Return to Sender

by Ashlyn Kane

  He decided to strive for normal. “So, got all my stuff. All moved out of the dorms.” Still striving for normality, he continued on with his original plan and walked to the fridge to get some juice. He poured himself a tall glass of punch and pretended not to hear his mother pull out a tissue.

  Emerson finished his glass of juice and stood in the middle of the kitchen, uncertain and not moving.

  “How are you, honey?” Emerson could tell by the tone of her voice that she was asking about his decision to move.

  “I’m fine,” he said, not wanting to elaborate or argue. He knew she wasn’t very happy about the need for him to move back home, but with Dad sick and in the hospital for now, there wasn’t much choice about it.

  “Okay.” She gave him a trembling mockery of a smile that didn’t last long. The silence that followed was oppressive. Finally Emerson conceded defeat. He and his mother wouldn’t be having any sort of conversation tonight, meaningful or otherwise. Emerson turned to leave.

  “Oh, Emerson?”

  “Yes, Mom?” Emerson turned back to her, hoping for a moment of the mother he missed.

  “When you’re at the store tomorrow, don’t forget it’s inventory time. And file the time sheets so we can get the paychecks out on time. There aren’t many, and I don’t want the kids to suffer for this.” Emerson’s parents had owned a small grocery store in Hudson Bend for longer than he could remember. They sold snacks and candy to the local kids and fresh produce and organic foods to their parents. He had been working at the store for most of his life.

  “I know, Mom.” This was all stuff that Emerson knew. He had known it before Christmas, and he certainly knew to take care of it now.

  “Right, of course. I just didn’t want you to forget.”

  “Okay.”

  The silence returned.

  “Well, I have homework to get done, and then I’m going to go to bed. Night, Mom.”

  “Okay.”

  Emerson turned to go, but just as he was passing through the door, she added softly, “Thank you for this, Emerson. You’re a good boy. I’m so proud of you.” He didn’t turn around. Instead he stood, frozen and embarrassed. He wished she hadn’t said anything.

  Emerson didn’t break the awkward silence, only nodded to let her know he had heard and then continued to his room.

  §

  EMERSON was shocked out of his sleep by the sound of Garth Brooks telling him he had friends in low places. Blindly fumbling to find the source of the noise, he decided that Garth was right. If Zack and Greg weren’t low, then Emerson didn’t know who was, because they were clearly to blame for his current hung-over state.

  Emerson’s hand finally landed on his cell phone, and with a pain-filled groan, he brought the screen to his face. Thankfully he had apparently remembered to take his contacts out last night, even if he couldn’t remember going to bed, but that meant he was as blind as a bat. The cell phone told him that Zack was calling. Which meant that Hayley had stolen and reprogrammed his cell phone again.

  Thumbing the phone on, Emerson groaned into it. “Wha’?”

  “Emma! How are you this morning?”

  Emerson whimpered.

  “Look, did you make it back to Hayley’s okay? You kind of wandered off last night.”

  He let out another groan. “Did I?” His face was still smushed into his pillow. Emerson tried to remember what had happened last night.

  “Don’t you remember?” The bastard was laughing at him.

  He remembered Zack dragging him out to a frat party. Zack had been bugging him for weeks about working too hard and not getting out enough, so when he had started on about this frat party that Peter and the Hanged Man were playing at, Emerson had caved. He had let Hayley pick out his skinniest jeans and his tightest T-shirt, and then he had let them take him to a frat party.

  Emerson, of course, had felt woefully out of place. He had also lost track of Hayley about fifteen minutes into the party, because Hayley was a bit of a slut who wanted to get laid. Since the only other people that Emerson knew at this party were the entertainment and therefore unavailable, he had grabbed the closest unopened bottle of beer and begun to drink.

  Emerson had downed two bottles of beer while wandering around the party, feeling awkward and conspicuous. Standing in the middle of the frat house, he couldn’t remember why he had ever thought that this would be a good idea. That was until he stumbled into a new room and into—someone tall, dark, and gorgeous. Emerson hadn’t been too drunk at the time to realize that having to tilt his head back to look the guy in the eyes was a major turn on.

  “Hello,” the stranger had said with a wide, charming smile. And then Emerson realized that he had planted his hand on the man’s chest to steady himself and was, at that point in time, petting the firm muscle under his touch.

  Emerson let out a piteous groan and heard Zack chuckle in response. “So, starting to remember?”

  “Oh God, I ran into… oh God! I can’t remember his name!”

  Zack laughed.

  “Za-ack!” Emerson moaned, feeling quite sorry for himself. Though he couldn’t remember the other guy’s name, he certainly remembered what they had done.

  After several minutes of flirting and staring up into interested brown eyes, Emerson had let himself be led into a closet. Yes, a closet, but it had been private, and the guy had been nibbling on his neck. Emerson had, since starting college, kissed a few other boys at parties, so it wasn’t anything shocking. Still, this whole making out thing was pretty new to him, and none of the other guys had ever been this talented, he’d thought dazedly as he tilted his head back so that the guy could nibble bellow his ear.

  And then Emerson, drunk on two beers, had let the stranger….

  Emerson groaned again. “Zack… I think I lost my virginity last night, and I can’t remember the guy’s name.”

  A long pause greeted this. “Are you serious? Jesus, Emma.”

  “I just… it’s not like I meant to!” Emerson wailed and buried his face deeper into the pillow. “We were making out, and then he just… stuck his hands down my pants!”

  He had. It hadn’t been done with much finesse, either. The guy had just rammed his hand down there with little regard for Emerson’s comfort. His hand had been large and rough and had pulled at Emerson with harsh strokes. Emerson had gasped in surprise, and the guy had taken the opportunity to shove his tongue down Emerson’s throat. It was about that time that Emerson thought maybe he wasn’t having fun anymore. Apparently being a good neck nibbler didn’t mean you were good at giving hand jobs.

  Zack let out sigh and murmured, “Christ.” Then, louder, “Only you could accidently get a hand job, Emma.”

  “It wasn’t a very good one,” Emerson mumbled. “I’d almost think he’s never given one before.”

  It had been so bad that Emerson had just stood there while the stranger jacked him off and then used Emerson’s hand to get himself off. Afterward, Emerson had said the fastest goodbye he’d ever given and then run away. Quickly.

  Once he’d escaped from the closet, he had stumbled around for a while before finding more beer. Emerson had downed several cups of the stuff, trying to get the memory out of his head.

  Then Hayley had found him. No, that wasn’t right, because Hayley had found him outside, so he had made his way outside first. He had gone outside because he had wanted to find a mailbox because—

  “Oh, shit!” Emerson bolted upright in bed. Panic adrenaline filled his veins. Oh God, he hadn’t, had he? He vaguely remembered finding the flyer and the pen, and then—“Oh God… Zack, I think I sent Jonah a drunk letter last night.”

  This was greeted by silence. “Oh?” It was really unfair that Zack could lace one simple syllable with so much disapproval and meaning. “What did this drunken letter say?”

  “I think I told him I got drunk and lost my virginity,” Emerson whispered, mortified. Maybe he should just smother himself with a pillow.

  Zack burst
into laughter.

  Emerson pulled the pillow over his head.

  “Sorry, Emma, didn’t mean to laugh, but shit, only you could get drunk enough to drunk dial, but then actually write and mail a letter instead.” There was a pause as they both considered this. “Maybe you didn’t actually mail it, or maybe you didn’t address it right?”

  Hope began to fill Emerson’s chest, and he sat up, letting the pillow fall to the side. Zack was right. It was ridiculous to think that Emerson had not only written the letter but had addressed and stamped an envelope as well.

  Then Emerson remembered how he had made out an envelope just yesterday to write Jonah a letter. He had decided, on a whim, that he would write Jonah this morning and tell him about the party. Knowing that he’d be in Hayley’s dorm room, he had gathered up the needed supplies—envelope, paper, stamp—and then decided he might as well get the envelope ready so that he wouldn’t lose the stamp.

  Emerson whimpered in despair.

  “Right, I’ll take that as a no, that you actually managed to successfully drunk mail Jonah.”

  “Zack!”

  “Oh no, don’t whine to me, you loser. I’ve been telling you for months that you should just stop writing that boy. He’s bad for you.”

  “Have sympathy,” Emerson begged. “I just told the man of my dreams that I gave it up while drunk at a frat party!”

  “Remind me to never call you the morning after you’ve been drinking again. Hangovers turn you into a drama queen.”

  Emerson suddenly felt like crying. Then Hayley walked into the room and said, “Oh, Em, you’re awake!” and he burst into tears.

  Or rather, Emerson sniffled in a very manly fashion and tears started falling down his cheeks. He let out a sob.

  “Oh, Christ,” he heard Zack say at the same time that Hayley cried, “Emerson, darling, what’s wrong?”

  He hiccupped. “I’m a slut!” he burst out.

  Hayley stared at him, obviously flummoxed. “Em, you are the most celibate person I know.”

  “I gave it up to a frat boy at a frat party! I’m not just a slut, I’m a cliché.” Emerson fell back onto Hayley’s bed and covered his face with the pillow again to smother a groan. Through the layers of fabric and down, Emerson thought he could hear Hayley muttering “there, there” and Zack laughing through the phone line.

  Hayley sat on her bed and patted Emerson’s shoulder comfortingly.

  “Emerson.” Zack’s voice was louder than before, and Emerson wondered if Hayley had put Zack on speakerphone. “How drunk did you get last night?”

  And then, “Are you still drunk?” He sounded like he was trying really hard not to laugh.

  Emerson whimpered.

  Three hours later, after Zack had stopped laughing and after Hayley had got the whole story out of him, and after Emerson had sobered up a bit and had a shower (because he had really needed one), he pulled out a piece of paper to write Jonah another letter.

  Given that Emerson couldn’t remember exactly what he had written, writing the apology letter wasn’t that simple.

  Well, he knew how to start.

  Jonah,

  Now, where to go from there? After staring at the page for some time, Emerson decided to go with honesty. He could do that. It took some time, but he finally managed to come up with a letter he was satisfied with.

  Oh God! Please tell me that writing you a drunken letter about my drunken activities at a party and then MAILING it is all just a drunken hallucination.

  Fuck! I’m embarrassed. I can’t believe I did that.

  I was trying to follow your advice—make sure I didn’t get caught up in work—Zack kept bugging me about going to this party that his friends were throwing and that he was performing at, and I caved. Alcohol is a very bad thing, and I’m never having it ever again. Also, I’m not sure about ever having sex again either; it was kind of pretty awful.

  Em

  Emerson reread the letter and then groaned in despair. He sounded like a whore! And so one last line was added:

  P.S. Oh geez, I made myself sound like a drunken slut! I only had two beers before the making out started. The real drinking happened afterward.

  Then, before he could lose his nerve, Emerson placed the letter in an envelope and left the house to mail it.

  Chapter 4

  NOW

  “ALRIGHT, I’ve waited long enough.” Natalie didn’t bother knocking, just barged into his room—still full of boxes from the furniture he’d been putting together all day—and situated herself on the bed. “Spill.”

  It had been two days since—Jonah didn’t know what to call it, so “since” would have to suffice. When he’d stormed out, furious, he’d needed space to think, so he’d gone for a walk, wanting to be alone. So of course he’d run into his sister and her friends, who were still looking for a fourth roommate. This time he hadn’t thought twice about accepting the offer.

  He’d slept on the floor the first night, and the next day his dad had come by in the pickup with his bed, and then they’d gone to IKEA.

  Next time, Jonah was buying furniture that didn’t come in eight thousand pieces.

  “Don’t you knock?” he said without much real heat. Maybe if he were obnoxious enough she’d go away. “I could have been jerking off in here.”

  “Please, you are way too emo to choke the chicken right now. You probably can’t even get it up.”

  The sad part was that she was at least partially right. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Obviously. That’s why you’re sitting up here on the floor making so much noise you’d wake Saint Peter.” Natalie made herself comfortable, stretching out on his bed. Then she brandished a nail clipper and threatened, “I’m gonna start cutting right here if you don’t spill.”

  Ugh, that was disgusting. “God, where do you get these depraved ideas?” Jonah grumbled, but he put down the screwdriver and flopped onto the floor in defeat anyway. With Natalie it was only ever a matter of time. “Where should I start?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about why you’re having a giant love-tiff with your boyfriend, whom you totally adore and cannot keep your hands off of?”

  Jonah sighed. He might as well get it off his chest. “Do you remember my ex? Dee Carlisle?”

  “Yeah, sure. Girls’ volleyball captain, right? She was nice. I heard she was in town for a while.” Natalie lowered her voice. “She didn’t hit on you in front of him or something?”

  “I wish,” Jonah muttered. “It was worse.”

  “How much worse?” asked Natalie cautiously.

  “She showed up at the store, while he was working, with her son, Gareth. He’s three.”

  Jonah waited for Natalie to do the math. Then she said, “Oh, he did not.”

  “Accuse me of hiding a kid? Oh yeah.” Talking about it—hell, even thinking about it—was like pouring salt on an open wound.

  “Wow,” Natalie said. “I mean, I knew he was a neurotic basket-case, but this is a little insane, even for Emerson. But you set him straight, right?”

  Jonah was silent.

  “Right? Jonah?”

  He said nothing, and Natalie got off the bed to sit next to him on the floor. “You didn’t,” she said. “You let him think whatever he wanted. You were too pissed off to care about his feelings.”

  Well—guilty as charged, but Jonah didn’t think anyone could really blame him for that. He sat up. “Hell yes, I was pissed! I’m still pissed!”

  “Easy, killer,” Natalie placated. “What did he say when you moved out? Anything?”

  Jonah kept his mouth shut.

  “You didn’t talk to him,” Natalie extrapolated. She really excelled at this game, which was annoying. “You packed up your shit and left without saying a word. Wow, Jonah, very mature. I’m impressed. The silent treatment. What are you, twelve?”

  Fuck it, Jonah didn’t have to take shit about his relationship from his baby sister. He stood up. “Know a lot of twelve-year-o
lds whose boyfriends accuse them of being fathers?” he snarled.

  Stubbornness ran in the Cherneski genes, though, and Natalie got right up after him. “So Emerson’s a basket case. That’s not exactly a newsflash, Jonah. You knew what you were signing on for!”

  “Are you actually defending him?”

  “I just called him a basket case! But he’s your basket case!”

  “Not anymore!” Jonah yelled.

  The sudden blossom of pain across his face had him staggering backward with one hand on his cheek. Incredulous, he looked down at his hand to find a trickle of blood; she’d split his lip open. “What the fuck—”

  She was shaking with anger when he met her eyes again. “Jonah, you are my brother, and I love you dearly. But you and Emerson have something most people only dream about, and if you throw that away over this, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

  Then she stormed out, slamming the door behind her, leaving Jonah nursing a cheek that didn’t hurt nearly as much as his heart. Weakly, Jonah sat down on his bed, staring at the plain white wall. He should put up some pictures or something, he thought. Only that reminded him of the suitcase full of pictures of Emerson’s art he had from his apartment in California, and that led to thinking about Emerson, a practice Jonah was determined to stop.

  The door opened again, quietly this time, with the briefest and softest of preceding knocks, and Natalie came in and sat next to him and pressed a cloth-wrapped ice pack to his face. “Sorry,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it. Natalie had got their father’s temperament, which meant her anger was explosive but over with quickly. “I know you’re just….”

  “Scared,” Jonah said. Terrified would have been a better word. He’d lashed out at Natalie because he was afraid that Emerson might not be his basket case anymore. That Emerson wouldn’t forgive him for the way he’d acted or wouldn’t be able to stop being a neurotic mess just waiting for Jonah to fuck up in a huge, unforgivable way.

  “Sure,” Natalie said. “That works.” She slid an arm around his shoulders in a sideways half-hug. “I’d be scared too.”