Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The invitation comes in the morning when I’m out getting my mail. Like most mornings, Fletcher is out walking Admiral. This time, Nicki is absent from the routine, and I wonder if he’s with his mother.
I don’t get a chance to wonder for long because the man who I used to see in military greens stops in front of my driveway in his usual jeans, boots, and T-shirt, but this time, with a bulky jacket on over top of it. A similar shade of green as the trademark he was trained in. “Do you want to come over later? For poker. Dominic is with his mom this weekend and won’t be back until tomorrow night.”
I’m unsure why the nod I gave him was slow and hesitant because he’d seemed serious when he offered at the carnival to teach me. But when the slightly confused, “Sure?” came out, he’d simply nodded, told me what time, and then said he’d see me later before walking away.
That’s how I find myself standing in front of a door I’ve never knocked on before, staring at the doorbell off to the side, and wondering if I should have brought something with me.
Alcohol, snacks, something.
But I don’t get a chance to turn around and go back to find something before the door opens and Fletcher appears. “Come on in.”
He sounds casual, maybe even a little looser than his normal higher-strung tone. Trying to forget about my previous concerns, I follow him inside and unbutton my jacket while looking around. It’s clean, open, and spacious inside. Lots of natural lighting that I kind of envy, and cool tones with darker furniture that’s tidy, like a fifth grader doesn’t live here at all.
“I can take that,” he offers as I slide off my coat. Giving him an appreciative smile, I pass it to him and return my eyes to the pictures hanging on the wall.
Along the foyer is a timeline of images of Dominic from birth to what looks like he might’ve had taken during picture day this year. “He looks a lot like you,” I note, stopping at the newest photo. Their facial structure and noses are practically identical, same with their hair and eye color, except Nicki has flecks of gold in his that I haven’t noticed in Fletcher’s. Both with darker hair, too, except Dominic’s is longer than the buzz cut peppered with silver that Fletcher keeps.
“He’s got his mom’s eyes,” he notes, standing next to me. “But the poor kid looks more and more like me every year.”
Speaking honestly, I reply, “Trust me, that’s not a bad thing.”
I can feel his eyes dipping down to look at me, but I clear my throat and change topics before he can make a comment. “So…poker?”
He shows me where he set up some cards at the table. “Want something to drink? I’ve got water, beer, milk, or—”
“Water is fine, thanks.”
He nods and disappears into the kitchen connected to the dining room where his polished round table is. Sitting down, I listen to him rifle through things as I stare at the cards and colored chips, wondering if I know any of the men that come over and play poker with him.
For a hot second, I wonder if Hunter does.
But I think Fletcher would have told me that unless that was what he was trying to get at by thinking I’d be uncomfortable. Last I knew, Hunter didn’t know how to play poker. He’d participate in family game nights, but usually not for long because he was like Vickie.
A sore loser.
When Fletcher walks back in, he has two glasses of water in his hand. “Should have asked if you wanted something to eat. I don’t have much. I swear Dominic cleared me out of all the groceries I just got.”
I laugh. “I ate before I came here, so that’s fine. He must be going through a growth spurt.” I’ve noticed he’s sprouted up a little more compared to some of his peers. “Do you know Bex, the woman who lives next to me?”
He nods, taking a seat across from me.
“She was telling me her son was always eating when he hit a certain age. She’d have to go grocery shopping once a week, sometimes more, because he’d always have something in his hand. He went from like 5’10” to 6’3” practically overnight, I guess.”
His lips curl up. “I think Nicki is going to be tall. It’s common in my family. Even the girls are.”
“Do you have siblings?”
He hums. “Two younger sisters. They’re both 5’10” or over. Our mother always complains that she’s the short one in the family and curses our father for giving us the gift of height.”
“How tall is she?”
He sizes me up. “Probably your height.”
I make a face. “I’d probably be bitter if I was the shortest in my family too,” I admit, shrugging.
“Siblings?”
Shaking my head, I grab the glass of water and pull it toward me. “I think my mom wanted another, but my dad was…struggling.” I hesitate only a moment before saying, “He’s an alcoholic. Recovered now but had some problems getting things together then.”
Something flashes in Fletcher’s eyes. Understanding, maybe? Sympathy? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not.” Dad’s alcoholism may have been hard to deal with at the time, but he’s a lot better since reevaluating his life. “He’s the one who used your mower that one time. I think he still says it runs smoother than any other mower he’s used, whatever that means.”
I feel like I deserve a gold star when I hear another light chuckle come from him. “I’ll let him borrow it again if he needs it.”
Waving a hand in the air, I reply, “I hired someone to take care of the lawn. Dad will just have to go buy one like it for his own lawn.”
“I noticed you did,” is all he says before starting to explain to me the game. At first, I don’t understand anything he says. But five minutes go by, and he repeats a few things when he sees the lost look on my face.
Another five and I think I got it, only to realize I don’t and give him a few nods and “oohs” even though I definitely don’t get it at all. I’m a little surprised with how patient Fletcher is, though I probably shouldn’t be since he has a son he has to treat with the same patience. It makes me wonder things I probably shouldn’t, things I should know better than to ask.
But there’s a lot to Fletcher Miller that I never thought I’d know when I knew him in the past. The hard ass who Hunter sometimes complained about but usually looked up to was nothing like the man sitting across from me going step by step on how to play a hand of poker.
“Did you always want to be a father?” I’ll smack myself for asking the question later, but curiosity gets the better of me.
He blinks, stares at his cards, then eventually lifts his gaze. “No, not really. I’d considered it a time or two but kept busy with work. Never thought much about having a family until it happened.”
Did I see him flinch a little?
He scratches his jaw. “That makes it sound like Dominic was a mistake, but that’s not the case. When Traci, his mom, told me she was pregnant, it was a surprise but a happy one. I was old enough to know that I could support her and my child and was happy to be part of their lives, even if it wasn’t planned.”
“I know how much you love him,” is all I can think to remark.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he starts, and I know what he’s going to ask. “But have you considered being a mother?” When I’m quiet for a stretch too long, he shifts in his seat and sits a little straighter. “Hunter never seemed to talk about it with the guys. Not even when some of the other men were becoming parents. It was never anything I asked about. Wasn’t my business then and still isn’t now. But…”
My nostrils twitch over that. I guess Hunter wouldn’t have talked about it, would he? He always knew he wasn’t interested. He just refused to tell me that. Instead, he dragged me along because he didn’t feel like hurting my feelings about the one thing I always told him I wanted. “Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a mom.”
The thought sucker punches me in the chest, and I offer him a wavering, watery smile as I try fighting off the emotions that want to well in my eyes. I brought this on myself.
“That’s inevitably where it went wrong.”
This time, he’s quiet.
So, I decide to elaborate. “We talked about it. I’m not sure if you know this, but we got married pretty young. I was nineteen and he was twenty. Everyone told us to wait because it probably wouldn’t work out, but we ignored them. We were in love, and that makes people feel invincible.”
If he agrees, he doesn’t say so.
Shaking my head, I look down at my nearly empty glass. “Anyway, it wasn’t like me wanting to experience motherhood was some sort of secret to him. Hunter knew it’s what I’ve wanted my whole life. I should have known that something was wrong when he’d always find ways to change the subject or give noncommittal responses if I brought it up. I was love blind, I guess. When it came down to making that move, to really trying, he finally told me it’s not what he wanted. I won’t lie. It broke me a little. It’s what made me realize I couldn’t settle or pretend to be happy if he wouldn’t at least consider it.”
Fletcher’s eyes darken, and his lips purse. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I’m not sure I want to.
Sighing lightly, I lift a shoulder. “I keep reminding myself that things happen for a reason. He was my first love, but that doesn’t mean he was the love of my life. Because if he were, then he would have tried harder, wouldn’t he have?”
I’m not sure if I expect him to answer me at all, much less honestly, but he does. “I think if you truly love someone, you’d be willing to do whatever it takes to make them happy.”
The truth is hard to hear, so I swallow the lump in my throat before nodding. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He must hear the weakness. “I’m sorry if I hurt your fee—”
“No.” I quickly shake my head, smiling at him even if it does hurt. “You didn’t. In fact, I needed to hear that. Because I was probably so consumed in him being this great big love and building up expectations in my head that he was never going to fill. And that’s on me.”
There’s a pause between us. “Any man who has a decent partner in his life that he admires should be willing to go through hell for them, not put them through it. Hunter was a good soldier, somebody a lot of people could depend on, so I’m sorry that you couldn’t.”
I can’t look him in the eyes. “Thank you.”
“He’s an idiot,” I swear he mutters, but I can’t be positive. Because instead of me asking him to repeat it, I chicken out and let him move on with showing me the ropes of the game.
I try pushing past the feelings that creep up my throat, but they build higher and higher until they’re choking me. It’s hard to ask him where his bathroom is in a level tone, and I doubt he believes I’m okay when the rasp of the question comes out, but he tells me where to find it and watches as I walk away while holding in tears.
Keep it together, Stevie.
One tear slides down my cheek as I reach the door.
A second follows it on the opposite side as I close the door behind me and lean against the wood.
A third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
I swallow the pain and the silent sobs that try escaping as I walk over to grab some toilet paper to press against my damp face. A choked noise rises up my throat despite my better efforts, then another as I attempt to press my lips together to conceal it.
The knock on the door has me locking up where I stand in front of the sink looking like a mess, but it’s the “Stevie?” that has the tears flooding my face uncontrollably. He waits a few seconds before saying, “I’m coming in.”
I’m a wreck when the knob turns, and the doorframe is filled with a bulky, muscular man whose face is the softest I’ve ever seen it, even noticeable through the tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I-I’m sorry,” I blubber, grabbing more toilet paper before wiping at my cheeks. I shake my head, sniffle, and try controlling myself, to no avail.
“Stevie,” he breathes, walking over and turning me, so I’m facing him. He takes the toilet paper from me, throws it in the trash, guides me to the closed toilet seat, and sits me down. I watch as he grabs a folded washcloth from the shelf off to the side, runs some water, and wets the fabric before squatting in front of me. “I’m sorry that I upset you.”
He thinks he did this? “It’s n-not you. It’s me.” I cringe at the ridiculous line. “I asked you the question first. You were only returning the favor. It’s stupid. I’m just being a baby, Fletcher.”
I swear his lips tilt as he begins pressing the cool cloth against my cheeks gently. “You’re not being a baby. Don’t call yourself names. You’re hurt, and you’re justified. You warned me before that you didn’t like talking about him, so I should have listened.”
Shaking my head until he holds me still, I try turning this around. “I’m the one who pried. I-I should be the one apologizing. I asked about Nicki and your personal business. It was rude because you don’t owe me any explanation, especially knowing it’d lead to this. And now I’m crying in your bathroom like a train wreck, making you clean my face.”
“I don’t do things that I don’t want to.”
I’d heard those words before. “You’ve said that to me before.”
“Because it’s true.” He switches the cloth to the other cheek, the cool fabric feeling good against my overheated, puffy face. “I don’t like seeing women cry.”
“But you like seeing men cry?” I sniffle.
His lips lift slightly at the corners. “It depends if they deserve it or not.”
More sniffling. “They probably did.”
Those lips lift a little higher.
“It’s going on three years,” I sigh. “I shouldn’t still be breaking down in people’s bathrooms and letting them oh-so-kindly wipe my face off and calm me down.”
He stops what he’s doing for a minute. “I don’t think there’s any real timeline on getting over someone, Peaches.”
“Why do you call me that?”
Now he’s full-on grinning. “Nicki came home one day and started rattling on about how you’d be a peach if you could be any fruit in the world. It seemed fitting.”
I blink. I’d forgotten all about that conversation and didn’t even think any of the kids would think about it past the last bell going off. “I didn’t know he remembered.”
“He remembers a lot.”
“It was a silly question.”
“Yet the answer still matches the person.”
I scrunch my face. “Do I look like a fuzzy piece of fruit or something?”
Fletcher chuckles as he stands up and puts the washcloth on the counter. “Peaches remind me of sunshine, and you’re a very warm person to everyone. I see how you are with the kids, but I also see how you interact with other people when you’re out. You treat everybody with the same kindness and respect. It’s refreshing.”
I don’t say anything to that, just stare at my feet and tile floor that they’re resting on.
“Like I said,” Fletcher tells me. “There’s no timeline for getting over somebody. Because if you rush it, then you won’t find the right person who’s still out there waiting for you.”
I pick my gaze up to meet his.
He’s looking at me with some sort of expression on his face that I can’t dissect.
“Do whatever you need to in order to get past this,” he says, eyes burning holes into my face with his delivery. In a tone lower than before, he adds, “With whoever that needs to be. But just know that there’s somebody still out there who will be a better match to you than what you had. Count on that, Stevie.”
I swallow my words and wonder what types of things I should be doing, but when I study his firm face and those intense eyes, I think I know.
Miles kissing me on my doorstep.
The man doing the walk of shame.
He knows.
And suddenly, my face is hot for a whole different reason that I don’t want to acknowledge.
Because I shouldn’t be worrying about what Fletcher is thinking, but I am.
I’m worrying a lot.