To See You Again

by gard, marian

  She glanced over at me. "What's up, Rave? You look tired," she mumbled into the refrigerator door.

  Ignoring her statement of the obvious, I mustered up my most casual tone of voice. "Have you seen Collin at all today?"

  Tabby shut the fridge and leaned back against it with her diet Pepsi in hand. "Define ‘see'," she answered, rolling her eyes.

  I was not in the mood for Tabby's thinly veiled hatred of Collin. "Was he here or not?" I demanded, failing miserably at any attempt to be cool. That was all it took to wipe the sarcasm from Tabby's face. She left the kitchen to come stand by me in the living room.

  Her voice serious, she replied, "Um, yeah, he was here a little over an hour ago. He was throwing stuff into a duffle bag. I didn't think much about it. Just assumed he was finally going to do some laundry. Why? Is something wrong?" A crease formed between her brows, I'd filled her with worry, but I didn't bother to address it.

  "Did he say anything to you?" I asked curtly.

  She shook her head ‘no' and sat slowly on the couch. "What's wrong, Raven?"

  "Nothing," I whispered and trudged back to my room, away from her questioning gaze. I'd been desperately hoping that he had said something to her, anything at all, so I could've had clues into his state of mind that day. It was foolish of me, though; Collin was a master at appearing contrary to whatever he was experiencing on the inside, and Tabby couldn't have been less concerned about his wellbeing had he been a stray cat she had shooed out of an alleyway.

  I searched for him each day in the remaining time I had on campus. I drove to all his favorite spots, checked all the places I knew he frequented—nothing. His boss at the convenience store said he'd quit just an hour before his last scheduled shift and had done so over the phone—no one had seen him since I last did. I even sent a few emails to the only address I had for him. I never heard from or saw him again.

  I open my eyes and check the El stop—three more to go. I glance down at my phone knowing that within reach is a present-day photo of him just begging to be clicked. Shit.

  Chapter 5

  Collin - (Ten Years Later/Present Day)

  Leighton straddles me. "Don't be mad, OK?" she whispers, tickling my earlobe with her lips.

  Leighton always uses her sexual prowess when she wants something from me or is trying to appease me in some way. It often works, I'm not gonna lie. I push her back slightly and she tilts her head employing her cutest smile. I tuck her curtain of blonde hair to the side and kiss her neck. "What did you do now?" I ask. It comes out a seductive whisper.

  She scoots off of me and stands. "OK, remember how you said you wished you were in better contact with some of your old friends?" I watch her traipse across the kitchen and into the office where she locates my laptop and comes skipping back toward me. I lean back on the couch and give her a what-the-hell-look.

  "That doesn't sound like me at all," I say. She's undeterred, already turning the laptop on and smiling to herself. She's a lady on a mission. "Out with it Leighton, what the hell did you do?"

  She looks at me, attempting to measure my mood. I'm wary, but not irritated. Leighton agitates me less than most women I have been with, and less than most people in general. She's a good person and her exuberance feels like a nice counterbalance to my generally subdued nature. She's been working at a bank downtown for the past six months or so, while she attempts to "find her bliss", and in the meantime she's been reading stacks and stacks of psychology and self-help books. She tried to tell me that it's so she can find her "career self", but I would have to be a total moron not to realize what's actually going on. She isn't the first girl to try and fix me. I feel like with each book she reads, she identifies more things about me that require her rescuing. It's all pretty harmless. I don't know what she's cooked up this time, but I'm not all that worried. I smile at her and pat the couch next to me.

  She plops down next to me. "I created a Facebook account for you!" Before I can respond she's logging on showing me my username and password and the thirty-four friends I've acquired in the week or so that it's been active. Leighton is babbling. I know she's talking quickly in hopes that she can chat me into submission. "I used this photo as your profile picture." She points at a picture she took of me sometime last year. I'm laughing in it and sitting on a quilted blanket. We were at a concert at Millennium Park. Leighton clicks away and proceeds to point at a few more photos. She continues; "And of course I uploaded a few nice pics of us. Also, I've been responding to your friend requests; you know, as long as they seemed legit. Right there…" She points to a small heart next to her name on my page. "That means we're in a relationship."

  She smiles endearingly at me. I say nothing and pull the laptop from her grasp. Leighton's voice trails off and she stares at me. I'm worrying her, but I can't be bothered with that now. I feel my pulse accelerate and my palms begin to sweat. I scroll through the list of names on my friend list. They're nearly all work associates or people I've met in the past four or five years or so. Only one name concerns me, the only name I'm searching for. It's not there. But then I see Vanessa's name and everything comes to a halt.

  "Are you mad?" Leighton whispers. Her green eyes are scanning my face as she nervously chews on her fingernail.

  I don't look at her. "How do I view this person's page?" I ask, answering my own question as I click on Vanessa's bolded name and her page opens up.

  "Who's Vanessa?" Leighton asks. She's hoping I can't hear the undercurrent of paranoid jealousy woven into her tone. No amount of reassurance would ever be enough for her—that's who she is—but it's also made worse by my refusal to show strong emotion. I don't really get angry, or excited, or super happy. I aim for neutral all the time, and because of this, Leighton has been driven mad at times, attempting to decipher my thoughts and mood. If she could read my mind now she would know that I'm pretty irate with her. Never mind the egregious infringement on my privacy—she's cracked open a door that I very purposely nailed shut. I'm not going to yell at her, which judging by her panic-stricken face might actually be a relief. Instead I'm content to let her twist in the wind for a bit and refuse to entertain any of her goddamn questions. That is a certainty.

  I'm scrolling through albums and photos at a frenzied pace. I can't help myself. Along the way I'm taking mental notes: Vanessa married Ryan, no surprise there. They clearly have at least two kids, who, judging by the insane amount of photos of them, must have every moment of their lives photographed. They live in Chicago, not sure which neighborhood. It looks like she got her five-year plan. My mind is centered on Rachel, though, and I'm wondering if she got hers, too. She never thought I knew about that, but I'd heard her and Tabby talk about it more than once.

  Rachel was the most focused person I'd ever met. Her drive was pure, genuine, entirely based on her desire to become something more, the culmination of all of her hard work, not at all like the artificial greed-centered version that encapsulated my stepfather, Victor. Her hard work was never about competition, pleasing someone, or meeting artificial standards. Her relentless sense of hope and passion is what, more than anything, drew me to her at the time. I was so vacant and empty back then; sometimes I felt like she was the only thing anchoring me to the earth. If it hadn't been for her I would've simply blown away like a discarded newspaper crumpling and tearing in the wind.

  Part of me wants her to have found everything she desired and the other half wants her to still be missing something, that piece of her I'd once hoped had belonged to me. Vanessa must have at least four hundred pictures on here and I would be willing to bet Rachel is in at least one of them. I become acutely aware of Leighton scrutinizing me and I click off the Internet and shut the laptop—there will be time for this later, sans an unwanted audience.

  I turn and face her apprehensive eyes. "Don't do anything like that again."

  Her mouth falls slightly open and her eyes are wide. "Do you want me to take it down?"

  I shake my head ‘no' and rise off the co
uch. "Let's go get some dinner."

  Chapter 6

  Rachel

  Beckett is cooking up a storm when I arrive, and as usual, it smell delicious. I love that Beck knows his way around the kitchen, because I'm useless when it comes to cooking. Managing not to burn grilled cheese is still a culinary feat for me. I shrug off my coat and take a minute to drink in my man. Beck is tall with dark curly hair and blue eyes nearly the same shade as my own. Vanessa once told me she thought we looked related. "Seriously, like fraternal twins or something. He's the male you!" The death stare she received as a result of that comment was enough for her to never revive the topic of our resemblance ever again.

  At the sound of me tossing my commuter bag down on the floor, he turns and charges toward me, scooping me up in one fluid motion. Our usual quick peck greeting is transformed into something a little more seductive. I gasp and he grabs my behind. Make that a lot more seductive. I moan into his mouth, part of me turned on, part of me protesting. He pulls back and serves me up a wicked smile.

  "I'm proud of you, baby."

  "Thanks," I reply, still a little breathless from his attack. "You shouldn't be proud of me yet, though, nothing's happened."

  Beckett returns to the stove and begins serving up heaping portions of chicken, pasta and red sauce onto two plates. "But it will." His voice is so confident, I nearly believe him. He places the plates down on his kitchen table and grins at me.

  I pull out a chair, sit, and then look up at him. "I wish I had your confidence in myself. This whole thing is going to happen pretty quick and I really hope I'm prepared. Speaking of which, do we have plans on Friday?"

  Beckett raises his eyebrows at me as he sips his wine. "I don't think so. Why?"

  "Tim has tickets for you and me to attend this charity event. Apparently the C.E.O. from Marshmen's will be there along with our main competition."

  "Who's the main competition?" Beck looks intrigued.

  I shrug. "You know Tim. I was lucky to get all the information out of him that I did. All I know is it used to be this company that just handled primarily high-end photos and clip art type stuff for advertising and recently either merged or acquired this other company that does the sort of stuff that we do."

  Beckett shoves a piece of chicken in his mouth and then garbles out, "you'll nail him, baby. You always do."

  I reach over and squeeze his knee, thankful for him; he's good to me. "Thanks, Beck."

  "Anything else happen today?" He asks, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin in a way that would make any Miss Manners proud. I think of brunch with Vanessa, and then a wave of unexpected guilt floods me. I've never told Beckett anything about Collin. Outside of Vanessa and Ryan, he has only met a few of my college friends—but none of them were connected to Collin. It seemed easier, for some reason, just to leave him out of any retelling of that period of my life. I hover over this omission for a moment, wondering about its meaning.

  "Nope. This is a great dinner, thank you." He nods. We eat in silence for a while and I glance around his apartment. It is such a bachelor pad. He has expensive taste when it comes to anything requiring an electrical cord, but other than that, he could care less. We eat at his mother's old kitchen table, which she happily cast off to him the moment Beck's dad offered to go furniture shopping with her. He has little on the walls and likes it that way. He doesn't enjoy art, loves mindless tv, including reality programming, and all things sports—his home is a reflection of this. It's purpose driven in layout and décor, but lacks anything that makes it feel personal. I used to think it was just a guy thing, but the older we've gotten the more I just think it's a Beckett thing. I consider my townhome and wonder how it will be possible for our two households to successfully merge in the fall. Everything on the walls, shelves and tabletops of my home is in some way an artifact of my life. It all carries meaning, even if the story behind it is just for me. Beckett calls it cluttered and busy. He claims it gives him a headache.

  Beck's deep baritone voice interrupts my reverie. "Did you see the other stuff I added to our calendar?"

  I nod, covering my mouth, which is full of food. "You put a lot in there, Beck."

  Although it's technically a shared calendar, there's not a lot of sharing going on. He pretty much controls our social lives. I think he just got sick of me perpetually forgetting dates and times for all the things he planned for us to do, so he took matters into his own hands. Most of the time I don't mind. Nearly all of his large, extended family is in the area and they're all pretty close. There's something going on all the time, and Beck likes us to be there as much as we can. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if we had to split time between our respective families. Beck isn't the best at compromise, but given that my family is far away both physically (and emotionally), it works out.

  When we were growing up I was never close with my dad's kids. My stepmother was a master at making me feel like I was a temporary inconvenience in their lives whenever I visited. It didn't start out that way, partially because I think she wanted to impress my dad, but over time her resentment toward me grew and grew until it was too big for anyone to ignore. Once she started having babies it was clear I was in the way and that her kids were hers. She only changed her tune slightly when I became old enough to babysit. She and my dad began regularly going out on the weekends he was supposed to have me. "Bond with your sisters," he'd say on his way out the door, giving me a weak smile. I could see in his eyes that he knew he was hurting me, but it wasn't enough to stop him.

  Life with Mom was different. After the divorce she made dating her focus, and went through a lot of boyfriends before she settled on my stepdad, Jack. I was too young to really understand what was happening with her, but I remember the feeling. There was a frenzy surrounding her, a constant nervous energy. I remember wanting to cling to her, though I'd never been that sort of child. One specific memory stands out from around that time. She was applying make-up and getting ready to go out with Jack. The babysitter with the bad breath was coming soon. I didn't want Mom to leave, so I was in her room absorbing every second with her I could.

  "You only get this," she'd gestured from head to toe at her reflection in the mirror, "for a short period. So, you have to make it count." She'd come from a pretty rough family and as far as she was concerned, my dad had rescued her. So, when things fell apart, she panicked. I can look back now and grasp the fear she must've felt. I just wish she could've seen mine too.

  She and Jack didn't have kids immediately after getting married, and so my half-brothers were a distant eight and nine years younger than me. Jack is nice enough, but pretty flaky, like her. He went in and out of different careers, never too worried about money, often to the detriment of his family. I learned not to rely on him, but he was always kind, and he never, that I can recall, raised his voice to me. Neither Mom nor Jack was big on discipline, however, so the boys ran wild a lot; and I was kind of left to do my own thing.

  By the time I was a teenager this seemed like an ideal arrangement to all of my friends. They were envious of my lack of a curfew and enjoyed my mother's laid back nature whenever they came over. I pretended to bask in it, but there was also a part of me that yearned for the attention and structure I'd never received. I wondered later if things would've been different if I'd demanded it, by acting out, but it would've been quite the feat in a house with so few rules.

  I tried not to resent my bothers and sisters for having relationships with my parents that were so different from my own, but at times it was challenging. As adults we don't talk much, and my relationship with my parents, both biological and step, has remained peaceful but distant—an arrangement that seems to serve all parties well enough. Mindy is the one outlier. She's made a point to maintain a relationship with me in spite of distance, our age gap, and the fact that my stepmom nearly always "forgets" to include me in family get-togethers.

  Thinking about all of this reminds me that she emailed me last week about trying t
o visit sometime soon. I pick up my phone and start scrolling through, searching for the email. "Can you put a hold in there for a few days next month for Mindy to visit?"

  Beck's reply is a blank stare.

  "My half-sister." His expression goes unchanged. "Remember you met her once about a year ago at my dad's house."

  I see recognition wash over him. "She's short, right? Red hair?" I narrow my eyes at him, while nodding.

  "Sorry, babe. It's hard for me to remember she's your family. You two don't look anything alike."

  Just what I need, yet another reminder of how obvious it is that I don't belong. "Don't complain, Beck. You have it pretty easy. There are about twenty relatives of yours for every one of mine. I still manage to keep all the M's in your family sorted." I start listing cousins. "Matthew, Martin, Michael, Mark…"

  He puts a hand up. "OK, OK, Rach. I get your point. I'm sure I can move some stuff around. Lemme look after dinner." I note his annoyance, but decide against commenting on it. It's not worth the argument. I set my phone down and nod. He's conceded, but I feel the battle isn't over, just delayed.

  Chapter 7

  Collin

  I'm dressed and ready to go, just waiting on Leighton, who insisted on getting ready at my place. She thinks I'm unaware of what she's trying to do. She's banking that the more she hangs out, sleeps over, showers, and keeps her stuff here, the more I'll warm up to the idea of us moving in together. An issue she knows better than to push any more with me. She's acting like she's let it go, but really she's just launched another weapon in her arsenal. I half expect to come home one day to a room full of moving boxes with her standing innocently next to them. What? These things? Weren't they always here?