Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  It’s about me.

  I glance at the ring again, the stone’s brilliance blinding me with clarity. This isn’t right.

  “You hurt me, Sean. Really hurt me. And when we were apart, I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.” Snagging my belt loop, he pulls me closer.

  “No.” I inch away.

  “What’s wrong, Bree?”

  “I don’t want to be married to a man who isn’t sure. I don’t want to marry because it’s safe. I don’t want to marry a man out of convenience.”

  “Where is this coming from? You said you’ve forgiven me.”

  “I may be able to forgive what you did, but I can’t forgive the way you made me feel.”

  “What are you saying?”

  I slip the engagement ring off and set it on the table. I tear off a Post-it and scribble You’re a lawyer, figure it out and stick it on his forehead.

  And with that, I close the story of us. I know without a doubt, Sean’s and my history has become just that, history.

  forty-three

  Candace walks in the following morning with a scowl so deep not even a vat of Juvéderm could fill it.

  Stay calm, Bree.

  This time there is no rearranging of chairs or spiffing up my office with rugs and flowers. This time Candace sits with her legs crossed and an ankle wrapped around the other. She’s angled herself, offering more of her profile, rather than her whole face. Proving she’s interested in anyone or anything but me. Her body is closed. So is her mind.

  “Water? Coffee?”

  “I don’t have much time.” She clicks on her recorder. “Get on with what you want to say.”

  And here I feared this wouldn’t be fun. “Let me start by apologizing again.”

  “You’ve done that already.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s cut to the chase, then. I lied.”

  She sits forward and scoots her recorder closer toward me. “Talk louder.”

  “I pretended to date a man, a man I barely knew, for this article. And, yes, Sean and I dated for four years. Yes, he asked me to marry him. And yes, I played Sara for a fool.”

  Candace reaches for her notebook and scribbles as fast as I talk.

  “It’s my fault. I own all of it. The lies. The deceit. Everything. But they weren’t my intentions. I was thrilled at the opportunity this segment afforded me. And I promised myself to use this article as a platform to promote my book and be the best damn interviewee you’ve ever had. But on the eve of our first interview, Sean broke up with me. Out of the blue.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” I continue, thankful the tension has lifted. “Now, please understand, I’m not asking for pity. This isn’t a ‘poor-me’ appeal. But, at that moment, I didn’t know what to do. Obsessed with a successful book, I panicked. I begged Nixon, a client already, to pose as my boyfriend.” I stare through the window at the rolling ocean waves. “Everything about him is true. He is kind. He is handsome. He is the truest person I’ve ever met. He’s the man I think of when I have a bad dream, a crummy day, when the lights go out and the entire house is dark. But I’ve hurt him.”

  “Go on.”

  I pause before saying, “Truth is, I’m no good at love. My boyfriend of four years says I suffocated him. And Nixon, the man I fell in love with over this past month, won’t return my calls. I’ve jeopardized my family. I’ve hurt Nixon’s family. I’ve embarrassed people that I care about. I’ve lost my grandmother’s house.”

  “What’s your takeaway from all this? Where do you go from here?”

  “Good question.” I swallow hard. “I will continue to work hard and find love for my clients.” Those I still have left. I laugh in spite of myself. “Not that anyone cares, but I’ve learned a lot along this little journey. I’ve learned that success—or in my case, lack thereof—is never worth hurting others for. Especially those you love. I’ve learned that I’d rather be alone than settle. I’ve learned that squirrels are as feisty as I feared, zip-ties are remarkably effective, and hot dogs taste like heaven straight from the fire. I’ve witnessed the innocence and beauty of a mountain sunrise. I’ve shouldered the pain of lies and regret. I’ve learned to drive. I’ve learned to believe in chance.” Tears line my eyes, but I don’t blink them away. “I’ve learned what it’s like to kiss a man with every bit of my body and mind. To be stilled by his touch, silenced by his breath on my skin, honored by his smile. I’ve learned what it’s like to feel. I’ve learned what it’s like to lose him.”

  forty-four

  I’m set to leave for the hospital. It’s futile, really. All week she’s either pretended to be asleep or requested her bath the moment I arrive.

  Martin whimpers at my feet.

  “I can’t bring you to the hospital.”

  He rests his head on my foot.

  Nice ploy.

  His swishing tail gives me an idea. “Okay, fine, but you can’t bark.”

  Jo doesn’t want me to visit, but I’m certain she’ll love to see Martin. Besides, the nurses asked that I stop calling for updates and what flavor of Jell-O she ate that day.

  I grab a tote bag and stuff Martin inside. He lies down, sandwiched between the canvas, ready for the ride.

  We walk the hallway toward Jo’s room knowing, mentally preparing for the worst. She won’t be thrilled to see me, but she will Martin.

  Jo’s watching an infomercial on tire cleaner with a tray of eggs, toast, and fruit cup on her lap.

  “Hi, Jo.”

  She clicks off the TV. “They’re releasing me today.”

  “Oh, good. Okay. Let me gather—”

  “I saw the article.”

  Candace ran a “Special Edition” segment, posting the interview the day after we met, rather than waiting until Sunday. Guess she wanted to watch my book sales tumble even further that much sooner. “Yeah, well, I suppose it—”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  I squeeze my fists tight around the tote bag’s strap. Did she say what I think she said? “You are?”

  “I am.”

  She is?

  No snappy tone? No distant, disappointed look in her eye?

  “You’re a smart woman. A lovely woman.”

  “Thank you, Jo.” I shake my head, delirious with joy.

  She picks at her toast. “Sitting here, all alone, I’ve realized what a sour old fart I’ve been. Oh, honey.” Jo sighs. “I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel ashamed.”

  “You have reason to be mad at me.”

  “No. No, I don’t.” She pushes her tray away and pats the edge of her bed.

  I sit beside her.

  “I’m mad at the world. I’m mad at the damn drunk driver that took your parents away. I’m mad at the doctors for not saving them. I’m mad at the bartender who served the guy too many drinks. I’m mad at the car dealer for selling him a car. Hell, I’m mad at the wind when it blows the wrong direction. I’m mad at everything. But I’m not mad at you. I never have been. And I never will be.”

  We’re both crying. Jo’s proud of me. She loves me.

  “You know, with my colossal screw-up, it means I can’t save your house.”

  “I know.” She pats my hand, likely recalling all the years of joy spent in that house. After a moment she says, “It took a lot of courage to do what you did. I’m honored to call you my granddaughter.”

  “Oh, Jo. You have no idea how wonderful this makes me feel. I’m . . . I’m just speechless.”

  I bend toward my grandmother and hug her tight, soaking in the forgiveness, the memories, the love. Everything else in the world can kiss off. I have my Jo.

  Martin barks.

  Jo gasps. “Is that—? Where is he?”

  “Right here.” I scoop the little lovebug out from the bag and rest him in Jo’s lap.

/>   “My baby.”

  His tail wags fast enough to make me dizzy.

  Jo’s beaming smile is contagious as we chuckle at Martin, who alternates kissing Jo’s hand and spinning in happy circles on her lap.

  After he settles a few minutes later, Jo asks, “How’s everything else going?”

  “Well, let’s see. The man I care for won’t talk to me, my career is headed down the toilet, and all of America loathes me. So, all in all, pretty good.”

  “Who needs ’em? I always say, if plan A fails, you have twenty-five letters left.”

  “You’re right, Jo.”

  “Now get me out of this prison.”

  “Wanna go somewhere with me? If you’re not too tired.”

  “I’ve been lying around all week. Where we going?”

  I roll up my sleeve. “Going to do something about this.”

  “Bree . . . it’s a scar. You don’t need—”

  “No, I’m not ashamed of it. Not anymore. I’m going to give it the respect it deserves.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Come and find out. I can use a hand to hold.”

  An hour and a half later, Jo and I examine my new tattoo. My parents’ initials—though red and puffy—are scripted and swirled around the four-inch reminder that shaped my life. Now, when I look at the scar, I won’t see pain and disfigurement. I’ll see beauty, art, and history. I’ll see life. I’ll see me.

  “People are going to ask you about that, you know,” Jo says.

  “I hope so.”

  She smiles. Real and genuine. The type of smile I haven’t seen for fifteen years.

  “People are going to ask you about that, you know.” I point to my parents’ initials decorating her left ankle.

  “I hope so.”

  The following Tuesday, my book is released. The golden day is finally here.

  Andrew sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers with congratulations spelled out across the card. And Jo called, asking me to drive her and Martin to Barnes & Noble.

  Turns out, she picked the store from years ago when I stole the book.

  Hope the same manager isn’t on duty.

  The publisher still released the book and though likely only a few people will buy a copy, there’s something magical about walking with my grandmother’s hand linked around my arm into a bookstore that captivated so much of our time over the years. And today we’re here, celebrating a book that I wrote. I wrote. Books are such a staple in our relationship. My release solidifies our past.

  It doesn’t take more than a few steps before Jo’s eyes widen and my heart pounds. Right near the entrance is a round three-tiered table with Can I See You Again? stacked and fanned in a beautiful display of my creativity.

  We each grab a copy and examine the glossy cover. Can I See You Again? is emblazoned in a creamy white font over a closed cardinal-red front door. The flowers held behind the woman’s back are embossed and I trail my fingertips over the raised petals.

  “Pretty neat, eh?”

  “Pretty neat,” she says.

  We head into the nonfiction section and nearly jump up and down when we find a dozen more copies lining the shelves. Jo pulls one out, placing it perpendicular to the others.

  “It should stand out,” she says.

  God, I love this woman.

  After lunch and laughs, I drop Jo and Martin at her house, then head toward my office.

  “So, how’d it go with Jo?” Andrew asks.

  “Awesome. Jo insisted we purchase all the books, but store policy limits customers to ten per transaction.” I laugh, then say, “Jo paid for her first batch, walked out, walked right back in, and bought ten more.”

  “I’ve done the same.” He points to two large bags behind his desk. “Guess what my friends are getting for their birthdays this year.

  “Thanks for your support, it means a lot. Any calls?”

  “Yes, a few.”

  Any of them from Nixon?

  I spend the remainder of the week answering questions, commenting and discussing my way through blogs and Web chats Randi’s team arranged. It’s a whirlwind of activity for which I’m thankful; it helps keep my mind off Nixon. And, kudos to me, I’ve only started to call him less than a dozen times. Which isn’t that unhealthy. I don’t think.

  Randi marches into my office a week to the day after my book’s release and sits her booty on the edge of my desk. Her bug-eyed black sunglasses reflect the office’s overhead lights, and her polished red nails are long and fierce.

  I haven’t seen her since her rage-filled rant.

  “You want the good news or the bad news?” she says.

  “Is the paper still going to sue?”

  “No.”

  I slump against my chair rest with relief. Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Thank you. Then I remember the counterpart of her question. “What’s the bad news?”

  “You didn’t make the top twenty.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much.” Didn’t even bother to check the NYT Web page. “Truth is, I’m lucky to have gotten to this point. Sorry to ruin your stellar reputation. Probably would’ve been easier if I wrote a book of French Provincial cabinetry, eh?”

  “Would’ve been easier if you didn’t lie.”

  Or that. “Where am I, though? High eight millions?”

  “Let me finish, goddammit.”

  “Oh, right, sorry.”

  “You didn’t make the top twenty.”

  Yep, got that part.

  “You made the top ten.”

  “What?” I nearly jump off my chair. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I told you, I never joke about money. Your book debuted at number seven. Seems people like the truth. Welcome to the New York Times bestseller list.”

  A few days later, Randi drops off my bonus check for twenty-five thousand dollars. Before the ink is dry I grab Jo. “Let’s go save your house.”

  Never have I felt more proud. My steps are light. My cheeks ache from my fixed smile. Jo’s tender hand is protectively clasped within mine. She won’t lose her home.

  We walk into the courthouse, turning down the long, cold, sterile hallway lined with various departments and posters citing the benefits of vaccinations and how to prevent the spread of viruses. We find our door and walk inside the assessor’s office.

  An older lady with her graying hair pinned behind her ears smacks on her chewing gum and says, “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. We’re here to satisfy a lien.” I slide her the paperwork and open my checkbook. “Just need to know the exact amount.”

  The woman hammers at her keyboard.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this for me, Bree. You’ve saved G-pa’s house. I know he’s looking down on you right now smiling. I just know it.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and squeezes it tight. “Thank you, Bree. I’m so proud of everything you’ve done.”

  My heart swells. My body literally feels like it might—

  “The lien’s been satisfied.” The woman slides over the paper. “Next.”

  “Wait . . . what? It couldn’t have been. We’re just here now.”

  “It was.”

  “Please, this makes no sense. Can you double-check?”

  Her finger follows along the screen as she reads: “The property was sold to RNC Investments, Inc., at 8:09 a.m. this morning.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “My computer says otherwise.”

  “Hell with your computer. We have the money. It’s my grandmother’s house.”

  “Bree, what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk says, “there’s nothing I can do. On the positive side, they’ve given you ten days to evacuate. You don’t see that very often.”

  “What does this mea
n, Bree?”

  Someone else owns her house.

  Driving toward Jo’s house a few days later, I’m still sick about the whole situation. How did the auction slip through my fingers? How did I miss it? The paperwork mentioned the date. Did it list a time, too? How did I not see the time? Oh, God. I’ve screwed up. Again.

  “What are you doing?” Several half-filled boxes litter Jo’s living room floor as I let myself in. Obviously, I know what she’s doing. She’s packing, and she agreed to move in with me until we can find her a new place. And, obviously, I know why she’s doing it, but to witness her life wrapped up in yesterday’s newspapers is almost as painful as the disappointed look across her face.

  I can’t take it.

  I don’t wait for an answer.

  I march out the door and return to the assessor’s office determined to gather more information about RNC Investments. Determined to find out who bought Jo’s house.

  No luck.

  Defeated, I sit in my car in the parking lot with my head pressed against the steering wheel. I don’t understand. What could RNC Investments possibly want with a forty-year-old house? Yes, the neighborhood is nice, but there are zoning restrictions in the area. It’s not like someone can come in here and flip the house, make a killer profit. I’ve scoured the internet for RNC Investments to no avail. It’s as if they don’t exist. I think of Sean. Can he help? But, no. I will not call him. I’ll figure this out on my own.

  A screech of tires in the nearby intersection catches my attention. It’s then, across the street, I notice the Corporation Commission building. And I remember filing with them when Bree Caxton and Associates incorporated. The information there is public record. Maybe RNC Investments is a corporation. Worth a shot.

  I hurry into the office, wait what feels like three days before my number is called, then nearly fall off my chair when the clerk reveals the name of the president of RNC Investments.

  Randi Noreen Chapman.

  My publicist.

  “You bought it?” I step outside and call her straightaway.

  “Jesus, woman, I was wondering how much longer it’d take you to figure it out. I was about to leave a trail of cookie crumbs from her house to mine.”