Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Istare at the email that had come through my phone during one of my lessons and scan the screen for the third time to be sure I’m reading it right. The salad in front of me is neglected, the smell of the light ranch coating the leafy greens unable to draw my attention back to the slight hunger that’d gnawed at my stomach an hour leading up to my lunch period.
[email protected]: Stevie, can you find time to meet me and talk?
I scored an 800 for both reading and writing on my SAT exams back in high school, so I know I’m not reading this wrong. Still, I can’t help the feeling that bubbles in my stomach seeing an email address I haven’t since we’d communicated about lawyer fees and legal representation amid our divorce.
As if that’s not enough, there’s a second one waiting for me sent eighteen minutes after the first was sent and delivered in my inbox.
[email protected]: Please?
He hasn’t used my number since the first time or sent anything to the house. I’d hoped after seeing him at The Penny that he’d understand. That, somehow, telepathically, he’d know I didn’t want to address anything that had to do with us.
But I know that’s not realistic.
Setting my phone down, I poke at my salad, moving around a crouton and piece of chopped carrot before blowing out a breath.
The problem is, Hunter is persistent. Another trait I blindly admired during our time together. If he wanted something, he went after it without giving up. He did his best to train and beat his fitness scores and build enough muscle to bench press 300 pounds when he was challenged. Once, he’d managed to convince one of the most stubborn elderly women I’d ever met in my life to let us build a fence between our properties. We’d talked about getting a dog, one I could take care of and have near me when he was away.
He never did get around to building the fence, using it as a reason not to get a dog. His mother had told him to hire somebody to come to get an estimate to do the work and then talked him out of that when she’d suggested holding off from investing money in it in case we moved. It wasn’t until much later I’d wondered if they’d talked about moving long before Hunter had brought it up to me.
Then again, it wouldn’t have been the first time I was the last to know something.
“Whoa, what’d that salad do to you?” Sonia asks, poking her head into my room. “You look like I do when the Starbucks lady gets my order wrong in the mornings.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s dangerous. I’ve seen you without coffee before and it’s frightening.”
She walks in and settles across from me at a desk too small for even her lean body. “So, why do you look mad like your salad isn’t magically turning into a pizza?”
Smiling a little, I give her the roundabout answer. “Just some things on my mind about my ex.” I can tell she wants to ask more, but I don’t give her a chance to. “How are things going with you since you decided to go on a diet for the New Year?”
Sinking into the seat, she groans. “I failed on day three. It wasn’t my fault though. I couldn’t let the chocolate in my house go to waste. Or the leftover pizza I may or may not have ordered on day one and then felt slightly guilty about, so I only ate one piece.”
I snicker.
“Now I see why you didn’t make any.”
That’s not entirely true. I made some resolutions but kept them to myself. Some things are too personal to post online or share with coworkers.
All I say is, “We all strive to be better than the year before.”
She snorts. “Not everyone. Miles is engaged.”
If I were eating my salad, I would have choked. “Engaged as in…to be married?”
“What other kind is there?”
I blink. “Haven’t they only known each other for a couple of months?”
She nods, looking way more excited than anything. “Barely. It’s going to be a total shitshow.”
Instantly, I give her a look. “Sonia, that’s horrible. Take it from somebody who rushed into things with a person. It’s not fun.”
Guilt takes over her expression. “Sorry, I forget sometimes. But, I mean, you dated for a while before getting married.”
She’s right, but that still doesn’t stop me from wondering if waiting would have changed anything. “True, but we were still young. Too young. Maybe if we’d held off, if we listened to everybody, things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did.”
Her head tilts. “Do you think you would have gotten married if you waited?”
Rubbing my lips together, I contemplate my answer. “I don’t know. If we’d waited a few more years, maybe we would have matured as two separate people before becoming one unit. Or maybe we wouldn’t have worked out because we’d lived our own lives and got a taste for that.”
“You talk about it easier than you did.”
She means I don’t cry anymore, which I’ve noticed too. So, I give her the best explanation I can. “Turns out, it takes knowing the right person to realize the wrong ones don’t matter as much as you thought.”
Her lips part.
Close.
Then part again.
But, for once, Sonia is speechless.
I smile to myself, pull my salad toward me, and pick up my fork.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve known Hunter Cross for seventeen years or that we’d been together for the majority of those. Because nothing compares to what I’ve learned in the short time that I’ve gotten to know Fletcher Miller.
Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. I think about all the times I’d seen the man living across the street in passing. It may not have been often, but he was there. Nearby. In Hunter’s life, and because of that, in mine.
The truth is, you’ll never meet the right person until you fully let go of the wrong one.
So, I forget about the email and stab a few pieces of lettuce. “So, how’d you find out about Miles’s engagement?”
Dad grumbles when I show up at his house with groceries that consist mostly of fresh produce and a few other healthier options since last time I was here, the only things he had around were Little Debbie snack cakes, sodium-packed premade microwavable meals, and whatever Mom would give him to heat up. He can cook, he just rarely does it. He says he’s “too busy” to worry about getting his vegetables in.
Helping me unload the bags of food, he decides to focus on other things. “You’re about due for an oil change,” he says, huffing over the low-fat yogurt I’d picked up for him. “I can get what I need tomorrow and do it then.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my lips from curling up, and he notices it since he’s trying not to scowl at the head of broccoli and bananas on the counter. So, I tell him that it’s been taken care of already.
He doesn’t hide his surprise, his furry white brows arching up on his forehead. I’d had the same reaction when I woke up to a noise outside my house early this morning. I’d slept in for once, so when I’d adjusted to the light and looked out the window, I saw Fletcher underneath my car. I’d watched Dad change my oil enough times to know that’s what my neighbor had been doing.
I got dressed, brushed my hair, and poured two cups of coffee, bringing them outside to have with him. He’d sat up, accepted the mug, and simply said, “Morning.”
Then he went back to work.
I forgot I’d even mentioned having my dad do my oil when I visited. Apparently, Fletcher decided to take care of it knowing I’d never ask him. I’d even offered to repay him for what he’d bought to do it, but he’d given me a look that said shut up, Stevie, a look I’m sure many of his soldiers had gotten over the years, and that was that.
Giving Dad a lesser version of that, simply saying a neighbor with experience working on cars had done it for me, I finish putting away his groceries. I know he wants to ask for more information, but unlike Mom, he doesn’t pry. Instead, he lets it be, picking up one of the oranges I bought and says, “Why are these so damn small?”
“They’re called Cuties,” I explain, smiling to myself in amusement. “They’re popular with kids because they’re smaller and easier to peel.”
I think he said, “I’m not a damn kid.”
Simply patting his shoulder, I nod and watch as he peels it anyway and starts picking apart the pieces while I think about the man who’d left my house this morning with oil staining his hands.
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