry. I will take care of this. I have to file more paperwork this morning, but I can do it electronically from here. I have my computer with me.”

  He points up at the table where I see that, in fact, his laptop is already set up and he has a document open on the screen. “It’ll take me a couple of hours. I want everything filed before I tell the firm the news about the sale being dead. That way, with everything in motion, Keith won’t likely consider any new offer the developer might throw his way. Not that I think he’d sell for any amount once I have this set up. He didn’t want to sell at all.” He studies me for a moment. “Are you going into work today?”

  “No. I feel…crappy.” I do feel a little better than I did when I woke up. Emotionally, at least. Closing my eyes, I take a long, deep breath. “Can you please get me a glass of water?”

  “S
ure, baby.” He jumps up to do it. I keep my eyes closed and listen to the sound of his bare feet padding across the kitchen floor. Of him opening and closing cabinet doors. He’s shirtless and wearing a pair of dress slacks, and the view of him like that is too tempting—and the sound of him filling my kitchen too welcomed after years of loneliness—for me to think straight.

  I’ve missed this and him. Years ago, I had once mentioned getting married, not long after he moved in with me after college. Back then, he said he wanted to wait to do that because he didn’t need a piece of paper to be with me. Plus, with me eventually owning the house and store, he said it would be complicated to set up the prenup properly. That it’d be better to wait until that was all official and on paper, and once he’d built his career. We had powers of attorney for each other about healthcare decisions and hospital visitation, but I didn’t push.

  I was afraid to push him out of my life, or that if I pushed too much he might think I was too needy.

  Then, when he left, I sadly realized maybe he’d known all along that he might one day leave me. In retrospect, his initial rebuff of getting married made sense when contemplated in that context. It was also a bittersweet relief that I didn’t have to spend money or emotional resources on a divorce. I could still lie to myself that things weren’t “over” between us.

  I hear him return and he places the glass in my hand, presses my fingers around its cool sides, and waits to release it until and he knows I have a secure hold. Several long swallows help slake my drought and settle my stomach enough I can think.

  Holding the cool glass pressed against my forehead with my right hand, I keep my eyes closed.

  Desi doesn’t interrupt me as I digest all of this. As much as I love him, I can’t look at him when I ask it.

  “How do I know you won’t leave me again?”

  “Baby, I swear. Whatever you need from me, whatever you ask of me, I’ll do it.”

  “But you left before. How can I trust you won’t get itchy feet in a few years and leave again?”

  When he takes my left hand I finally open my eyes to find him slipping a gold band on my ring finger. “Marry me, Tommy. Please? We’ll draw up a prenup, and I’ll even pay for you to have another attorney represent you when we do. I want to marry you. I want my last name attached to yours. I want to wear matching rings and brag to everyone that you’re my hubby.”