Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste

CHAPTER TEN

That weekend, I’m grading papers at my kitchen table when my phone buzzes once with a message somewhere underneath the mess I have scattered in front of me. I search until I find it and glance at the screen, blinking a few times before letting out a short, startled breath.

Heart beating a little faster, I scan over the number a few more times to make sure I’m seeing it right.

It took a little over a year before I’d deleted Hunter’s contact info. It was at least fourteen months following our separation before Vickie had said, “What are you keeping it for? Are you waiting for him to change his mind? You’re better than that, bitch.”

And I was.

Am.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten the number that used to send me sweet texts and funny pictures or call me to check in and say he missed hearing my voice. How could I when I spent so many years of my life with him?

602-545-0102: Hey, Smalls

The phone tumbles from my hand onto the table, where I wince at the loud sound it makes when it comes into contact with the wood. I keep it there, the message still front and center, as I stare in disbelief like someone sent me real-life pictures of aliens or something.

Smalls. It wasn’t an original nickname, but one I weirdly liked. I was short, especially compared to his 6’2”. People would always remark on our height difference whenever we were out. Random strangers at stores, some of our family, a few men on base when I lived with him at Fort Drum.

I seem to let shock freeze me from making any type of decision. Do I respond back? Not? Should I call Vickie and ask for her opinion? I know what she’ll say.

Fuck him.

That’s what she said right before I’d deleted his number from my phone, and I’d asked, “What if he calls?” I’d had multiple what-if scenarios in my head. I was still his emergency contact on all his forms—something that made his mother a little coo-coo when she found out—and was worried I’d miss something from him if anything bad happened.

But Vickie, my dearest, most honest friend, had given me a firm look and said, “Fuck him. Not literally. Figuratively fuck him and his problems. They’re not yours anymore.”

She’d been right, so she watched me go to my contacts and delete his name because she knew I’d probably chicken out otherwise if I put it off. It ripped out part of my soul, but I’d done it. If she had her way, I would have blocked his number too. But I didn’t have that in me.

Now, what the hell do I do? Mom would basically tell me the same thing as Vickie, but nicer. Dad would grumble and not really give his opinion because even though he liked Hunter to a degree, he definitely wasn’t his fan when the divorce papers came. I was always daddy’s little girl, so anyone who hurt me was immediately on his shit list, with Hunter on the top of it.

I’m about to pick up my phone and type out a response out of weakness before I hear something rattling outside, followed by a single thump against the house. Standing hesitantly, I walk over to the window and lift the curtains to figure out what’s happening when I see a ladder.

A ladder that looks way too nice to be Bex’s since hers was covered in rust and dents compared to the shiny, new looking one currently being climbed by the man who I’ve become accustomed to seeing across the street. I still wave, smile, and say hi, and he’ll usually lift a hand, tip his head, or grumble a hello in response. But it’s usually Nicki who greets me with enthusiasm or their dog that barks with the same amount of energy as the youngest Miller that always makes me smile.

Walking outside, I cross my arms at the slightly chillier weather and glance up at the man currently cleaning my rain gutters. Since it’s obvious what he’s doing, I ask, “Where’s Nicki?”

He doesn’t even pause. “At his mom’s.”

Oh.

He adds, “It’s her weekend.”

So that means… “Oh,” I say aloud this time, wincing at my weird tone.

I think he mutters something, but I’m not sure. It’s a few heartbeats later when he says, “I know what divorce is like, too.” He looks down, not even looking nervous at the height. “You look pale.”

How he could tell that from up there is beyond me.

“Is your hand bothering you?”

Almost forgetting about it, I glance down at the dark pink scab along my palm. I’d taken the wrappings off yesterday. It’s still tender and hurts to use, but it’s tolerable. “It’s fine.” I glance at the door and think about the text.

Lips twitching, I tell him, “I heard from someone unexpected, that’s all.”

I think he does that chin nod thing, but I’m not sure. He turns back to the gutter and keeps cleaning it out. “Hate when that happens,” is what he tells me.

That’s it. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t seem like he’s that interested in who might have reached out, which makes me feel a little bad that I want to know the deal with his wife. Or ex-wife, I guess. But I know it’s none of my business, so I force myself to let it go.

I’m about to go inside for some warmth after we fall to a long period of silence when Fletcher speaks again. “Nicki told me that he aced his social studies quiz.”

He wants to talk about his son’s grades?

Wait.

I smile when I realize what he called him, and suddenly the minor breeze doesn’t bother me so much anymore. “He did. I notice history is his strongest subject.”

“He used to always ask me to read to him before bed when he was little,” my neighbor comments. “And he’d always choose some random historical biography. Once, I’d read him an entire book on George Washington. You’d think it’d make him fall asleep faster, but he always begged me for more when I told him I’d read enough.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I think that’s cute, and it’s clearly helped him as he progresses with school. Imagine how much he’ll participate when we hit the Revolutionary War.”

Whatever I said brings pause to the man on the ladder. “Is he participating?” His question is delivered with surprising interest, more interest than he expresses in most things, which I think is sort of sweet. It’s obvious he loves Dominic. I also know based on the notes from his previous teacher that Nicki had been having a far harder time at that district—acting out, staying nearly silent in class, sometimes demanding to go home if something happened that changed his routine.

“Some days more than others,” I admit. We’d talked about his participation briefly during the parent-teacher conference, but there’d still been a lot of tension between us so maybe he wasn’t really focusing.

“Has he been…?” His words fade, and I know there’s worry mixed into them even though his tone doesn’t reflect it.

My answer is honest. “If there were problems, I’d let you know.” A strong gust of wind smacks into me, and I shiver as I hug myself a little tighter. Even though it’s not strong enough to move the ladder or Fletcher and all that muscle on his body, I can’t help but worry. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put a jacket on.”

If he answers, I don’t stay to listen. It only takes me a minute or so before I’m covered, zipped, and back outside. My neighbor is climbing down as I go back to where I stood, and I watch as he moves the ladder over to work on a new section.

“Thank you for doing this.”

He glances over, eyeing the bright red jacket I bought myself for my birthday last year. It’s wool and warm and as bright as my personality, according to my mother. I think it was a compliment, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with her.

After he peels his eyes away, he starts climbing the ladder again. Halfway up, he says, “You don’t need to stand out here. It’s cold.”

It’s not that cold, but it never takes much for me to be freezing. “I seem to recall somebody telling me not that long ago that it was stupid to do things like this alone. I’m spotting you in case you fall.”

If I look hard enough, I’d see the tiniest ghost of a smile tilting those otherwise flat, unreadable lips. I think he may even be chuckling because we both know he’d crush me if I tried catching him.