Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

“For the most part, yes. Even the most perfect relationship ebbs and flows. And these values will ease the strain of the more challenging times.”

  “Let’s pose a few scenarios. What if faithfulness is a must-have, it’s important to me and my guy has cheated in the past, not on me, but in previous relationships.”

  “Walk away. A cheater doesn’t change his spots.”

  “Okay, what if I don’t drink, but my girlfriend does?”

  “If no drinking is a must-have, then walk away because eventually the sheen wears off. If there’s a deal breaker masked by newness and lust, it won’t work once the relationship has dulled.”

  “So you’re saying we fall into a relationship with someone without taking into consideration these must-haves.”

  “Exactly. And once the relationship grows to the point of T-shirts rather than lingerie, ‘Honey, the Thai food didn’t agree with me,’ and socks scattered on the floor—”

  “Your naked man props one foot on the counter and clips his toenails before bed without rinsing the sink clean.”

  “Personal experience?”

  “Daily.” She laughs.

  “Well, if your must-haves aren’t in place, if those qualities that run deeper than the surface aren’t established, then it won’t last. Simple as that.”

  “I’m curious, why do you think most clients seek you out?”

  “They’re tired of settling.”

  “For?”

  “For nothing special. My clients are tired of either a string of meaningless relationships or a long-term relationship with themselves. They’re seeking something wonderful.” I glance at my scar. “I’m reminded every day that life is short. There’s no reason to settle. That’s what I hope to do. I hope to provide a bit of wonderful.”

  I answer a few more questions, enjoying the interview and the callers. Time passes quickly and I’m surprised to hear Lucy say we’re through.

  “I’ve learned quite a bit in this last hour. I’m certain our readers have too. Stay away from the naked toenail clippers of the world, people. Let’s take a look at your book sales from our hour together.”

  I lean forward, trying to catch a glimpse of her screen.

  “Damn, girl. Looks as if you’ve jammed the sites.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nods. “All right, listeners, grab a copy of Bree’s book before they’re all gone. Literally. Can I See You Again? is a definite must-have. Thanks for joining us, Bree.”

  “My pleasure, thank you.”

  “Weather and news are up next.” Lucy signals off and says to me, “Enjoy the spoils of a Lucy Hanover bump.”

  Randi clicks off her phone. “Well, that does it.”

  “Does what?”

  “Congratulations, doll face. I just got word from my numbers guy. With these latest sales projections, and compared to those you’re competing with on release day, no doubt about it, you’ll make the list.”

  “I will?” A rush of excitement seeps through my body.

  “You will.”

  “Oh, Randi, this is amazing. Thank you so much.” Wait until I tell Jo. We will celebrate with Champagne and dance around the house. Her house.

  “A pleasure. I told you I was a sure thing. So, should I mail or hand-deliver your bonus check?” she says with a wink.

  I’m dialing Jo seconds after Randi finishes her sentence.

  “Hello, Bree. Martin and I heard you on the radio. You sounded wonderful.”

  “We did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Secured a spot on the list. I’ll get the check, Jo. I can save your house.”

  thirty-three

  “I don’t understand why you have to go.” Sean lies on the bed beside my half-filled suitcase, pillowing his head with folded arms, having just flown in from San Francisco a couple of hours ago.

  “I already told you. I promised Nixon weeks ago.” I toss in an extra pair of jeans and an off-the-shoulder black sweatshirt for the ride home. “He posed as my guy for the paper and now I’m posing as his girl for the wedding. We made a deal.”

  “But you’re my girl.” He sits up, grabs my belt loop, and pulls me between his legs.

  “I know.” I pat his shoulder before pulling away. Aside from the few minutes at my office last week I haven’t worn the ring since he proposed. “Just a couple interviews left.”

  “Then I can shout to the world we’re engaged?”

  “Once this whole thing has blown over, you can skywrite it above the city if you want.”

  “I might just do that. What time are you coming back?”

  “Not sure.” Should I bring my bathing suit? I wish Andrew were here to help me pack. He’s great at this sort of thing, planning and picking out outfits. But he’s probably too busy picking out his desk, discussing vacation days and sick time. His chipper smile was plastered across his face after returning from “the doctor” the other day, as big as I’ve seen it in sometime. And I hate it. Sure, I should be happy for him, especially if he’s found another opportunity that makes him happy. But I’m sad for me. Mostly sad that he hasn’t shared his good fortune with me. I thought we were tight. Seems all my lying has rubbed off on him.

  “Don’t let him keep you too late. Tomorrow is our night. Finally. With your busy schedule and my trips to Denver and San Francisco, I tell you, I’m about to explode. I can’t believe it’s taken us this much time to reconnect.”

  “You’ve been a patient boy. Don’t worry, I’m certain the wait will be worth the pain.” I open the drawer and fish for my black bikini and see Sean’s note.

  L’Straut Jewelers . . . ask Bree.

  My mind detours to the first time I learned of Sean’s note habit, right after we met at the barbecue. He got my work address from our friend, and starting with the following Monday, Sean had a florist deliver me a white rose, every afternoon, for two weeks. Each flower had a note card with an individual letter written on it. No name. Just a single letter. Alone, they made no sense. An E one day, an R the next, a question mark and a comma. But when the final rose came, I pieced the puzzle together—Dinner, Friday?

  He called me minutes after the final rose arrived.

  As I stare at the hundredth reminder I’ve seen since then, I’m thankful I didn’t rip this Post-it into shreds. “I never told you, but I found your note.”

  “What note?”

  “This one.” I set it in his palm. “I found it behind the dresser.”

  “Oh?” He crumples up the paper.

  Did he—?

  He pitches it into the trash can.

  Oh, my, God. I can hardly utter the words. “What . . . why . . . why did you do that?” I dig the Post-it out of the can and try to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “What’s the big deal? It’s just a note.”

  “Just a note?”

  “Yeah. Why are you freaking out?”

  “I can’t believe you’d throw this away. Don’t you want to save the memento? Show our grandkids?”

  “No.”

  Who is this monster?

  “Why is a reminder about a battery so important?”

  My eyes meet his. “A battery?”

  “Yeah. My watch kept running slow. I meant to ask you to drop it off on your way to work but ended up taking care of it myself.” He rubs clear a smudge on the face of his TAG Heuer.

  “This isn’t a proposal reminder?”

  “A proposal reminder? Hardly,” he says with a laugh, wrapping his arm around me.

  “This isn’t funny.” I step out of his grasp.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not teasing you.” He pulls me close again and rubs his hands up along my arms. “It’s sweet that you kept the note.”

  “When did you decide to propose?”

  “I don’t know . . . I suppose it was th
at morning I read about you and Nick. You looked happy in the photo. It scared me. I knew I had to have you back. I’m sure you felt the same when you saw pictures of Sara and me. But you fooled me. I had no idea you were pretending with Nick . . . Nixon . . . whatever his name is.”

  “So, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  No staying up all night, highlighting our times together, playing out proposal scenarios in his head. No being sick with worry I might say no. No heartfelt she’s the one moment?

  “And you only asked me because you thought someone else showed interest?”

  “Yes. No. Don’t make it sound like that. The situation brought me clarity, in a good way. I will never take you for granted again, soon-to-be Mrs. Bree Thomas. We have a lifetime of memories ahead, and I don’t need a note to remind me how much I love you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I stare at the wrinkled paper in my hand. He makes a good point. He asked me because he loves me. What does it matter the catalyst? So what if this Post-it isn’t a proposal? I never liked these notes anyway.

  thirty-four

  “How can you not like weddings?” I ask Nixon, standing beside his charcoal gray Ford F-250 truck.

  “They’re a waste of money. Why obligate my friends to buy me a toaster?” He heaves my bag into the truck bed. “Jesus, it’s just for one night, you know.”

  I hand him a second bag. “Maybe your friends want to buy you a toaster.”

  “How many toasters does one man need?”

  The tension that blanketed over us the last time we were together has lifted. “Well, I’m sure your cousin is very excited.”

  My phone rings. Hee-haw . . . hee-haw.

  Damn. I keep forgetting to change that.

  “Excuse me, one sec.” I step aside and answer Sean’s call. “Hey.”

  “You on the road?”

  “Just about.” I comb my fingers through my ponytail. “What’s up?”

  “I’m gonna swing back by your place and grab the ring.”

  “Sure. It’s in the drawer of my nightstand. Why?”

  “When I cleaned off that spot the other day, I thought I noticed a loose stone. I didn’t want you to worry if you came home and found your ring missing.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Of course, I could’ve left you a note.” He laughs. “Too soon?”

  “Too soon.”

  Ding-ding.

  “Hey, my other line is ringing. I better go.”

  “All right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I click over to Candace’s call. “Hello.”

  “So glad I caught you. Scotty’s at your office for a photo, but you aren’t there.”

  “Change of plans.” On purpose. “Nick picked me up at my house.” Nixon and I high-five.

  “Bree, this is becoming quite suspicious.”

  Shoot. She’s getting antsy. How much longer can I fend off her need for a photo op? “Sorry, Candace, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Not only is Nick incredibly evasive, but we’ve yet to find a urologist matching his description in any of the physician databases, nor the Tough Mudder race results. Readers are questioning who Nick really is. They’re upset, as am I, that we aren’t getting answers.”

  I feel bad she’s under pressure.

  “Scotty can come to you.”

  I don’t feel that bad. “What . . . did you . . . say? Dang, we’ve got crummy reception. I’m . . . losing . . . you . . .” I hang up.

  “You do realize you’ll rot in hell for all these lies?” Nixon teases.

  “Someone’s gotta keep you company.”

  “I’m a saint. Just look at all I’ve done for you lately.”

  “Yes, well, I’d like to think it’s been less than awful posing as my boyfriend.”

  “It’s tough, but I’m getting through.”

  “Ha. I’m the best fake girlfriend you’ve ever had.”

  “Yeah? Let’s see how well you convince my family we’re in love.” He shuts the tailgate. “Let’s roll.”

  Road construction and flashing pylons close the on-ramp to I-5 north, diverting us, along with a train of other vehicles, through a maze of side streets.

  “I swear, they’re always working on these roads.”

  “Job security,” Nixon says, turning right. “There’s an auxiliary cord in this console. Put some music on?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I plug in my phone and select my light rock Pandora station. Maroon 5’s “Payphone” ballad reverberates through his speakers.

  “Something else?” he says.

  “What’s wrong with this song?”

  “Nothing, if the singer is supposed to sound like a drowning cat.”

  Jo said something similar once. They’re both right. “Fine, Mr. Picky Pants, what music do you like?”

  “Anything but this.”

  I search for a classic rock radio station and select the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Californication.” “Better?”

  “Better.”

  We approach a stop sign and wait in the turning lane behind several cars.

  I cast my eyes across the street toward a couple of young girls. They bounce and titter while coloring rainbows with sidewalk chalk underneath a tall pecan tree that shades the pathway. There’s a gash in the tree’s lower trunk, a foot-long deep slit that’s healed but not forgotten.

  It’s as if a boulder drops onto my chest.

  Is this . . . ?

  I study the bordering houses and confirm what I feared. Oh, God. We came the roundabout way; I didn’t realize we were in this neighborhood. The same neighborhood where fifteen years ago fire truck sirens blared and ambulance lights flashed, and fuel pooled at the curb before snaking down the street into the gutters. Police officers asked questions and told people to stand back. All the while, I sat numb, picking away at the tree’s wound.

  At once, the car’s air is too thick. The sounds of the street too piercing. A decade and a half has passed and yet the pain is as raw as if the mangled steel of Dad’s Jeep just now slices my forearm.

  “Um . . . please . . . can you . . .” My voice is barely above a whisper.

  “What’s wrong, Bree?” Nixon shifts his gaze between me and the oncoming traffic, inching forward into the middle of the crossing streets, waiting to turn left.

  I close my eyes and grasp the console. Digging my nails deep into the leather, I ready myself for the crunch of metal, the seat belt’s burn as it cuts into my chest, Mom’s screams.

  I ready myself for the dizziness, the spins, Jo’s cries as she falls to her knees in the hospital lobby, and the silence in the evenings, all the years later, when she and I sat alone in the big old house.

  Nixon places his hand over mine.

  We pass through the street unscathed and he pulls over. “You all right?”

  Nothing happened, Bree. Nothing more than anxiety and paranoia taking control. “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He slips he hand away and pauses before asking, “Was that . . . the intersection?”

  I nod, staring out the window.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No, thanks. Let’s keep going. I’m okay.” It isn’t until several blocks later that my stiffened back relaxes and I can inhale a couple of breaths, release my grip on the console.

  My anxiety settles into embarrassment a few miles later. What must Nixon think of me? I claim to be this focused, assiduous businesswoman, and yet I shudder like a beaten dog at the sight of asphalt, an old tree, and a stoplight. Not to mention, I bullied him into joining my masquerade. Some noble, self-sufficient, forward-thinking woman I am. Allowing my present and future to hinge on my past.

  After clearing the Southern California gridlock, we climb through the
low mountains toward the paver-lined driveway of his parents’ Spanish-style hillside home. The moment the beige stucco and terra-cotta roof comes into view, the skin on the nape of my neck prickles. Suddenly this doesn’t seem like a good idea.

  “Let’s go in first,” he says, “I’ll grab our suitcases later. I need a forklift for yours, anyway.”

  “Wait.” I grab him by the arm. “What’s our story?”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “Humor me.”

  “We’re casually dating. We met at your office. You like Maroon 5 and I’m willing to look past it.”

  “Be serious. I’m about to meet your parents.” I check my reflection in the car’s side mirror. Damn, why didn’t I do something with my bangs? “Tell me more stuff about you, little nuggets to throw out in conversation.”

  “Like what?”

  “Do you have any tattoos? Ever been in a bar fight? What’s your favorite movie?”

  “No. Twice. Caddyshack.”

  “You’ve been in two bar fights?”

  He points to a hairline scar on the side of his right hand.

  “Did you win?”

  “Knocked him out cold.”

  I pinch my lips together. Hmmm . . . isn’t that sexy as hell. Not that it matters here nor there . . . I’m just taking note.

  “C’mon, you’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

  We follow the curvy sidewalk, lined with green grass. Rosebushes decorate the property edge overlooking the valley and city. We near the front door and my neck flames with heat, but I recite positive thoughts in my head. For Jo, for the book, for the house.

  “You should’ve worn a turtleneck.”

  “I know.” I reach to scratch my skin, but Nixon grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ve been at this for weeks now. Candace and Randi don’t suspect a thing. No one else will, either.”

  “Okay, you’re right. We’re masters at deception. Funny thing is, it’s been fairly easy pretending to be in love.” Wait . . . what did I just say?

  “What did you just say?”

  Before I answer, Mrs. Voss swings open the front door wearing a Last time I cooked, only three people got sick apron. “¡Mi chico guapo!”