Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When lunch comes, I’m about to go to the teacher’s lounge to get the salad I’d put in the fridge this morning when a familiar figure appears at my door holding a cardboard cup holder with two Styrofoam to-go cups in it and a brown paper bag hanging from his wrist with my favorite local diner’s logo on the front.

“Have time for me?” he asks, holding up the drinks. “Brought your favorite hot chocolate.”

I perk up. “Always. Come in. I was about to go grab my lunch.”

He sets the bag on my desk. “I grabbed some for us if you don’t mind having lunch with me. Got the chicken wrap you said you liked the last time we were there. But if you want—”

“That sounds perfect.” Before I think about it, I peck his lips and smile. My hand touches his arm before I help him take out the to-go containers labeled with a black sharpie to indicate which is which. I can smell the burger in his before he even opens it after grabbing a chair and putting it beside mine.

After walking home from the pet store, where I didn’t find anything I was ready to buy despite Nicki trying to convince me that the pug puppies looked lonely like me, Fletcher and I had a long talk. Nicki was playing with Admiral and the toy I’d bought their dog in my yard, when I’d turned to the man watching his world through the glass who’d said, “You don’t need to tell me what happened.”

When he pinned me with those intense eyes and added a quiet but firm, “I trust you,” I knew I had to tell him.

Because he didn’t expect it.

Because he trusted me.

So, I gave him a condensed version of my conversation with Hunter, watched him make faces at my ex’s lacking admissions before touching his arm and saying, “Being let go by him was the best thing he could have done for me. It took meeting you to realize that.”

Then, I’d kissed him.

Held his hand.

Felt his breath mingle with mine until he straightened and admitted, “Relieved to hear that, honey.”

He was worried about Hunter. More specifically, he was worried about me going back to him. So, I knew then I’d have to show him in any way possible that he has nothing to worry about.

Watching him pass me a napkin and then my hot chocolate, which smells like the sweet, salted caramel I love getting a little too often, I can’t help but wonder what he must have thought when he saw Hunter standing at my door. He told me Dominic is the one who noticed him first. It didn’t take long for Fletcher to realize who it was, even only seeing his back.

Hunter is like that, I guess.

Noticeable.

Memorable.

That doesn’t matter now, though. Both men know where I stand. I’ll always carry some weight over me when it comes to my past, but I won’t let it bury me anymore.

“How do you feel about a movie night?” he asks, eyes flicking up and scoping out my face as he dresses up his burger.

I think about it for only a moment before giving him my honest answer. “I think I’d like that. Will Nicki be there?”

His head dips. “I talked to him when we got home.” He pauses for a moment, wiping off his fingers with a napkin. “About us.”

Dominic hasn’t said a word to me about it. He’s been the same Nicki he usually is in class. During third period, I saw him staring at a familiar blue marble before putting it back into his pocket. During fourth, right before lunch, I’d seen him talking to the aide and even smiling a little at the kind older woman he’s warmed up to.

“What does he think about this?” Us.

Fletcher leans back in his chair. “He said the same thing to me that he told you. He likes you, Peaches. I don’t think he really has another opinion other than that one.”

My tongue drags across my bottom lip as I pick up a fry from the Styrofoam container and dip it into the ketchup from his. “Do you think he’ll be okay with things…progressing?”

Fletcher’s eyes heat. “I think once he sees how happy we are, he’ll have no reason not to be.” I swallow air as he pins me with that fiery gaze. “I meant what I said, Stevie. He’s okay with this. He has no reason to feel otherwise.”

I can’t help but ask, “And Traci? What are her thoughts?”

The smallest curl of his lips appears before disappearing just as quickly. “Not that her thoughts on this matter, but she likes you too. I know she said as much when she saw you.”

I blush.

“Apparently, Nicki has brought you up quite often to her and Jake,” he adds, picking up his burger and taking a bite.

My eyebrows go up.

He chuckles. “You’re cute, honey. I ever tell you that?”

Cute? I shake my head.

“Well, you are. Worried about what Trace will think. I’m happy. I’d like to think you are—” His eyes focus on me like he wants a confirmation, which my smile gives him. “We both know Nicki is. That’s all that matters. Not Traci, not Hunter.” His tone is rougher when he says my ex’s name, and I try not to smile but fail miserably. So, I hide it behind the wrap I pick up and take a bite of.

Fletcher keeps going, making me fall deeper without him even realizing that what he says means so much to me. “Dominic is interested in watching that play. The one about the founding fathers. He must have heard us talking about it.” We had spoken about my love for the musical a time or two when I told him I’d seen it on Broadway years before it came out on a popular streaming service. I still liked putting it on as background noise when I cook and clean and quietly sing along to each number.

My lips part as I lower my food. “We talked about it in class a few times. I’d told them it was a great way for people, younger generations especially, to learn about how our country came to be.”

He makes a humming noise before swallowing another big bite of his lunch. “I think I’d like to see it too.”

The giddiness mixed with shock over that admission, since very few men enjoy watching things like this, overwhelms me. “There are some adult themes to it,” I warn him. “Nothing too graphic, but I thought I’d let you know in case you don’t want him watching that sort of thing. Plus, it’s long. Two and a half hours.”

Nicki has always been great sitting still in class, but there are some days he’s more anxious than others. Wiggling, fidgeting, paying more attention to whatever is happening outside rather than in the classroom.

“It’s about war,” Fletcher chooses to respond with. “Nothing he hasn’t heard about in his lifetime. But hopefully nothing he has to experience in it either. I imagine that’s vital to this play, right? The hope that surfaces after the battle is over.”

Fletcher has no clue that those words trigger something inside me that makes me wish we weren’t sitting in my classroom.

That’s why I put down my chicken wrap, reach over until my fingers dance along his arm, and say, “I’m ready.”

Two words.

So many different meanings.

But Fletcher knows exactly which I mean when his eyes flare with heat.

 

 

Dominic falls asleep using Admiral as a pillow on the living room floor halfway through the second act. Fletcher watches his son with a content smile on his face, his body eased on the couch with an arm thrown around my shoulders and my body pressed against his.

He hasn’t said anything about the play.

Nothing bad.

Nothing good.

But I can tell that he doesn’t mind it. He hasn’t looked at his phone once or done anything that makes it seem like he’s bored. He even asks a few questions about the accuracy of the storyline, which I happily indulge both boys on since I did plenty of research on the creation of the plot in comparison to what really happened.

When I was done rambling, he’d made only one comment about it. “Creative liberties, then.” There was no judgment in his tone. He even sounded impressed.

After the credits start rolling, I move away from Fletcher and look at the time. Nibbling my lip, I debate on what to do. Say goodnight? Wait for him to suggest otherwise? We haven’t talked about sleepovers. Considering this is the first time I’ve spent with both Millers in their domain, I’m feeling uneasy.

“Let me put him to bed,” he prompts, standing and stretching after sitting still for so long while I used him as a human cushion. When he lifts his arms, a sliver of his stomach appears, along with the thin trail of hair leading somewhere, I’d like to see again. His eyes catch my gaze, and a smug smirk tugs up the corners of his lips until I quickly look away.

“Stay put, yeah?” he adds, once his son is perched in his arms, cradled against his chest. Then, with one hand holding his son to him, he reaches down where I sit on the edge of the couch and brushes his knuckles lightly against my cheek. “Want to see you when I come back down.”

I give him a small nod and watch his big frame disappear up the stairs. It’s only then I get up and stretch my own legs, flattening my clothes out and taming the frizzy hair that’s gone wild since I put it down when I got here. I look at the various pictures hanging up on the walls and resting on the shelves. Pictures of Dominic and Fletcher together, some with Nicki and Admiral when they were both much younger, and images of a younger Fletcher in a uniform.

My fingertips graze the picture frame, drawn to the seriousness behind the glass. He’s standing tall, posture straight, face neutral, and looking away from the camera. I don’t know who took the candid shot, but whoever it was caught him lost in thought if his stance is any indication.

Taking the frame from the shelf, I brush off the dust from the side with the pad of my thumb. Most of the others are clean, but not this one. If I had to guess, I’d say it was intentionally missed.

I don’t know how long I was staring at it before I hear, “It’s amazing how time changes people, huh.”

Startling, I nearly drop the frame. “Geez. I didn’t even hear you come downstairs.” I put the frame back where it was. “Sorry, I was just looking. I haven’t spent much time in here to get a good look at these.”

When I’m at his house, we spend most of our time in the kitchen or dining room, depending on what’s going on. Sometimes, we’ll sit and talk in the living room, but not long enough for me to study the trinkets and images on the shelves since my eyes rarely trail from him.

“You don’t need to apologize.” He comes up beside me and stares at the picture I was examining. “I was thirty when that was taken. It feels like a lifetime ago, though.”

Amusement kicks up my lips. “That was only twelve years ago, Fletcher. That’s hardly a lifetime.” The look on his face is pained, like his memories hitting him while he looks at his younger self says otherwise. “But, I suppose, when people have gone through what you have, it probably feels like more than a lifetime.”

His eyes shift down to me. “Did he ever talk about it?”

I know who he’s talking about, but not what he’s referring to. “Did he talk about what?”

“Being overseas?”

Blinking, I trail my hand down his arm until our fingers link, then bring him back over to the couch so we can sit. “No, Hunter never said anything about it. It wasn’t like he saw any action, or he probably would have bragged.”

A heavy look shadows over his features as he sinks into the cushion and puts our hands on his thigh. “Soldiers who see the real action never brag,” he tells me grimly. His throat clears. “Did you know I served five tours overseas? Three in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. The things we saw were nothing I’d ever want to repeat to anybody, to save them from the burdens we were faced with after getting out.”

If he served that many tours… “You must have experienced hell.”

His breath is slow, steady. “Sometimes I think hell would have been easier than what happened over there.”

My heart breaks for him as his fingers squeeze mine to remind him where he is. Not there. Here. With me.

Distant eyes moving to me, he gives me a small, empty smile. “You don’t have to look at me like that, honey. Some men and women went through far worse than I did. Some of them didn’t make it back like I was lucky enough to.”

As true as that may be, it doesn’t make me ease the grip I have on his hand. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

He leans over and presses a kiss against the corner of my mouth, then softly brushes his lips against mine. Finally, he draws back and leans his forehead against mine, his heavy exhale caressing my nose and mouth before pressing another kiss against my cheek.

“When did you retire?”

With one more peck against my lips, he sits back and gazes down at our hands. “I’d started the process after Traci told me she was pregnant. I was debating on doing it for a while. I was…tired. Damn tired at that point, Stevie. My body, my mind, they weren’t suited for the lifestyle anymore, for the things expected of me by my colleagues and country. And when I heard I’d be a father, it seemed like the perfect time to step down. Let myself breathe again. Be the best man I could be, the healthiest, for my son or daughter.”

As he speaks, my cheek rests against his shoulder, watching as his thumb brushes the back of my hand in slow strokes.

“I’m glad I left,” he continues quietly, something warm brushing against the crown of my skull. His lips, I realize, as he talks. “If I didn’t, who knows where I’d be now. I’m not sure I could give my all to Dominic or even a fraction of what I owed Traci. She never asked me for anything, not even when she told me about the pregnancy test being positive. Trace never expected me to do a damn thing about it, and that crushed a part of me. Made me want to try ten times harder to prove to her I’d take care of both of them.”

It’s good he can’t see my face because I’m definitely not making a good one. He must guess as much because those lips trail to my temple, where they press another kiss. “Like you, I don’t hold any torches for my ex. You have nothing to worry about.”

I know that, and I’m sure if I looked I’d see the same cocky smile on his face knowing I’m just as jealous over the same topic. “You don’t need to tell me that,” I assure him.

“Mm. But sometimes it’s nice to be told there’s nobody else that could compare,” is his reply, and I hear the smile in his voice.

I look up, chin resting where my cheek was on his shoulder. “You’re right. And in case I didn’t get my point across already, I wanted to let you know that there is absolutely nothing you need to worry about with me and Hunter.”

Another noise vibrates from his throat. “I’m seeing that.”

“Can I ask you something?” I ask him. His silence tells me to continue. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He remains quiet for a long stretch of time. The only sounds that fill the room are our steady breathing and the refrigerator running on the other side of the wall. When he does answer, it makes the organ in my chest squeeze. “I want to tell you yes and make a big statement about the first time I ever met you, but I’d be lying. You were on another man’s arm. His wife. And no matter the natural beauty you have, then and now, the way you’ve always carried yourself, always smiled at everybody no matter who they were, and brought light into those people’s lives, I was never going to look at you beyond that. Not when you were with him. Not when I had no right to.”

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it thumping in my ears.

He finishes me off with two sentences. “If love at first sight existed, there is no doubt I would have fallen deeply in it with you. No matter how wrong.”

I stare at him.

Unblinking.

Breath caught in my throat, I force out a choked version of his name. I barely even understand it, but he reacts all the same, like he can, nonetheless.

I want to say the words.

I love you.

I want to tell him how much he means to me. Because his response means more to me than anything I could have conjured in my imagination.

But he doesn’t let me get the chance to when he says, “I know, baby. Me too. You don’t have to say it now. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

Done.

So done with this man and his words and the way he looks at me like I’m the only woman on this planet. It seems impossible, but the second those eyes land on me, the possibilities are endless.

“I told you I was ready the other day…”

Yesterday, to be exact.

But the man sitting beside me simply kisses my cheek, then my jaw, one side of my mouth, then the other, before saying, “I want nothing more than to take you upstairs, strip you bare, and hear you moan my name and clench my cock, baby girl. But I don’t want you to be quiet, to hold back, because of Nicki. If you’ll wait a little longer, then this weekend…”

Fire burns through my blood at his words, so much so that I almost groan over him making me wait.

He chuckles at my obvious distaste over the thought. “If you’re quiet enough,” he bargains, eyes burning with the same need mine must hold, “I’ll make you feel good, ease the pressure until then.”

And with his mouth, hands, and fingers, he does just that to me on the couch, muffling what noises I can’t hold back with his hand and then his lips.

My body is happily sated.

My inner thighs blissfully sore from the rough bristles of his beard.

When we do go upstairs to bed, we sleep.

Only sleep.

It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve gotten in a long, long time.