Wait For It

by Michele L. Rivera

  As it turns out, my manager had come down with the flu over the weekend and would not be able to attend The Annual Conference on Elder Care, taking place in Cape Cod this week, and could I please, please, please go in her place to represent The Community Aging Center? I’d be required to sit in on meetings from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Monday and Tuesday, but then I could spend my evenings taking refuge in the lavish hotel room she had made reservations at, complete with a mini-bar and hot tub. And if I were willing to do her this tremendous favor, she would give me Wednesday off without deducting it from my vacation time, as an added bonus. She explained all of this to me through bouts of wheezing, her voice croaky and laden with desperation. I sympathized. Knowing my assistant, Lily, was competent enough to hold down the fort in the activities department at work and that Ruby could fend for herself for forty-eight hours, I agreed.

  I ate my bland dinner, packed my suitcase and toppled face-first onto my bed, clutching my phone—wishing for Abby to call to tell me that she had reconsidered.

  I fell asleep to the sound of radio silence.

  Monday, Tuesday, and the larger portion of today are hazy memories. If I focus, I can vaguely recall staring at slide show presentations involving pie charts and line graphs. I can still feel the cramp in my right hand from taking notes. If I were to open my briefcase, I could actually see the notes I recorded on my legal pad in my own penmanship. Yet, for the life of me, I cannot remember being at The Conference on Elder Care. I cannot remember being at the hotel, but I know I was because there is a new bar of soap in my bathroom enclosed in a wrapper with the inn’s name on it, which I must’ve confiscated. I cannot remember indulging in the mini-bar at my disposal the evening before, but I presently have a massive headache confirming that I did. I cannot remember the commute home from Cape Cod in its entirety, but I can somewhat recollect rolling down all the windows in my car at one point while belting out the lyrics to the ballad playing on the radio—the same song Abby and I harmonized to during our first date at Steep—and then being yelled at to ‘shut the fuck up’ by the driver in the vehicle next to mine. I cannot summon the details of the trail I jogged this afternoon or the shower I took, but my muscles are sore and my clothes are clean, smelling of floral fabric softener. I cannot remember making the decision to come here or how I even got here, but here I am, sitting in a booth at the back of Juice by myself on a Wednesday night, riffling through the editorial section of The Boston Terrene.

  I am looking at the words on the pages of the newspaper, but I can’t comprehend what it is that I’m reading. At what I think are evenly spaced out intervals, I glance at my left wrist, at the watch Abby gave to me, and then up at the bar behind the sham safety of a periodical, to see if she’s there. I am pathetic. I shrug. I’ll own that. It has been an hour and seven minutes and no Abby, but I am going to wait for her. I am not stalking. I am stealthily investigating a social scene. I nod, agreeing with myself. Oh god! That’s probably what bona fide stalkers think! I shake my head, rejecting the thought. I slide back in my seat and exhale laboriously, my eyes sweeping the vicinity. Every unfamiliar face is disparaging. I’m about to look down at my watch again when it happens. I spot the waves of truffle brown hair before anything else. My gaze stills. My heart trips and catapults into my stomach. There, at the bar, roughly twenty feet from where I’m sitting, with her back turned towards me, is Abby.

  It is not until I begin to feel dizzy that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I gasp, the newspaper falling from my grip. Then I stare in wonderment. I blink purposefully. She’s still there. I run my hand over my face. She’s still there. This is it. This is real. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and retrieve a pen from my bag. I take the napkin nearest me on the table and scribble my name and my home address across it. I stare at Abby once more. I swallow sharply, steeling myself. I am ready.

  I grab my satchel and slip out of the booth. I square my shoulders and start walking to the bar. My gaze is set on Abby. I watch her get situated on a stool. I watch as Jake, the server, gives her a tumbler of bourbon. I watch her take a sip and press the glass to her forehead. I’m standing right behind her now—she’s close enough for me to smell her smell. I inhale. She shifts her body ever so slightly to the left as if she can sense my presence. She drinks again from her cup then lowers it onto the coaster in front of her.

  I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I say to Abby.

  Abby turns around in her seat to face me. She greets me with a half-smile and sidelong look, a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. “Yes?”

  I hold out the napkin to her. “I think you dropped this.”

  Abby bites her bottom lip, her smile growing. So hot. I feel the warmth spill between my legs. A blush singes my cheeks.

  “Did you, um, see me drop it?” Abby asks.

  I let out a puff-croak of a chuckle. “No.”

  “But you’re sure it’s mine?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” I say.

  “Good thing you found it then.” Abby smirks and takes the folded napkin from me. “Thank you for returning it to me. How can I repay you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Abby waves away my words. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “Let me buy you drink at least.”

  “No really, it’s okay.” I motion to the exit with my thumb. “I was on my way out anyhow. There’s somewhere I’ve got to be.”

  Abby pouts coquettishly. “Oh. Well, that’s unfortunate.”

  I smile at her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Abby quirks an eyebrow at me. “Cryptic much?”

  “Nah. Cryptic only a little.”

  Abby nods, pressing her lips together to rein in a laugh. “I’m into it.”

  “I’ll remember that.” I glimpse at the door and then at Abby. “I better go. I don’t want to be late.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Abby says. “You strike me as a woman whose timing is on point.”

  She exacts another smile from me, but I remain quiet. Wait. Was she expecting me here?

  “You got a name?” Abby asks me.

  “I go by Parker. You?”

  “Parker,” she repeats slowly. “They call me ‘Abby’.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” I say.

  Abby flushes.

  “It was great meeting you, Abby, but I should be on my way.”

  “Right. Right. Of course,” Abby says. “Will I ever see you again?”

  I touch the napkin Abby’s holding. “That’s for you to decide.” I pull my hand away as I back out of her personal space. We lock eyes. “’Night, Abby.” I turn and take off in the direction of the exit.

  “’Night, cutie.” I hear Abby say after me. I wince, not wanting to leave, but I keep going with the hope in my heart that I will be the conclusion she arrives at.

  I wish.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’m lying on my bed, hands folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. My apartment is mostly dark save for the soft glow of fairy lights dangling along the walls of my studio. Ruby’s sleeping peacefully on the futon across the room. I am surrounded by such a thick silence, the ticking of my wristwatch is nearly deafening. I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 9:19 p.m. I left the bar around eight o’ clock. I live only three miles up the road. A short drive. If Abby were coming, she’d be here by now. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I really thought she’d come. I replay the details of the evening’s events, everything that led me to this. How could I have been wrong? What did I miss? Then I remember. The Jess factor. My cognizance brings with it a blinding pain that ripples between my ears. I cringe. I misunderstood Abby—what she said about my needing to improve my timing when she gave me the watch, how she specifically referenced Wednesday nights at Juice, and that she was there tonight as if she knew I’d be there, too. I’m an idiot. I let myself assume she hadn’t moved on. I’m a complete, fucking idio—

  A knock at my door startles me fr
om my self-degradation. I freeze. I listen. Another knock. I vault out of bed and scamper through the kitchenette to the entrance of my apartment. My heart beats unrestrainedly. I reach the door and open it without pause. For a fraction of a second, the world stops. Abby’s standing there, staring at me. Her eyes are wide and intense, consuming me. I forget to breathe.

  Abby clears her throat. “You,” she says.

  I finally exhale. “What about me?”

  “I choose you.”

  A pure joy inflates my chest. “You do?”

  “Parker, I decided on you for what seems like forever ago,” Abby says. “I never fell out of love with you.” She inhales. “That’s not to say I didn’t try to when I thought you didn’t want me in your life, but I couldn’t.” She swallows. “And I always kept believing.” Abby smiles to herself and shakes her head. “Then one night, out of nowhere, you magically appeared on my doorstep, looking at me with those gorgeous, hazel eyes of yours, asking me if I was happy.” She sighs dramatically. “Making me feel all the feels.” She narrows her gaze at me reprovingly. “In truth, though, it’s not that I wasn’t happy with Jess…it’s that I was unhappy without you.” Abby gives me a slight shrug. “I broke up with Jess after you left because you’re who I wanted.”

  I smile meekly at Abby. “You can have me.”

  “Can I?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” I parrot and grope for more words, but come up empty. I just stare.

  “Wow. All that and you’re not even going to invite me in?” Abby asks. “Rude.”

  I chuckle. “Pardon me.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand from the entryway to the inner area of my studio. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I would like that very much.” Abby steps through the threshold and passes by me.

  I shut the door. I don’t know she’s right behind me until she coughs to get my attention. I turn to her and she immediately pushes me up against the wall, the front of her body pressing into the front of mine. My body sets on fire. Abby leans into me, her face barely an inch from mine, her lips almost touching my lips. Her breathing is low and heavy. With each breath she takes, I swear I can feel her skin on my own. I ache everywhere.

  “Do you know that interlude thing we had?” Abby whispers.

  My throat is thick with desire. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t want to do that again.”

  “Me either.” My voice is coarse.

  “Do you know what I do want, though?” Abby asks, a twinkle of lust in her eyes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Can’t you use your super powers to read my mind or would you just rather I tell you?”

  “Tell me,” I implore.

  Abby’s velvety lips skim mine. A tease. “I want to have my way with you.”

  I grab her by the back of her neck and urgently pull her towards me to close the space between us. Our mouths find one another’s effortlessly. Our tongues rhythmically graze and circle each other’s while our lips dance together with an unparalleled coordination. As the heat of Abby’s breath fuses with the heat of mine, a tear lines its way down my cheek. Our long-awaited kiss is a wish, realized. A need, met. It is full of adoration and passion, everlasting.

  Abby tightens her arms around my bare waist, cuddling me. Our legs are entangled beneath the bedsheet. She kisses my shoulder then rests her chin on my chest. I tilt my head down to look at her and we exchange sated smiles.

  “Parker,” Abby says.

  “Yeah?”

  “I like your cat. I might kidnap her.”

  I chuckle. “Are you sure that’s something you’re up for? Ruby requires tons of affection and attention.”

  “So do you.” Abby smirks.

  I playfully stick my tongue out at her. “Then you should probably kidnap me, too.”

  “Done.” Abby shifts and glances briefly behind her, giving my studio a once-over. She faces me again. “I couldn’t help but notice your place is kinda bleak.”

  “I know,” I say frowning. “It’s alright though. I don’t plan to live here on a permanent basis.”

  “You don’t?” Abby asks. “Isn’t this your home?”

  “No. It’s not.” I touch my index finger to her nose. “This is.”

  Abby smiles broadly. My heart beats frenziedly.

  “I have a question for you,” I murmur.

  “Oh? I just might have an answer. Lay it on me.”

  I swallow. “Will you be my girl?”

  Every aspect of Abby’s visage brightens. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says. “You know I will.”

  There’s a short silence in which we hold each other’s eyes, both of us pleased.

  Abby takes a deep breath, severing the quietness. “Hey, Parker?”

  “Hey, Abby?”

  “I love you.”

  I wasn’t expecting that, but I was. I crane my neck and kiss Abby’s forehead. I gaze at her. I take a mental photograph of her, of this moment. Then I let myself fall deeper into her eyes. Those eyes. I lightly brush my left thumb over her right cheek. I smile gently. “I love you back.”

  The End That Never Was

  Also by Michele L. Rivera

  Taking the Lead

  Never the Same

  Something in Return