Sunrise Fires

by LaBarge, Heather

  “Jen,” he stopped and faced me, “I can’t promise you anything. I really have no idea why I’m here, except that a part of me feels powerfully compelled to be.”

  “Baby, stop. I am just happy that you are here. I’m not asking for promises. I know this thing got broken when I went to Germany. And I can accept that we have things to talk about and work through, but I can’t go on dating people who are probably nice enough guys who just seem terrible because they aren’t you. You are my yardstick by which all other men are measured, and so far, I can’t even find a guy who can get past the first foot. I can’t keep doing that without knowing for sure that this cannot be salvaged. What we had was magical, a thing of fairy tales, my own fantasy relationship brought to life. And maybe we never get that back. Or maybe we can’t get all of it, but I’m not willing to let it rest without knowing.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “What?”

  “Where do women like you come from?” We both smiled at the memory. “Cuz I know a few guys who need a woman like you, and it’d be great to tell them where to go to—”

  “Nowhere. They can’t go anywhere to find another woman like me. There are none,” I playfully punched his arm, “but you knew that already.”

  We walked on, back to my place, joking and laughing for the first time since I could remember, probably since before Germany. As we got back to my place, I hopped in the shower while Ryan headed for the balcony again. Ten minutes later, I emerged, feeling refreshed and sand-free. “I have some wine if you want,” I called out toward the living room.

  Ryan didn’t initially answer. Figuring he didn’t hear me, I began to rummage through my dresser for some clothes to wear. “Did you think I could hear you over the ocean out there?” He was standing at my bedroom door.

  “Ohhh, you startled me,” I said, standing up and pulling my towel more tightly around my body, suddenly feeling shy. “I said I have some wine if you want some. Or there’s beer in the fridge, too.”

  “Wine sounds amazing. Sweet white, I’m guessing…?”

  I smiled. “Yea. It’s in the fridge, bottom shelf.”

  He turned, and a few seconds later, I heard the refrigerator open. I put lotion on my body and hurriedly threw on some panties and a sundress.

  His voice echoed back to my room, “Where’s the corkscrew?”

  “In the drawer next to the stove!” I called back.

  I expected to find him on the balcony with two glasses of wine, but when I came out of my bedroom, he was standing in the kitchen, looking at something I couldn’t see.

  “What’s up, hun?” I asked, rounding the corner into the kitchen. And then I froze. He was holding my old cell phone, examining it like an artifact. My heart leapt to my throat, and I immediately felt my cheeks burn. I cleared my throat. “Well, now, that doesn’t look much like a cork screw.” I chuckled and smirked, trying to seem casual. “It’s on the other side of the stove, in this drawer.” I reached for the drawer but saw that the wine was already open, cork on the counter beside the bottle.

  “Is this your old phone?”

  “Hmmm?” Where was this conversation going to go? And what was my fastest road to a new topic? “Yeah.” I shrugged, “Yeah, I just, umm, I never got rid of it.” I reached for the phone. He stood more fully upright and held it tightly.

  “Why not?”

  I felt my eyes sting. Could he read the importance of that phone? Could he tell that it had been my own personal lifeline, my security blanket? It was impossible. I took a deep calming breath. “I dunno, just never got around to it.” Feigning nonchalance was becoming more difficult.

  “There was nothing else in that drawer.”

  He was pressing for something that I didn’t want to give. I felt foolish for what had happened in Germany, for how I had behaved. I felt weak for clinging to this silly phone as if it represented us. And I didn’t want him to know any of it. “Yeah, it’s …” It’s what? What could I say here? How could I explain why that drawer was a shrine to the phone I could not let go?

  “I talked to Jackie.”

  “What?”

  “I talked to Jackie, Jen, before I ever saw you back in April. She told me about San Diego, about your promotion.” I raised an eyebrow. “You never asked how I knew. When I congratulated you, you never even wondered how I found out.” I shrugged, still preoccupied by the phone he was holding. He pointed at me with the phone. “She also told me about Germany.”

  I clenched my jaw, vowing to call Jackie just as soon as I was away from Ryan. I was livid at the prospect of what she might’ve said. “What about Germany? I mean, she and Talia came and visited…” That was it. Surely, Jackie had mentioned the trip and our touristy escapades and given him a general update. I lightened my tone. “We took a whirlwind tour of a lot of Europe. It was—”

  “Not what I meant.” I froze, my Adam’s apple suddenly too large for my throat. “She mentioned that you had a phone, that you kept it in your nightstand. And that it had come to mean something, maybe too much. Something about it tying to me? I didn’t believe her. It’s so unlike you. You’re such a strong woman. So independent…” he trailed off and held the phone out for me.

  I took it with a trembling hand, tears not yet flowing. I was willing them to stay back, willing them not to embarrass me further. “I don’t know what to say,” I choked.

  “Didn’t you wonder why I waited by your car at the beach in LA? Why I walked right up and kissed you? None of that was a surprise to you?” His eyes met mine, but I was wrestling my lower lip and chin trying to stop the quivering; there was no way I could form comprehensible audible words so I shrugged lamely. “I had to know. Part of me absolutely thought Jackie was just slinging guilt and being a protective friend, trying to make me out into some bad guy I wasn’t. I couldn’t picture you being crushed and devastated and sad like that. I wanted to hope that it was true but I really wasn’t sure. So when I saw your car on the beach, I just figured it was perfect – no pressure, no build up, no planning – just wait and then see the truth for myself on your face when you saw me unexpectedly. I was sure that I could tell how you felt if I kissed you.” He rolled his eyes and laughed quietly. “That first kiss told me that the entire thing was a big mistake. I felt like a schmuck for even daring to hope.”

  “Stop it,” I finally said. “It wasn’t a mistake. I was just dumbfounded. I felt sick; I think I was in shock. I never thought I’d see you again – I was sure you had moved on, found a wife, probably settled down by now. To see you walking toward me…” my nose tingled and tears swelled my eyelids, “I lost it. My head was swimming when you kissed me; I don’t even think I was on earth at that moment.”

  “Why? Why does it seem like it was so traumatic for you? Or shocking in such an overwhelming way? I really don’t get it, Jen.” He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Tell me your side. Tell me what happened in Germany.”

  I lost the battle with my tears. “I can’t. It seems so trivial now, compared with you losing your father. We’ve never even talked about that. And even though it felt intense when I was there, it now seems like I was being immature.”

  “I want to know, and I’m ready to listen.” He put his arm around me. “I need to know, Jen.”

  I leaned into him, resting my forehead on his shoulder, letting my tears flow and drop to the floor between us. I thought of Venice and smiled. I thought of the bleach stains on my long since discarded pillow cases. I thought of the gallons of tears I had shed over this man in the past couple of years. They represented a love that he deserved to know about. Maybe after six years, it was about time that I opened up to him. I inhaled deeply, and blew it out slowly.

  “Your voice,” I began, my own voice cracking. “It has always been amazingly grounding for me.” I lifted my head off his shoulder. “I’ve loved it and complimente
d you on it a thousand times.” He looked into my eyes, confused. “Well,” I smiled and winced, holding up the phone, “your voice lives in this phone. We used to talk on that walkie-talkie app, and we had entire conversations that I could relive when I missed you.” I paused, remembering powering up the phone and feeling the electric anticipation. “Well…as long as I could get the phone to cooperate.” I laughed, thinking of the thousand times I nearly chucked that phone across the room for being infuriatingly uncooperative. “Which mostly it didn’t do.”

  “Oh, my God,” he breathed, “that stupid app I told you to download when we were still doing the online thing?”

  I nodded, feeling sheepish. “It keeps a pretty good history of conversations. I don’t know how far back it can go, but I listened to our last few conversations hundreds of times while I was in Germany. I mean…we used the app right up to the very end, so …you really loved me by then. And…” I looked at the phone, remembering the way his voice reassured me, the way I allowed it to comfort me even through the terrible audio of that silly shitty phone. “Ryan, when I listened to those conversations, I could tell that you loved me. I had no doubt about it. I could hear it in your voice. I believed you when you said it, and I needed to hold onto that.” I looked up from the phone into his bewildered face and sniffled. “Or maybe I just wanted to believe it,” I admitted.

  His eyes narrowed, and he shrugged as he asked, “Why didn’t you call me back that day?”

  I cringed at the memory and looked away from him. “I…” Why didn’t I call him back? Why did I so readily believe that he had found someone else? I had no answer that I would ever be able to defend. “I don’t know,” I finally whispered. “I really don’t know. I tried three times right away; the first two didn’t go through and the third just rang and rang. After that,” I shrugged feeling suddenly oafish, “I gave up.” Looking back on it now, that day carried some measure of confusion and maybe a hint of shame for me. Grasping for anything that might reassure him, I continued, “And in November, before the girls left, I tried again. I was really hopeful that day…” I looked at the phone still in my hands, reliving the disappointment one ring at a time. “You never answered then either. Didn’t you get my missed calls?”

  “No. It didn’t go to voicemail?”

  “No. That actually made it worse too. Not being able to leave a message and not knowing if I would get up the courage to dial your number again after such disappointment.”

  Ryan’s questions kept coming, and my answers, even the lame ones, also flowed, though some took time and contemplation. We talked for hours about what had been the end of us, about what he went through as his father lay in that hospital bed, about my mental state during Oktoberfest, and then when the girls visited. I told him everything, even about the week trying to draft an e-mail that I finally gave up on. It felt good to get it out, good to finally release my weak inner child to him, to finally have enough to lose…that trusting him was the only option I had left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time the moon was shimmering off the ocean, I was exhausted and starving.

  “Can we take a break and eat something, please? I’m starving.”

  Ryan looked outside as if he just realized the time. “Oh, my God, how long have we been talking?” He leaned back and stretched.

  I shrugged. “Hours. We moved to the couch a long time ago. It’s been long…” I threw myself back into the couch, the back of my hand on my forehead. “Throat parching…” I raked my neck with my nails. “Stomach draining…” I grabbed my stomach. “Hours.” I sat up smiling. “Aren’t you hungry?” I poked his ribs with my elbow.

  Releasing his stretch, he rubbed and then patted his belly. “Hmmm. Yep, I guess I am running on empty. What’s open around here? Can we order out Chinese or something?”

  “Bah!” I scoffed. “At midnight? I don’t even think you can do that in Vegas! Fast food or else we cook something here.”

  His eyes came alive. “I haven’t seen you cook in ages. What do you have here?”

  “I’m mostly out of town, so I don’t keep much. I think I have some eggs and maybe leftover steak from a business dinner the other day. I can make us some omelets.” I offered.

  “I’d love that.” As I cooked, he poured us some juice and sat on the large counter next to the stove.

  “Clearly, you have more faith in my cooking skills than I deserve. I can’t cut steak without a countertop, bub.”

  He acted dejected but moved, choosing instead to sit on the much smaller counter above the drawer where the phone had been enshrined. “This kitchen seems awfully small for you. I remember you loving the kitchen at our place in Vegas.”

  “Do you still live there?”

  “No. I moved in with my mom for a while after my dad passed. And now, I have my own apartment close to work.”

  “Any girls been to that apartment?”

  “Not sure I like this line of questioning…” he cautioned.

  “I’m just curious. I mean, I dated a little. So, did you…?”

  “Yes, Jen. Yes, I dated. There was no one until a few months after my dad passed. So, no…nobody ever came to our place. At least, nobody you didn’t already know. I had the guys over once or twice. But that’s about it.”

  “So, the new place has had company? As in overnight company? Move in company? What kind of company?”

  “Jen, I never stopped loving you, but for a while there, I sort of hated you, too. I needed you, and you were so self-absorbed and shortsighted that you couldn’t be there for me as I thought my woman should have been. It doesn’t matter who’s been in my apartment. It doesn’t matter who I’ve dated and whether or not we’ve kissed or made out or had sex or had sleepovers.” He reached for me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me until I stood between his legs. “What matters is that I’m here now. Let’s talk about us, about this, about the future, about our now. If you want to visit the past, then let’s talk about our past, even the parts that hurt. But the rest of it is sort of irrelevant.”

  I felt like a reprimanded child, especially since I knew he was right. “I’m gonna burn your omelet,” I said lamely, stepping back to the front of the stove and flipping the eggs into a perfect omelet shape.

  “You always were an amazing cook.”

  “Thanks.”

  And so it began again.

  Ryan and Jen.

  He stayed the night, though really we never slept, so I’m not sure I’d call it spending the night. We talked about the store in Germany, the plans for Naples, and how the store construction in London was coming. He told me of his promotion to mechanical supervisor over ten others who all fixed aircraft for an airmail package delivery company. He told me about his employees, the challenges he faced with some of them, and how proud he was to have moved into a management role. It was amazing to reconnect.

  Finally, I said, “We should probably sleep soon. It’s definitely Sunday morning now, and I think your last yawn used all the energy you have left.”

  He looked outside. “Nope. Not so sleepy that I won’t stay up just a little while longer. Go get dressed into something warmer and meet me right back here in less than five minutes.”

  As I changed into long pants and a T-shirt, I looked at the clock; it was nearly five thirty. I was exhausted. I wondered what he had planned and was intrigued to find out, but I silently prayed that it wouldn’t take long.

  “Okay. Now what?” I said, reemerging from my room to find him in jeans and a T-shirt as well. He pulled on a sweatshirt. “Is that it? No sweatshirt? I said ‘something warmer.’ I’m not sure a T-shirt is gonna cut it out on the beach at this hour.”

  “Well, you didn’t say we were going outside, sheesh.” I feigned irritation.

  After I pulled on my jacket, he walked me out of the complex and onto the beach. As we reac
hed the line where soft dunes give way to harder packed damp sand, he pulled a blanket from his bag and laid it out. “After you, madam.” He motioned for me to sit. I obeyed, casting him a querying glance in the grey light of a newly breaking dawn. “I won’t go one more damned day near a beach without watching a sunrise with you, Ms. Simmons.” He announced it impertinently and with great aplomb, and then he plopped down next to me.

  I laughed, smiled, and laughed even more. It was a priceless moment that in six years we’d never shared, despite all my promises to wake him ‘tomorrow’ or ‘next time.’ I put an arm around him as the sun cast its first yellowish orange hues across the horizon. “I love you, Ryan Riverton.”

  By the time the sun was a full disk low on the horizon, it was light enough for us to look into each other’s faces. We joked that exhaustion aged us at least a decade. The bags under his eyes were obvious as I am sure mine were, and his skin was dull and pale. We definitely needed some sleep.

  As we walked back to my condo, I asked him to stay and at least take a nap before hitting the road. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want, or sleep with one foot on the floor. No matter what, you’ve got to sleep a bit before you go.”

  “I’ll stay for a few hours, babe. And I would love to lay with you. But,” he faced me, brushing my hair off my shoulders, “Jen, I won’t have sex with you.”

  My stomach flipped, and I suddenly felt ashamed. He made the statement so seriously as if he needed to ward me off. I had not been thinking about sex at all, though part of me sort of knew it would happen if he agreed to sleep in the same bed with me. Our energy had always been physically electric. I was confused and felt the sting of rejection. “Ummm, okay…?” I continued walking back to the condo. “Seems a strange announcement to make. I wasn’t implying sex at all.”

  “Good then.” He smiled. “Not having it shouldn’t be a problem.”