Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  “It’s just another case of you making a big deal about nothing,” she muttered, but her cheeks hurt with the intensity of her grin—a grin that faded the minute she unfolded a sheet of loose-leaf paper and gave it an initial once over. She blinked, hoping, ridiculously, that the contents of the page would magically rewrite themselves. They didn’t, of course. She reread the letter slowly, word for word.

  “No,” she said when she was done. Hoover keened in sympathy. Her chin dropped to her chest. “No. No. No.”

  After ten or so minutes of sitting absolutely stock-still, tea and goodies forgotten, she got to her feet and rummaged through the jacket and jeans she’d worn earlier. Finally she found what she was looking for: her cell phone.

  She tapped Samantha’s name in her contact list. The phone couldn’t connect fast enough.

  “Samantha?” she blurted the minute it sounded like Sam picked up.

  “Pardon? Yes, hello—who is this? Jo?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Can you come over?”

  “Right now?”

  “If you can, please. Martha found a letter in one of the walls they’re fixing.”

  “Martha?”

  “The woman who bought Uncle Ray’s—”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes, and it changes everything, everything.”

  “What kind of letter?” Samantha’s tone had a hard, suspicious note. “You’re not trying to pretend there’s some more recent will are you? It’s too late.”

  “I can’t talk about this over the phone—”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Perfect.”

  While Jo waited for Samantha, she alternated between pacing the apartment and pausing to reread the letter. She practically had the thing memorized by the time Samantha rang.

  Her door was open and she was waiting in the hallway for Samantha before the elevator even reached her floor. Samantha took one look at Jo’s face and started to run.

  “What is it? What?”

  Jo shook her head, motioned Samantha in, and slammed the door.

  “If you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on right now without another second’s delay, I’m going to smack you!”

  Jo handed her the letter, crossed the room and wilted into a chair.

  It took all of thirty seconds for Samantha to shriek. “Are you kidding me? This is for real?”

  Jo shrugged miserably and scratched Hoover’s ears. Poor guy seemed to be taking it as hard as she was.

  “Aw, Jo . . . ” Samantha was uncharacteristically speechless. She strode over to Jo and put an arm around her in an equally rare show of physical comfort. “You had no idea?”

  Jo shook her head. The letter stared up at her from where Samantha tossed it.

  Dear Jo,

  (Jo, Jo, Jo! Just writing your name makes me happy. )

  If you’re reading this it means I’m a bigger loser than you already know I am. (Ha ha, that was a joke. Relax!) For real it means I’ve tried and tried to call your house, but the phone isn’t in service or something. I can’t make it tonight. I’M SO SORRY. I do want to marry you, more than anything, but I don’t want to have to sneak away like we’re doing something wrong.

  My dad was being worse than usual tonight, and I didn’t want to leave my mom alone with him for too long. He was, again per usual, ranting on and on about how I’ll never amount to anything, that you and I are just kids and it will never work out, and a bunch of other crap about you and me (and Cade and Brian and Mom and pretty much the whole world) not worth repeating.

  He’s wrong. What we have is real. The kind of love that lasts forever and only gets better with time. I will never love anyone the way I love you—and I’ll never want to. You are the sexiest, hottest, funniest girl I’ve ever met, and the only person who has shown me you can go through shit in your life but still be HAPPY. We’re going to be so happy, Jo! Years from now we’ll tell our grandkids about how we had this plan to elope, but that I messed it all up—but that in the end it didn’t matter because our love was meant to be, we held out, and in the end got something way better.

  I know it’s lame and I know you’re right that we can make it without my dad’s help—but I don’t want to just “make it.” I want to give you everything you deserve that you don’t have now, a home, stability, whatever you want.

  That’s the only thing he’s right about. I do want a career so I can make enough money to take care of you and any kids we ever have—and he was pretty clear that if we get married right now, I’m cut off, he won’t loan me money for school, etc., etc. One day I’ll cook or bake or do something I WANT to do, but for now . . . I think getting an education is best. Don’t hate me! He won’t keep us from seeing each other though because he’s an idiot and thinks we’ll “outgrow” each other. I know and you know, though—one year, five years, fifty years, we’ll still be as in love as we are now.

  Please don’t be too mad for too long. Just think of how big I’ll owe you. I’ll make it up to you any way you want, hint, hint. (Ha ha again, but not joking!) Try to call me tonight or come see me at work tomorrow.

  Yours forever, baby. XOXO,

  Callum

  Hoover yawned and stretched at Jo’s feet, pulling her attention away from the letter again. Sam was talking. “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure it would never have worked out long term. If he couldn’t stand up to his beast of a father then, he would’ve caved over something else later.”

  Jo glowered.

  Samantha bit her lip and nodded. “But it would’ve been nice to find that out for yourself, hey? To have been able to give it a shot, or at least choose whether to give it a shot or not?”

  “You said it.”

  “So go to him now and say it’s stupid you guys have had all these misunderstandings and hey, what a coincidence, the funniest, sweetest thing happened. The person who bought Ray’s discovered a letter he wrote that you never got.”

  “No”—it came out a gulp—“that won’t work. We’re not really ignoring each other anymore. We talked yesterday.”

  Samantha’s arm dropped and she stood up. “See? That’s great.”

  “No, you don’t get it—” The similarity between her comment to Samantha now and the one she’d made to Callum struck her painfully. “He asked me to marry him.”

  “So why the heck are you whining?”

  “I told him no.”

  “You what?”

  “And worse.”

  “Worse than no?”

  “Yeah. I told him he’d killed all the best parts of me—the dreaming parts. That I can’t, or won’t, take risks anymore.”

  “That is bad.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Samantha walked to the glass patio doors and peered out at the small iron-fenced sundeck. “Did you mean it?” she asked, without looking Jo’s way.

  “No, yes . . . I don’t know.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  “Of course I can still dream, you idiot.”

  Samantha grinned. “Yeah, I didn’t figure you were cured that easily.”

  Jo threw a cushion at Samantha. She deflected it. “So tell him the truth, that you’re scared, but you’re willing to try—and for crying out loud, you have to explain that you never got this letter. The poor guy. How it must’ve felt when you didn’t call—just left town without even bothering to respond or explain.”

  Jo thought she knew exactly how it felt and sighed heavily.

  “Oh, stop being such a wuss. It’s not like you.”

  A smile curved Jo’s mouth, but disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I want this to be a big win, too—a huge happily-ever-after-moment, not just another reason for my ridiculous insecurity and lack of confidence to take over.”

  “So let it be—the big win, I mean.”

  Jo shook her head. “I just have so many doubts.”

  “Of course you do because you’re not insane. But based on what exactly?”

  “Some
stupid stuff Dave said.”

  “So Callum writes you the most romantic letter ever written to a kid, promising his love for eternity, then good to his word, asks you to marry him when you meet again years later—yet you take something Dave says over what Callum does?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Jo relayed the humiliating conversation she’d had with Dave about Callum feeling sorry for her, then added, “Callum wrote that letter when we were both so young. Feelings change. Or maybe his feelings haven’t, but his motives for—”

  “Dave said all that? Implied Callum might date you, might even marry you, out of pity?”

  Jo twitched like something slimy brushed against her. “Yeah, it sucks—wait, where are you going?”

  Samantha only paused when she reached the door. “I just remembered something I have to do,” she said grimly.

  “It can’t wait?”

  “No, it can’t. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Jo couldn’t sit idle or she’d go insane. She fed and brushed Hoover, then decided to have a shower, hoping Samantha would be back from whatever was so important by the time she was done.

  The hot water pounded the knot in the back of her neck and she took deep, steam-filled breaths. She used a body scrub that she’d been meaning to try and wished past relationships were as easy to shed as dead skin.

  Oh, Callum. He’d looked so hurt—no, devastated was a better word—when she said she wouldn’t marry him . . . but what did he expect? She wasn’t some pathetic emotional charity case. Feeling badly for someone, for how their life had turned out, was nothing to base a relationship on. Why couldn’t he want her the way she wanted him? There was a time when she would’ve settled—when they were teenagers, for example. She would’ve taken whatever he was able to give her. But now? No, she’d tried that once already, thank you very much.

  She took her time shaving her legs—and still Samantha didn’t buzz to get let in. Finally, feeling pretty sure she’d drained every bit of hot water the apartment building had to offer, she stepped out of the tub and spent even more time moisturizing.

  As she slid her hands up the outside of her thighs and buttocks, she wondered if she was the only person who was going to touch her that way anymore. Shrugging off the thought, she trekked naked into her bedroom, slid into fresh underthings, and a soft long-sleeved cotton shirt, then grabbed the jeans she’d worn earlier. As she pulled them up over her hips, something sharp pricked though the denim pocket and into her skin.

  What the—oh, right. The lure.

  She gently unhooked it from her flesh, went into the bathroom and swabbed the spot with rubbing alcohol just in case, after resting the hook and its glittering beads and sparkly wedding band on the vanity.

  The hook, she noticed, was bent—probably from when she pulled it loose from the toolbox. She grabbed a pair of scissors, cut the hook free and deposited it in the trash, then separated the lure from the wedding band and returned them to her pocket for safe keeping until she was near her tackle box again.

  The door system buzzed. Samantha. Finally!

  She pressed enter, then wondered if she should put the kettle on for more tea. Would having Samantha around for the evening be comforting or not? She didn’t get to think on the question for too long. Samantha was knocking in record time.

  Jo opened the door and her mouth fell open. If there was anyone she wanted to see less at the moment than Callum, Samantha had managed to find him.

  “Dave? What are you doing here?”

  Samantha stood slightly behind him, and didn’t look remotely apologetic.

  Jo considered shutting the door on them both, and perhaps the thought showed in her face. Samantha pushed Dave forward, almost bowling Jo over.

  “Get talking, Dave,” Samantha commanded, shoving herself in after him. “Now. And don’t leave a single word out.”

  Chapter 30

  Jo turned off all the lights after Samantha and Dave left and sat in the dark for a long time. Finally, unable to bear being alone in her head a moment longer—and knowing what she wanted, needed, to do, she dug her phone out and entered Callum’s number. It rang and rang and rang. After six rings and still no voicemail, she was about to hang up. Then he answered.

  “Hello?” he asked huskily, like he’d been sleeping and run for the phone, or maybe like he was angry and had considered not taking the call at all.

  “It’s me.”

  “Yes, what’s up?” Not the warmest reception, but not the coldest either—and at least he hadn’t pretended not to know who “me” was.

  “We need to talk,” she paused, then added, “I mean, I’d like to talk. Can we?”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly, but there was an off note beneath the calm in his voice that she didn’t quite understand. “Do you want to meet for coffee?”

  She was quiet. Was tomorrow good enough? Now that she knew, knew for sure what she wanted to say, knew she wanted them to at least try, she’d really been hoping—

  “Or . . .” Callum hesitated and when he spoke next, he didn’t seem quite as composed. “Or did you mean tonight?”

  “Yes . . . please,” Jo said, hope heavy in her voice. She’d been so harsh. He certainly didn’t owe her any favors.

  “That’s . . . fine, no, good. Where do you want to meet? The Zoo’s open till nine—oh, wait . . .” Jo knew he’d just glanced at a clock and realized that that it was ten to already.

  “Actually, I was hoping you could come by my place. And that maybe you’d bring me baking one more time . . . and that maybe this time I’d accept it?”

  Dead silence met her ears. For far too long. “Callum? Hello?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” he answered—and there was another long pause. A flush of heat throbbed in Jo’s cheeks and thundered in her ears. She’d waited too long. He’d taken what she’d said to heart and she’d lost her chance.

  “Sure, I can come by, I guess,” he said eventually, at a volume she had to strain to hear.

  “Great! See you in fifteen minutes or so?”

  “Okay,” he said, then mumbled something that sounded like, “Just go easy on me, okay?” Before she could ask him to repeat himself or to clarify what he’d meant, he broke the connection.

  Jo lit candles all over the small living room, put the kettle on, then also put out wine glasses and a bottle of red, just in case. Then she spent a few minutes on her face and dabbed a soft citrusy fragrance Sam had given her for Christmas just below her earlobes and on the inside of her wrists.

  It felt like he’d never arrive—and then he did. The phone on her wall rang and she answered it, smiling into the receiver.

  “Hello, Callum. I’m in 308.”

  “What a coincidence. I’ll be in 308 shortly, too.”

  She laughed and let him up.

  “Hey,” he said softly as she opened her door to him. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, everything. Just come in, come in.”

  Callum obliged and as he stood in her entranceway and passed her his coat, Jo was hyper-conscious of his physical presence.

  “I didn’t bring baking,” he said.

  “No, no, of course not.”

  “Of course not? Why of course not?”

  Jo laughed and they stood a moment longer and for some reason, maybe because they were so close they should’ve touched or something, but didn’t, it grew awkward.

  She shook her head. “Uh, come in, like I said. Sorry.” She moved deeper into her small home, leading the way to the living room. “I thought we could sit soft? And what would you like to drink, tea—the water’s hot already—wine? Or, if you’re hungry, I could make you something to eat?”

  “Jo.” The tone of Callum’s voice stopped her.

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm without thinking. “What?”

  Callum looked down at her hand—then moved his gaze up to her face. “I thought I could do this, but I can’t,” he said, sounding like he’d been stabbed. “What
are you playing at, Jo? We’re not really friends anymore and since the other night—just tell me. Why did you call me? Why did you want me to come over in such a hurry?”

  Jo nodded. Fair questions. And he was right. They weren’t friends these days—and if she’d hoped for something sweet and easy like candlelight and toasts for this moment, she also knew, after everything he’d said, she’d said, and they’d not said . . . well, that was too much to hope for.

  “Please sit down. I have a lot of things I need to say. We have a lot of things, I think.”

  Callum’s brow creased, but he settled beside her on the couch—close. She hoped it was a good sign.

  Jo took a deep breath and opened her mouth—but no words came immediately. She had all this hope, too much of it really, and it was choking her. She held up one finger to motion she needed a second, then stretched toward the coffee table and retrieved the fateful envelope Callum had addressed to her all those long, long years ago. She handed it to him without comment.

  “What’s this?” he asked—and then flipped the envelope over, revealing her name in his hand. His face paled and his blue eyes burned impossibly bluer.

  “I never got it, Callum. I didn’t know you’d even written it until today. I sat at the damn bus station, waiting and waiting, and hoping.” She closed her eyes against the pain. Callum was silent. “I called your house, I called Ray. . . . I thought, I mean I was sure, you’d changed your mind, thought of course you had, actually—”

  “No—no.” The simple word, repeated, made Jo open her eyes again. Callum was shaking his head, staring at her like he’d never seen her before in his life.

  She bit her lip and nodded, then fumbled for more words. “I know. It’s awful. I, it, us. . . . Everything would’ve been different.”