If I Could Do It Again

by Ashley Stoyanoff

  Eventually, we arrive at the restaurant, though Richard takes his time about it, turning the typical forty-five-minute drive into an hour and a half. The hostess seats us at a window table that offers a perfect view of the lighthouse. We order and we eat, though we scarcely talk, and by the time we finish our lunch I’m dying to get back home, wishing I’d never agreed to go out in the first place.

  The drive home is just as strained as lunch, the conversation, minimal. As soon as we get there, I go to my office, shutting the door and opening the curtains. The sun is still shining, and the natural light feels warm against my skin as it beats through the window. I sit down at my desk, turning the ringer on my phone back on, and then open up my current work in progress with the intention of getting ahead on it. I end up abandoning it, though, curling up in my chair with a book when I realize I’m not getting anywhere.

  And then … I fall asleep.

  I’m awakened much later by my phone ringing. My office is cloaked in darkness, a soft glow creeping in from under the door. Reaching for my phone, I pick it up and glance at the screen.

  Joshua.

  My heart stalls, and then races. I answer it tentatively. “Hello?”

  I’m greeted with a recording, advising me that an inmate is calling, and informing me that all calls are recorded and monitored. I’m shaky, and jittery, waiting for the long drawn-out message to end. Finally, I’m prompted to accept the call. My finger is trembling with an equal mix of nerves and excitement as I pull the phone from my ear and I press the button. There’s a pause of silence and then another recording advising that the call is being connected and it feels as though it drags on forever, before his voice finally breaks through. “Hey, beautiful. What’s good?”

  His voice isn’t deep, but it isn’t high either and he’s speaking fast, the words slurring together. He sounds … excited? Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s excitement I’m hearing in his voice.

  I’m grinning, my cheeks stretched so much they hurt. “Hey. It’s so good to finally hear your voice.”

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I’m just working,” I say, not wanting to admit that I was in fact napping in the middle of the day. “Sorry I missed your calls earlier. I’m really glad you called back.”

  He lets out a laugh, the easy, carefree sound making me smile and easing some of my nerves. “No problem. I’m really excited to be talking to you. My heart was racing when I dialed your number. It still is.”

  I stall at those words, my heart skipping a beat at his admission. “It was? It is?”

  “Yeah, beautiful, it is,” he confirms.

  Heat colors my cheeks and I reach for my electronic cigarette, taking a quick puff. “I … I don’t know what to say to that.”

  He laughs again, this time a bit louder. “You don’t have to say anything.” There’s a quick pause, and then, “Are you smoking? I didn’t realize you were a smoker.”

  My eyes fall to the device in my hand. “I … uh, I’m using an electronic cigarette. I’ve been trying to quit, but I still smoke the real thing, too. Is that a problem?”

  “Yes,” he says bluntly. “It’s disgusting, not to mention bad for you. You should quit.”

  “I’m trying,” I say again, nervously. “That’s why I have the electronic cigarette.”

  “Good,” he says. “So, tell me about your day.”

  I blink, hesitating. He wants to know about my day? I rack my brain, trying to think of something—anything—exciting to tell him, but I draw a blank.

  “It was kind of boring,” I tell him. “I don’t really do much … ever.”

  “It’s not boring,” he says. “Your life’s exciting to me. You get to do whatever you want.”

  “Okay.” I hesitate, trying to think of something interesting to tell him, but all that comes out is, “I went for lunch in Peggy’s Cove, then hid in my office. I tried to work, and totally failed at it, and ended up falling asleep reading.”

  My response makes him laugh.

  “See,” I say, “I told you my life was boring.”

  “It’s not boring, Victoria. It’s perfect, just like you are.”

  I giggle—yes, giggle—at that. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For saying I’m perfect,” I say, feeling my face heating again. “That was … sweet.”

  “No problem, beautiful.”

  The moment he calls me beautiful, my face lights up with a wide smile. “Your turn. Tell me all about your day. I want to know everything.”

  He rambles on, speaking so quickly that I only catch every few words, but I don’t care. I love talking to him, or rather listening to him talk. I’m not sure what I expected, but this upbeat and overly excited man is not it.

  Every few minutes a recording plays, stalling our conversation. A constant reminder that the call is being recorded and monitored, making me even more nervous. I think he knows it, too, because he’s only asking me easy questions to answer, and he’s not leaving any awkward silences on the line. I kind of love him for it.

  He’s talking about his family, and I can hear the love and devotion in his voice, when suddenly another recording, this one different from the others says, “You have one minute left.”

  My heart sinks all the way to my toes. I didn’t realize these calls were timed and I’m nowhere near ready to get off the phone with him. Actually, I think I could talk to him all day long.

  “Can I call you again?” he asks, his tone hesitant as though he’s not sure if he should be asking.

  “Sure,” I respond right away. “Call me anytime you want.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you right back.”

  I’m about to say okay when I hear a recording say, “The caller has hung up.”

  And then, my phone rings again.

  ****

  Days pass by.

  Days full of phone calls.

  Days full of laughter.

  Days full of letters.

  Richard goes back to work, flying out to the head office in Toronto this time, and Joshua and I fall into a routine. And my life … well, it begins to revolve around our fifteen-minute phone calls.

  We talk about everything, from childhood memories, to work, to his case. We talk about food, friends, and family. We tell each other stories, divulging our most embarrassing moments, trying to one-up each other. We chat about movies, talk about first kisses and first dates. Joshua grills me on everything and anything, as though he won’t rest until he knows every single one of my secrets.

  And the days … they just keep slipping by, melting into one another.

  It’s Monday, and at nine-thirty in the morning, I’m still in bed. It’s raining outside, pouring actually, and I feel like hell. My throat hurts, my nose is running, and I’ve got a killer headache.

  My phone rings as I’m lying there. I reach over to the nightstand, snatching it up and glancing at the screen to see Joshua’s number. Sniffling, I answer it, waiting through the long recording and accepting the call.

  “How’s my beautiful angel doing?”

  Sighing, I mutter, “Hey.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “You okay, baby girl?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You sound like fucking shit.”

  His response makes a hoarse laugh rumble up my throat. “Thanks.”

  “That’s your awkward laugh,” he says. “What’s wrong? What did I say to make you laugh like that?”

  “How do you know my laughs?” I ask, trying not to smile, but one cracks my face. Geez, this man …

  “I just know,” he says seriously. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known you all my life.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, baby, really.” He pauses for a beat. “Now tell me what that laugh was about.”

  “I don’t really know,” I say. “You just make me nervous sometimes, I guess.”

  He lets out a deep sigh. My answer obviously doesn’t reassure him either. Changing the
subject, he says, “I’ve been thinking that you should come visit me … if you want to. No pressure, but I’d really like to meet you.”

  The question stalls me and I hesitate. I’m not sure what to say. The idea excites and terrifies me. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Richard won’t like it and …”

  “Do you want to come?” he asks, cutting me short.

  I hesitate. “I do.”

  “Then it’s settled,” he says. “Pick a date.”

  5

  Where Is My Phone?

  “Please …” Becca whines from the large bowl chair behind me. She showed up about twenty minutes ago, letting herself into my house and planting herself in my office, dramatically demanding that we go out for a spa day. “You’ve been working too much lately,” she whines. “The novel’s almost done. You can afford to take the day off and come to the spa with me. Besides, I’ve already booked us in and the packages are non-refundable.”

  While I’m sure she’s right, I have been working too much lately, I don’t really want to go. I’m behind on my word count for the day and on top of that, I have two letters from Joshua sitting on my desk that I need to reply to. Spending the day at the spa really isn’t high on my priority list.

  I keep my attention on my emails, clicking my way through all the social media notifications. “I can’t, Becca. I’m behind.”

  “You’re always behind,” she says with a long, drawn out huff. She comes up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Taking a few hours for yourself isn’t going to …” she stalls suddenly, her grip tightening on my shoulder. “Uh, Vic, why are you getting mail from a prison in the United States?”

  I sigh, shrugging her hand off my shoulder, and then I turn around, leaning back in my chair and looking up at her. She’s frowning, her nose wrinkled up as she stares at the letter sitting on top of the heaping stack of paperwork.

  She doesn’t look happy. Not even a little.

  “Ummm … research?” I say, though it comes out as a question rather than the sure statement it was meant to be.

  Becca narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Want to try that one again?”

  No. Not really. I’d really prefer not talking about it at all, but the hard glint in Becca’s chocolatey brown eyes tells me that’s not an option.

  So much for keeping Joshua a secret.

  “Well, it started as research … kind of,” I say, running a nervous hand through my hair. I haven’t told anyone about Joshua, well, no one but Richard, and I have no idea what she’ll think. “I was researching kidnapping cases for a book, and I stumbled on this prisoner pen-pal website, and …”

  “You have a prisoner pen-pal?” she half whispers, half shouts.

  “Um … yeah.”

  “Holy shit.” Becca grins excitedly, surprising me because she isn’t exactly the nonjudgmental type. “Turn off the computer,” she says. “We’re going to the spa. Now.”

  I let out a sharp, nervous laugh. Shit. That’s her I’m not leaving you alone until you tell me everything voice. I glance back at my computer screen. I know I should just tell her no, but Richard’s home again, and the last thing I want to do is have this conversation while he’s right across the hall working on that stupid boat-in-a-bottle.

  “Fine, okay,” I say, eventually. “I can’t wait.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in a massaging chair with my feet submerged in warm water. Becca’s beside me, her long blonde hair tied up in a messy bun. She has her phone in her hand, her nose scrunched up as she studies Joshua’s pen-pal profile.

  “Damn, girl,” she mutters, her big brown eyes peeking up at me. “That man is hot. Does Richard know about him?”

  I cut her a sideways look. “Of course he knows. Why would I hide that from him?”

  “Because he’s your husband, and this …” she waves a hand at me dramatically, “is not really something you tell your husband about.” Her eyes fall back onto Joshua’s picture, a soft smile touching her lips. “How did he take it?”

  I shrug. “He was fine with it at the beginning, you know, before I actually sent the letter. Now … well, he doesn’t like it. He spends a lot of time trying to convince me Joshua is scum. I think he’s feeling threatened, maybe.”

  “Is Joshua scum?”

  I don’t respond immediately, considering my words carefully. “No, I don’t think so. He’s … sweet, Becca. He listens to me, really listens. And,” I pause, biting my bottom lip, “he calls me ‘beautiful’. Every single day. And he likes my curves. Loves them, actually.”

  Becca’s eyes widen. “Oh no.”

  I laugh awkwardly, confused. “What?”

  “I know that look,” she says.

  My brows furrow. “What look?”

  “That one,” she says, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You like him.”

  “Of course I like him,” I say, feeling a blush staining my cheeks. “We’ve been writing and talking for months now.”

  Becca curves one of her perfectly shaped brows. “No, you like him like him. Damn, Vic. What have you gotten yourself into here?”

  My pedicurist taps my right leg, and I lift it, putting it on the footrest, trying not to squirm as she begins taking off the old polish. It sucks having ticklish feet.

  “I don’t really know,” I say truthfully. “But I can tell you one thing, I haven’t been this happy in years.”

  “So, what are you going to do?” she asks, cutting me a look. “And your answer better involve finally leaving Dick.”

  I roll my eyes at her. Becca may tolerate Richard for my sake, but she’s never liked him and she’s never hidden it.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “He knows I’m done, that I want out, but I’m just … I’m just …”

  “Scared,” Becca supplies. “You’re scared.”

  “Yeah.” And I really, truly am.

  The spa day lasts way too long. Between Becca’s nonstop talking and my brain racing with story ideas, I’m not entirely sure I’m going to make it through all the pampering. I need my nails to dry and a pen and a pad. No. Scratch that. What I need right now is for my phone to ring.

  I haven’t heard from Joshua all day and it’s … odd. Really odd.

  Digging around in my purse, I search for my phone, wondering if maybe I just didn’t hear it ring. I rifle, searching and searching, pulling items out, pushing them around. Where the hell is my phone?

  ****

  When I finally get home, it’s nearly six o’clock at night. I find my phone on my desk so I grab it, looking to see if I missed any calls and what I see on the screen makes my stomach sink. Twenty-six missed calls, all from Joshua.

  I sit down at my desk, setting the phone right beside me, and I open up my emails. I try to focus—I really, really try—but it’s pointless. Between the soft classical music coming from Richard’s hobby room and my silent phone taunting me, I get nothing done. Instead, I spend a whole lot of time glaring at my phone, willing it to ring.

  It sucks that I can’t call him.

  No. Scratch that.

  Sucks is not a strong enough word for the way it feels.

  It’s pure hell.

  An hour slips by. I respond to three emails. Another thirty minutes, two more emails cleaned up from my inbox. I look at my phone again and check to make sure the ringer is on. Twenty more minutes slip by. I update my expense tracking spreadsheet.

  And the evening drags on, falling into night.

  I’m tired, exhausted actually. The yawns keep slipping out no matter how hard I try to swallow them down. I’m just about to give up for the night when the phone finally rings.

  Grabbing it, my heart beats wildly as I spot Joshua’s number on the screen. Quickly, I answer it and accept the call.

  “You okay?”

  No hello. No beautiful. And his voice is rough—harsher than normal. I’m stunned. My lips twitch and I fight hard not to frown.

  “Yes,” I respond, my v
oice guarded as my entire body coils tightly. “I’m okay.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  I swallow hard. He doesn’t sound happy. Actually, I’ve never heard his voice this … cold before. I feel it like a chill spreading down my spine.

  My stomach knots. “I was out.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he demands, his tone dropping, impatient and biting.

  I laugh sharply, my body heating at his words. What the hell has gotten into him? Sure, I missed some calls, but this … this attitude is ridiculous.

  “I was out,” I repeat, nervous anger leaking out of my voice.

  “I called you twenty-six times,” he says. “You got a fucking cell phone. Why the fuck didn’t you answer it?”

  “I forgot my phone at home.”

  He exhales loudly, frustrated. “Where the fuck have you been, Victoria? I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “I went out,” I say, exasperated. “What do you want? A goddamn play by play?”

  He exhales again, just as loudly as the last one, but this time I’m pretty sure it’s a forced calming breath. “Yes, I do. And watch your tone with me.”

  It’s my turn to let out a frustrated breath. “I went to the spa, got my nails done, had a massage and a facial. Then I went to the bookstore, got coffee, walked around the mall a little, went for dinner. I was just out doing stuff.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Um, yeah …” my voice drops low. “I guess.”

  “Good,” he says, his tone still as hard as concrete. “Glad you’re okay and you had a good time.” He pauses, letting out another loud exhale. “I’m done talking to you right now.”

  “Joshua …”

  “No,” he says, cutting me short. “I’m done.”

  “Wait,” I say, hating the desperation I hear in my voice. “What do you mean you’re done?”

  But he doesn’t respond. Instead, I hear the recording say, “The caller has hung up.”

  Pulling my phone away from my ear, I stare at it for a beat. I feel the sting of tears—damn tears—in my eyes, and my chest feels so unbelievably tight that it’s hard to breathe.