Yours Always

by Rhonda Dennis

  Lizzy tries stealing it back from me, but since I’m holding it with a death grip, she settles for peering over my shoulder. “Tom Freaking Hardy wants to get to know you, and he’s never even seen you! Why couldn’t his call have been sent to my desk?” she asks with a pathetic sigh.

  “He does look like Tom Hardy, doesn’t he?” I say with a silly grin.

  “Uh, yeah. Totally could be his twin.”

  Reality comes crashing. “Wait! First, how do we know that this is actually him? Maybe it’s a friend, or his brother, or some random stranger’s picture he threw up as his profile photo. Second, this is absolutely insane. I answered a question for him, and he wants to get to know me better? That’s insane, isn’t it? Like isn’t it borderline creepy?” I ask before nervously gnawing on my lower lip.

  “Or,” Lizzy says melodramatically, “is it the most romantic thing ever? Imagine retelling the story ten years from now as you’re flanked by five kids and celebrating your eighth wedding anniversary.”

  I squint at Lizzy. “Seriously, you already have us married with five kids? Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

  “Not at all! It’s time for you to lighten the hell up. Did I forget to mention that I’ll be celebrating too, but I’ll be with his slightly younger, but equally handsome brother?” She lets out an obnoxious squeal.

  Shaking my head, I throw my hands up, smiling as I walk to the glass doors. “Break’s over. Let’s finish out this shift. I can’t wait to get home.”

  Lizzy is right on my tail. “Why are you in such a hurry to get home? So you can pick up where you left off with Fletcher?”

  “No, Lizzy. Will you give it a rest? It’s been a long day. I’m ready to pour myself a huge glass of wine, sink into a nice, warm bubble bath, and forget about the millions of problems rolling around in my mind right now.”

  She stops in the middle of the gray carpeted hallway; her face is solemn. “I’m so sorry, Savannah. I wasn’t thinking. How’s your grandpa doing? Any change?”

  Tears threaten to fall, but I refuse to let them. “I’ll fill you in later.” Swallowing the ball of emotion that was once heavy in my throat, I take solace in the fact that it’s now packed away deep in my gut, right where I like to keep all of my emotions.

  Lizzy gives me a quick hug before tugging on the door to the call center. “Of course, but if anymore calls from hot strangers who want to hook up come through, transfer them to my desk.”

  I smile. “Deal.”

  Chapter Two

  Later that night, after a nice long bath, I’m stretched out on the sofa while finishing a bottle of moscato. All is quiet except for the Friends episode playing in the background, and even though I love the gang dearly, even tales of Chandler’s nubbin fail to keep me entertained. It’s Friday. I’m single. The world is mine to conquer, yet my butt remains glued to the couch cushion. I toss the soup spoon I used to shovel a pint of turtle ice cream inside of the empty carton, and then sigh. This routine is becoming too comfortable, and though I scold myself, the larger part of me simply doesn’t care.

  Too lazy to walk to the kitchen, I stretch as far as I can to place the empty container onto the coffee table, knocking off my laptop in the process. “Ugh! Really?” I snap, finally giving up. I roll off the sofa and trudge to the kitchen. “Might as well pour myself another glass of wine while I’m here,” I mumble.

  There’s just enough to fill the goblet to the brim, and I even go so far as shaking the bottle to encourage those last few drops to join the party. I open all the food cabinets and even stare into the fridge for a while—not because I’m hungry, but because I’m just THAT bored. A bag of pretzels calls to me from a basket on the counter, so I snatch it up with my free hand. I’m almost back in the living room when I come to my senses and give the bag an over handed toss back onto the countertop.

  I stare at the laptop while I drain the wine glass. An internal war wages in my mind over whether or not I should visit Fletcher’s page. What if he’s a murderer? What if he’s the most wonderful man who ever existed and it’s divine intervention pushing me to him? What are the odds of that happening? Is he really as good looking in person as he is in his pic? If so, he’s way out of my league. Is that HIM in the picture? Oh, that voice. Maybe I can agree to be his friend and we’ll never actually meet, but we can just talk on the phone. Sounds reasonable, right? No! Of course he’ll want to meet. Well, one thing I can do without him even knowing is enjoy the hell out of that profile picture. I smirk as I open the laptop.

  The picture has changed, but it’s definitely the same Tom Hardy doppelganger. This time he’s straddling a motorcycle and wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and the same dark wrap-around sunglasses. The scruffy beard he sports adds to his sex appeal, as well as the few tattoos that peep out from under the sleeves of his shirt. I catch myself moaning out loud.

  “This is stupid.” My hand rests on top of the screen, and I’m just about to slam the lid closed when something in the picture catches my eye. I immediately message him.

  Me: I hope you were serious about me contacting you when you mentioned it this afternoon.

  Fletcher: Hi, Savannah. Yes, I was serious. Wow, you’re gorgeous. How are you?

  Me: Thank you. I’m fine. Question…

  Fletcher: Yes?

  Me: The bike in your profile picture—is it yours?

  Fletcher: Yes. Why? Do you like to ride?

  Me: I used to, but I haven’t been in a while. I recognize the bike. It was my dad’s.

  Fletcher: What? Really?

  Me: The paint job is custom. I lost my parents a few years ago, and they had a lot of debt, so I had to sell off their belongings. That bike was his pride and joy. I’m glad to see that you’ve taken such good care of it.

  Fletcher: I have taken good care of it, but I have to admit that this new information makes me feel a little awkward.

  Me: More awkward than asking a stranger from the electric company to befriend you via social media?

  Fletcher: Lol. Yes, more awkward than that.

  Me: I’m sorry. Well, I’ll let you go. I just wanted to ask you about the bike.

  Fletcher: Wait! Do you have to go? The awkwardness is fading. Lol. I’d like to talk a little more, if that’s okay.

  Friends is still on the television, I’m out of wine, and I’m in a robe. What can it hurt?

  Me: Yes, that’s fine. No plans for you on a Friday night, either?

  Fletcher: Nah, I’m more of a homebody. What about you? You’re absolutely beautiful. Why aren’t you out there being wined and dined? (Yes, I just scrolled through more of your pics. Simply stunning.)

  Me: Lol! You sure are a sweet talker, Fletcher. You know, I could ask the same of you. (I’m scrolling your pics, too, and you’re not so bad, yourself.) Are you with or without the beard right now?

  Fletcher: With.

  I waggle my eyebrows and smile broadly.

  Me: Nice!

  Fletcher: Do you like facial hair?

  Me: I’m okay with it.

  Fletcher: What else do you like? (Asked with ZERO sexual innuendo.)

  Me: Not a whole lot.

  I look around the room.

  Me: Moscato, ice cream, and reruns.

  Might as well be upfront and honest from the start.

  Fletcher: Same going on here, but I have beer instead of moscato and pizza rolls instead of ice cream. Reruns are on the TV.

  Me: Friends?

  Fletcher: Everybody Loves Raymond.

  Me: Really?

  Fletcher: Yeah. Is that hard to believe?

  Me: Maybe a little.

  Fletcher: Why?

  Me: Because I figured you’d be watching some UFC match or something, I guess.

  Fletcher: Nah, not tonight anyway. Look, this might be presumptuous, but I’m really not a fan of typing. Do you think we could talk on the phone?

  What do I do? Think! Okay, if I agree, worst case scenario, he has my cell phone number, calls me a hundred
times a day, and I have to change the number. Is there anything else that can go wrong? No, not that I can think of anyway. Plus, I get to hear his voice again. That alone is worth the risk of him being a possible psycho stalker.

  Fletcher: It’s okay if you’d rather not, I just thought…

  Me: No, it’s fine. My number is 555-5248.

  I nervously chew on my thumbnail while staring at the phone. It rings within a minute. “Hello.”

  “I want you to know that I don’t usually do this,” he remarks.

  Oh, my gosh! His voice is sexier than I remember! “Do what? Call girls?” I tease.

  His laugh is hearty. “Yeah, that too, but what I meant is you should know that I don’t make a habit of calling utility companies with the hopes of befriending the call taker.”

  “That’s good to know,” I mention. “What made today different?”

  “I liked talking to you.”

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “Should there be more?” he returns.

  “I guess not.” The silence that lasts for several seconds is abruptly ended when we both speak at the same time. “I’m sorry, you go ahead,” I insist.

  “No, you go.”

  “I was going to ask you about the bike. I remember the man I sold it to, and you most certainly aren’t him. How did you end up with it?”

  “I won it in a card game.”

  “What! Really?”

  “No, but that would make a great story wouldn’t it?”

  I realize that I’m smiling, something that before communicating with Fletcher Reilly, I didn’t do very often. Generally, I’m pretty comfortable living in a state of semi-melancholia. Disappointment doesn’t hurt so much if you’re expecting it.

  “I bought it from some guy when I returned home from my first tour.”

  “Oh, yeah. Lizzy and I saw the picture of you wearing a uniform when we…” Oh, my gosh! I just completely told on myself, and he knows it because I hear him chuckling in the background.

  “When we what? When we went on over to Fletcher’s profile to sneak a peek at him?”

  “Talking about yourself in third person is very unbecoming,” I say, desperate to change the subject.

  “Fletcher is offended by your statement.”

  “Fletcher best get over it.”

  “Fletcher thinks that Savannah is probably a beautiful shade of red right now, and he’s sorry that he can’t enjoy it. Or, maybe he can. Do you have webcam?”

  “Oh, no! We’re not going there, so don’t even think about it.”

  “A man can try, can’t he?”

  “He can try; doesn’t mean he’ll succeed.”

  “You’re a feisty one, Savannah Mason. I might be falling in love.”

  “Guess I’ll have to waste my Saturday getting a restraining order.”

  “Against?”

  “You!”

  “I should’ve guessed that I’d be too much man for you. Just as well we discover this now.”

  “You are so full of yourself!”

  “Fletcher prefers the term self-assured.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fletcher would.”

  “Tell me some interesting facts about you.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

  “You can’t or won’t?” Fletcher asks.

  “Can’t. For me to do that, I’d have to be interesting.”

  “Being evasive. Okay, let’s start small. What’s your favorite movie?”

  I suppose there’s no harm in answering a few questions he can get the answer to just by looking at my profile.

  “Gone With the Wind. Yours?”

  “Not Gone With the Wind.”

  “Who’s being evasive now?” I query.

  “The Godfather.”

  “Never saw it.”

  I hear exaggerated coughing in the background. “Never saw it! How is that possible?”

  “I guess I make a better lover than a fighter.”

  Fletcher’s teasing tone instantly stops, and there is dead silence on the line. After a second or so I hear, “Hey, now. I’m trying to keep this conversation in the G to PG range. We’ll be having none of that.” He mockingly sighs. “What is it with women and their constant sex, sex, sex attitudes?”

  It isn’t until he mentions it that I realize what I’d said. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I try to hold in my chuckle, but it comes out as an obnoxious snort. That’s what I get for being so out of practice in the humor department. I really should laugh more often.

  “What was that?” he teases. “Did that sound come out of you? You snorted didn’t you? You did!”

  The struggle to stay composed leaves tears welling in my eyes, and I pull my hand away from my mouth long enough to eke out a “No.”

  “Deny it if you must; I know the truth.”

  “Whatever,” I retort once I get my breathing back under control.

  “Can we meet in person?”

  “Huh? I…”

  “I know it’s weird how all of this is going down, and I promise that I have no agendas, expectations, or felonies, for that matter. It’s just that I haven’t laughed this hard or felt this talkative in a very long time. How about we meet for pizza? You can bring a bodyguard if you’d like.”

  “I don’t have a bodyguard, per se. I have a Lizzy.”

  “Ah, you have a Lizzy. Well, I have a Ben. How about we meet at Giovanni’s at seven tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to check with Lizzy, and her weekends are usually full…”

  “Just text me when you decide, and there’s no pressure. I’d really like to meet you, but only if the feeling’s mutual.”

  “Okay. I’ll check with Lizzy, and I’ll get back to you. Goodnight, Fletcher.”

  “Goodnight, Savannah. Sweet dreams.”

  When the call ends, the faint taste of blood alerts me that I’m chewing my lower lip again. After a quick mental scolding, I allow myself a few seconds to replay the conversation with Fletcher before calling Lizzy.

  Chapter Three

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzy hurriedly shouts into the phone.

  “What? Nothing. What’s with the drama?”

  “Savannah, you never call this late. It’s as if the phone lines cease to work past ten o’clock as far as you’re concerned.”

  “It’s only…” I steal a glance to the clock above the TV, “…midnight! Oh, my gosh! Lizzy, I’m so sorry. I had no idea it was so late! We were talking, and I guess I just lost track of time.”

  “Who was talking?”

  “I was talking to Fletcher.”

  “Fletcher! The Fletcher from this afternoon?”

  “How many Fletchers do you know?”

  “That’s beside the point. Tell me everything!”

  “He wants to meet me in person.”

  “Really!” she squeals. “Are you going to do it?”

  “I’m thinking we should.”

  “We? We who?”

  “We, me and you. And he has a Ben.”

  “A Ben for whom?” Lizzy asks.

  “For you. We’re meeting them tomorrow night at Giovanni’s Pizza.”

  “We are?”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “We are! Time?”

  “Seven.”

  “I’ll come over after lunch. I’m doing your hair and makeup.”

  “No, you aren’t. See you tomorrow at six.”

  “Fine. Whatever. See you tomorrow. Night.”

  “Night.”

  I love how Lizzy and I can communicate with minimal words. Don’t get me wrong, we can be very long winded at times, but as far as the basics go, one or two words are plenty.

  All is quiet again, and as I lie in bed waiting for sleep to overcome me, I think back to Dad’s motorcycle and my teen years. My dad was often gone for weeks, and sometimes months, at a time. When he flew in from offshore, he’d swing by the school and surprise me with a ride home on the back of his motorcycle. It truly was his prid
e and joy: garage kept, polished daily, custom painted to look like python skin. Dad was a large, burly man, and one of his trademark requests was for people to check out the monster “pythons” he sported. His strenuous and demanding work on an offshore oil platform earned him huge biceps, which in addition to showing them off, won him many an arm wrestling competition.

  When Dad was gone, so was Mom. We weren’t close, and frankly, I think she resented having me. It was okay though; I was happy to be alone. Alone was far better than the awkward and forced interactions that happened when she was home.

  Don’t get the wrong idea. I had guidance and support when Mom disappeared, but it came from her father, Grampy. He’s currently battling the debilitating effects of a nearly lifelong addiction to unfiltered cigarettes. I’ve been using the money left from Mom and Dad’s estate to see that he has the best possible care in a local assisted living facility. There was supposed to be lots and lots of money, but between the double funeral and the secret credit card bills Mom had run up, most of it went as quickly as I received it. Thank goodness Dad made sure the house was paid off. I stuck every penny from the sale into a special account, and that’s what I’ve been using for Grampy’s care.