Come Again

by Poppy Dunne

  After Fraser, er, disengages from me, we’re lying back on my bed, tangled up in each other. I’m lying on his chest, leg hooked over his while he strokes my hair. It feels very natural.

  “And to think I’ve known you all my life.” Fraser sounds mildly shocked by the idea. “We’ll have a nice story for our children.”

  I don’t hem or haw or blanch at the idea of “our” kids. It just feels right. “We can tell them all about the epic water balloon fight of ’94.”

  “As I recall, you and your neighborhood girl biker gang started it.” Well, he’s right. The Pixie Punk Girls, that’s what we called ourselves. We had angry Tinkerbell decals on our bikes.

  “But you escalated it by bringing out the jumbo balloons.” I kiss his chest. “And then you’ll tell our kids, ‘Then I looked at your mother, all of ten years old, and said that I was going to plow her senseless when she grew up.’”

  Fraser makes a startled, horrified noise. “Emma! That’s foul,” he says.

  Then I can’t stop myself from laughing, and after a second he joins in.

  So foul, so wrong, and yet so right.

  27

  Emma

  One year later

  Technically we’re here for Mom’s sixty-sixth birthday, but a large part of the coming champagne toast has to do with me. Blaire Lavender, with a six figure publishing contract in hand after a four house auction, has just been booked on The View. This means that all the women in my mother’s circle will finally see value in my work.

  We’re standing in Justin’s kitchen, exact same positions as last year, while Fraser opens a bottle of champagne. As he unscrews the cork—heh, screws—Sawyer is twisting around me. Literally, she’s doing the twist.

  “Do you think Everest’s going to ask me to the spring dance?” Now that she’s thirteen, Charlotte and Justin have cautiously decided she can begin micro-dating. That means she can go for ice cream with a boy as long as they stay in a group, or go to a dance with a boy. Everest is the lucky fellow. Still hanging around at thirteen? He’s got staying power, that one.

  “He gave you Eddie Redmayne’s head last year, didn’t he? I think you’re a shoo in.”

  “Dare I ask if it was an actual head?” Fraser drawls as he pours champagne into several flutes. I pick up the tray, smiling as Sawyer runs out of the room to chase after Sebastian. He’s a non-stop running three year old these days. It’s a lot to handle.

  “I’m going to let you wonder.” I grin as he kisses me. “Careful, don’t want to drop these.”

  Fraser and I head to the living room, where all the usual suspects are gathered. Justin and Charlotte have their arms around each other, and smile when we hand them some booze. The parents of three kids always deserve alcohol. It’s law.

  “Thanks, boss.” Justin gives Fraser a playful slug in the shoulder. Last year, Fraser put him on retainer as legal counsel. It came with a very fat payday. Charlotte now thinks Fraser’s God’s gift, the epitome of human perfection. Well, I might agree with her there.

  “I told you, it’s only boss in private.” Fraser beams, then frowns. “Wait. I think I’ve opened myself up to one of Emma’s sexual jokes.”

  “You think correctly,” I tell him, and wink. While he and Justin keep chatting, I pass a flute to Lily. She’s in the window seat, bent over a textbook. Yes, she’s back at school, studying marketing. Yes, we’re all thrilled.

  “Thanks! Do you think champagne needs to be marketed?” She takes a sip. “Because I could be, like, really good at that job.”

  Bless. I give Sawyer and Sage some sparkling cider, then finally head over to Mom and Dad. This time, Dad’s not stooped over listening to an iPod, and Mom gives a gracious smile when I hand her the booze.

  “Thank you, Emma. You know, I always knew you’d land a man.” Mom blanches as Dad clears his throat. “The right man, I mean. Because it’s what you deserve.” She trips over the words a bit like she’s rehearsed them, but it’s enough. Dad looks pleased.

  After Lily’s Gavin debacle, Dad took a stand against Mom. He told her that if she didn’t start caring more about Lily’s future—and giving me an easier time—he was going to leave. Strangely enough, I think that speaking up is what Mom spent years waiting for. As for Dad, well, he seems more engaged with the world now. Fewer pineapple spears, more actual conversations. I can’t say their marriage is anyone’s ideal, but it’s a lot better than it was.

  I gave them Blaire’s book. I think it helped. Also, I think Dad tried the avocado facemask, but I don’t judge.

  I head over to Fraser and clink glasses. “Probably never thought you’d be back at this craziness one year later.”

  “Many things I never expected.” His mouth quirks in a smile, a devastatingly sexy expression. “Come on.” He takes our glasses and puts them down. “I need to talk to you outside.”

  “Before the toast?”

  “It will be only a minute.”

  Well, I’m a sucker for a good mystery. So long as it doesn’t involve a dead body in the flowerbed; that’s too much reality for me right now. Fraser and I slip outside, and stand on the front stoop. There, he folds me into a kiss. I’m not complaining.

  And I’m really not complaining when, after it’s over, he gets down on one knee and takes my hands. In fact, I don’t know how to complain. The sight of this blows all my former life complaints—the Kardashians, skim milk, Sense8’s cancellation—right out the window.

  “Oh hoooo,” I say, articulate as always.

  “Come again?” he asks. I’ll never tire of how sexy he looks when he’s utterly confused by me. “Emma Brightman. Will you marry me?” He says it simply, without fuss. Confident. Controlled. Everything he has always been. But when he reaches into his pocket and slides out a black velvet box, which opens to display an oval diamond…well, there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes. That small, vulnerable part of him is something only the lucky few get to see. And I’m happy to be one of them.

  Likewise, my first instinct is to make some quip, tease him a little bit. But that’s not what the moment calls for. I let only the chosen few see me teary and completely earnest. And Fraser’s the top choice.

  “Yes,” I say, taking out the ring and putting it on my finger. I mean, it comes out a little like ‘yeth’ because I get blubbery, but it was an earnest moment nonetheless. Fraser stands, takes me into his arms again, and kisses me in full view of the neighborhood children riding past on bikes. They shout something, but I’m in such a blissful state I forget to flip them off.

  This is truly a magical moment.

  “Are you sure you can handle Delia Brightman as your mother-in-law?” I plant another small kiss on his lips.

  “So long as we can install a panic room into which I can disappear on occasion, all should be well.” He kisses me back, and then takes my hand. “I think we shouldn’t keep your family waiting.”

  It’s kind of our family now, which is a lot of fun to think about. So we go back inside, take our glasses, and join Justin and the others in raising a toast to Mom. Fraser and I drink, our hands clasped. His thumb traces lightly over the diamond on my finger.

  What a difference a year makes. Here’s to many more.

  The end!

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  Extra Credit

  Check out the first chapter of my other book, Extra Credit!

  Chapter 1

  Chelle

  William Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Not bad for a man in the sixteenth century, but if he were around in today’s Los Angeles, he might have said “All Runyon Canyon’s a stage, and all the men and women who work out there are hot. Like say, anywhere from a seven to a nine point five. Please don’t interrupt me, my agent’s calling.”

  Will wouldn’t have made it in LA, though. Too many out of left field plot twists.

  Still, Runyon C
anyon’s perfect for me in the here and now, right as dawn is lighting up the sky. It’s beautiful, cool, and I get the place to myself. No shirtless douchebros trying to hit on me, no veganites with penicillin dairy free milkshakes judging me because I once—once—ate a sandwich. Just me, the gorgeous trail, and my little dog Archie. Archie’s a mutt rescue. Not sure what the mix is, but probably a combination of dachshund and Gremlin. He’s got big, flappy ears, a waggly little butt, and if I feed him after midnight, he poops on everything.

  As I run up the canyon trail, Archie skipping and yipping ahead of me, I focus my thoughts on the day ahead. Because it’s the Chelle Richardson show, ladies and gentlemen, pulling into another over-privileged, ritzy elementary school. The place is called Bay of Dreams, all the way up in Laurel Canyon. You know, one of those places the hippies found and infested back in the 70s. Well, now it’s a probiotic day school for the richest and crunchiest Angelenos and their kale in the lunchbox children. Considering the demographic I’m going to work for, I’m guessing there’ll be three kids in the class named Kale.

  But you know what? As long as the kids are happy, bright-eyed, and passionate about putting on the best version of Jesus Christ Superstar a ten-year-old can create, I’m giddy to work with them. I love every aspect of theater, and nothing’s better than seeing a kid’s face light up when she takes her center stage moment as Candlestick #5 in Beauty and the Beast.

  That’s what I do, what I’ve been doing the five years since I graduated Northwestern with a B.A in Communications in my eager, sweaty grip. I travel from town to town, school to school, setting up shop for a few months to put on a fabulous production with a bunch of adorable kids. Then the face paint gets wiped off, the auditorium doors shut, and I get a not-so-hefty paycheck and a friendly, “Thanks, we’ll call if we need you again.” Nothing permanent yet.

  Which, to be honest, is kind of a pain. At twenty-eight, I’m hitting the age where being a redheaded lady who bounces around the country with a suitcase and teaching lessons Xeroxed the night before is no longer that attractive. I’d love to settle down, get put on the full time faculty of a nice elementary school, and spend my life happily showing kids the marvelous joys of community theater. I mean, it’s what I went to school for. It’s what I trained for.

  As Archie does three zooms around a rock and then pees on it with crazy puppy excitement, I think about taking my little portable pooch and heading back out to my parents’. That’d be tough at the best of times, but considering what my folks do…well, let’s just say that putting on a prepubescent version of Hair looks downright conservative.

  Archie puts his little nose in the air, smelling something frantically. Then he charges ahead, kicking up clouds of dust and yapping his flappy-eared head right off. I take off after him, and then stop. Because I hear something ahead—a man’s voice shouting, and damn if it doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble.

  “Shit! Shit! Hold on!” he yells. I take off, images of heroic rescue leaping into my mind as I go. I may be five foot nothing with Ronald McDonald hair, but this heart beats Gryffindor scarlet. I was on Pottermore. I know the drill.

  I make a turn in the road, and find myself face to…well, not face, but face-to-back with a tall man, one hand to his ear. The shirt he’s wearing has a V of sweat down the back, and you’ll pardon me for noticing it’s a very nice back. I’m pretty sure I can pick out every definition of muscle. He’s like a sweaty Donatello carving.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, running around to look at him. From the way he’s got a hand to his ear, the poor man might be suffering from a ruptured eardrum. That or, you know…he’s on a Bluetooth. Yelling at somebody.

  “Ken, you can’t be serious. How can the Dow be that low at opening bell?” he asks, his brow furrowed. There’s a majorly incredulous look going down here. He’s tall, so tall he doesn’t seem to notice me. Then again, most normal-sized people don’t seem to notice me—I am but a ginger hobbit.

  “Sorry. Thought you were in a crisis,” I say again, right down here at like his navel. My god, this man is tall. And as the sun begins to crest the canyon, I notice how tall is also translating to hot. In fact, he…

  Then Archie gives a yelp. I wheel around and find him pinned down to the canyon floor, getting his maidenly virtue tarnished by a humping bullmastiff. This dog, this slobbery, beautiful, big-eyed dog has probably not been neutered and is claiming his territory like a canine John McClane rappelling down the Yakatomi Plaza. If the Yakatomi Plaza were my dog.

  “Hey! Get off Archie! Shoo!” I cry, waving my hands at the big slobbery sweetheart. He looks up at me, jowls tumbling, drool drooling, and gives a big, happy bark. It’s a loud bark—it could probably make you as deaf as a four hour U2 concert. But as soon as he sees me, he bounds off my little mutt and makes straight for me.

  It’s love at first slobbery sight. I laugh as he knocks me down and starts laying on the wet, sloppy kisses. His tail is waggling like nobody’s business, and from the view I’m getting from down here…yep, that is a fella who seriously needs his stones scooped. But who am I to get mad at such a beautiful baby?

  “Oh, I love you too,” I laugh, especially when Archie starts bounding up and down around us, looking to get in on the action. I hear the guy hang up his call, and he takes the big mastiff off me by his collar. The dog whimpers, looking up with “please love me” eyes. Who could ever resist that face?

  “Bruno. Come on, I was on a call,” the man says, though he gives the dog a loving scratch between the ears. Bruno’s massive Gene Simmons tongue lolls out as he gets scritchies. Still chuckling, I get to my feet, dusting at my sweatpants. Archie takes a flying leap into my arms, licking at my chin to make sure he’s still my number one special guy.

  “We almost had to make it a shotgun wedding between these two,” I say, grinning as Bluetooth Man turns to me, finally clearly visible in the pink morning light. When I get the full picture, I nearly do my own Gene Simmons impression. Because this man is a sweaty god.

  He’s at least six one, gotta be, with rock hard biceps and a gray college shirt that is hugging gorgeously sculpted pectorals. His chin is angular, dusted perfectly with stubble, his eyes the kind of steel gray that can only be described as snapping. With looks like this, it makes sense he has some important-sounding job on the other end of a Bluetooth. Hell, he could be the emperor of a small foreign country, one where they’re still on the gold standard and people are all supple and hot even past fifty.

  Man, what a place. I’d like to retire there.

  Then, Bluetooth Man makes Bruno heel, looks me up and down, and says, “You should keep that dog on a leash, you know.”

  Oh, hypocrisy, thy name is This Guy. Cradling my little Archie against my chest, I try to keep myself from sniping as I reply, “You’ve got the bigger ballplayer. And since he’s got all his balls intact, maybe he should be on a leash.”

  “I only meant that smaller dogs can get snatched up easier,” the man says, crouching a little to look into Archie’s face. His forehead creases. “Much, much smaller. Wow. What breed is he?”

  Oh, I get it. A small dog snob. The kind that thinks any animal under fifty pounds makes no sense. I take Archie and press him into Hypocritical God’s face, and Archie gives a friendly lick. The dude starts a little, surprised by cuteness.

  “He’s all tongue and eyes,” I drawl.

  “So I gathered.” The man pats his leg, and Bruno heels at once. He looks like the sort of guy who wrestles bears into submission and then beds maidens fair by bubbling streams, beneath a crush of wildflowers. That is not a fantasy I am having at all. These are just facts. “Sorry to interrupt your walk. It’s just good to get out in the morning.” The guy looks off into the dawn light, which is doing amazing things to his cheekbones, my god. “This canyon is the perfect place—”

  “To feel at one with nature, and be peaceful,” I say, agreeing.

  “—to get some actual work done. New York’s three hours ahead.” Right, of c
ourse he’s obsessed with hours at the office. Probably worships at the altar of CrossFit, too. The man finally turns his rugged, admittedly panty-melting gaze back at me. “You keep to a tight schedule, too?”

  Oh, I could try to invent a hundred great and impressive sounding jobs to interest this hot dude I’m never going to see again. But for some inexplicable reason, the truth slips out. “I’m a substitute teacher.”

  “Ah.” He’s got that look that people in a certain tax bracket get when they find out I’m living like an overgrown college student. “That probably doesn’t require…strict hours.”

  That gets my natural redheaded dander up. Putting my chin in the air, I say, “Prepping the next generation for a hard world is a pretty noble calling, if you ask me.”

  Ha! Sweaty God nods in agreement.

  “Sorry. What do you teach?”

  “Theater.” Idiot! Not impressive sounding at all! “Science,” I add weakly.

  “Theater science. Sounds…relaxing.” He passes his glance over me once, probably taking in all the components of a struggling late twentysomething. Well, two can play at that game, buddy. And when I pass my glance over him, I…get lost a little bit on the way. But still, I refuse to give in.

  “It’s a balm for the soul,” I say in the most aggressive way possible. Then I take a step backward with Archie, and feel a rock slip out from under my heel. Oh, shit! I’m going backward, about to take a dive off the canyon trail, and I can just imagine how much this is going to hurt. I’d wave my arms to save myself, but I’d have to drop Archie. Never. You jump, I jump, Jack. Or Archie. Dog.

  But I don’t have to take that dirt bath, because the man steps in and grabs me around the waist, pressing me to his body for one brief moment. My heart beats against him, or it would if we weren’t squashing a tiny, licking dog between us. Still, his arm is a rock hard support around me, and he lifts and deposits me easily back onto the trail. My head spins a little. He steps back, looking strategically tousled and nonchalant. Like he dashes to the mountain rescue of fair ladies on his off days.