Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER TWO
Inever imagined my dream wedding when I was little like some girls do. I didn’t think about what my dress would look like or what kind of flowers my bridesmaids would be holding, or what type of location I’d choose the event to be held at. Truthfully, none of that ever crossed my mind until I met Hunter.
Then it was a whirlwind of emotions from the day he said “hello” in the high school hallway, to the first time he asked me to the Dairy Shack for ice cream for our first date, to the first kiss we shared on the front porch of my father’s house that my dad broke up by flickering the porch light in warning.
Maybe the rush of heavy, all-consuming feelings is the reason why we’d decided to make it official after being together for four years. I was nineteen and finishing my freshman year of college. He was twenty in the Army and wanted to have something to come home to.
And that was me.
He’d wanted me.
I never quite understood what about me grabbed his attention. As a teenager, I was the same short height I am now, barely 5’1”, and leaner than most girls. Considering both of my parents’ families originated from Ireland, my skin was on the paler side, and rarely tanned in the summers, even now. My limbs were long and lanky, my brown hair, which was—and still is—a shade darker than my all-time favorite death by chocolate ice cream, had been pin-straight naturally, barely kissing my shoulders, and I’d had hideous bangs that were in style back then. Plus, I was introverted by nature. Nothing about me particularly stood out, but for some reason, he’d still noticed. Out of all the girls he could have chosen to shoot his shot with, he’d picked me.
Looking back now, all this time later, I don’t know if I would have done anything differently, even knowing the outcome. Because we were happy once upon a time. In love. Obsessed with each other. I remember how hard it was to keep my hands off him after we’d progressed to that point and thinking that it would never end, that we’d be insatiable.
Everyone said the honeymoon phase would end eventually, but for us it seemed to go on and on even when he was deployed and would be gone for long periods.
He’d send letters. Call. FaceTime.
I’d send care packages with all of his favorite things.
We made it work despite people’s doubts.
That’s why I’m still confused about where it went wrong. We went from sharing everything with each other—secrets, dreams, worries, fears, to sharing ourselves with others.
At least one of us has.
Thirty months of being apart and twelve of them being officially divorced left my ex-husband wide open to be with whomever he wanted. Because I know how he works after any argument, any fight. He’d need physical touch—a reminder that we were there, alive, human, and flawed, but ready to heal.
I needed that too, the intimacy to tell me I was still alive even if I wasn’t living, but I couldn’t put myself in the position to feel anybody else’s callused hands on me when all I’d wanted were his. When did we stop touching each other? Needing that mutual connection?
One day it was just…gone.
Vanished.
Never to be seen again.
When you grow up believing that true love exists, you don’t think about the possibility of it being the very thing that destroys you—the thing that leaves you vulnerable. As little girls, we watch movies and read books about happily ever after, thinking everything falls into place easily after the wedding.
We’re not taught reality.
Because if those movies shared a shred of the truth of what could happen even after the credits roll, I wouldn’t be standing in my front yard covered in overgrown grass, staring at the weeds mixed into the flower beds that have white and purple calla lilies planted in them remembering when my former mother-in-law suggested white rose and calla lily bouquets for the wedding party. I hadn’t fallen in love with the idea like she and Hunter had, but I’d agreed to it to make them happy.
I add digging up the flower garden and replanting it with something new to the growing list of to-dos that never ends because the last thing I want to come home to every day are the flowers I held while saying my vows.
My mind wanders to the birthday card, the one I’d forced myself to throw away at the school or else I would’ve hoarded it with other old mementoes that I torture myself with.
The reason why I haven’t moved on the way I’m sure Hunter has is that, unlike him, I’m stuck wondering what I did wrong. Did I love him too much? Hold him too tight? Or not enough? Did I suffocate him with plans of our future family? Or did I not make my dreams to have a family heard well enough?
I’d agreed to a lot when I said, “I do”, including losing part of myself in the process—putting things on hold, focusing on him instead of me, waiting for the right moment for us to move onto the next step…I became somebody unrecognizable in the mirror.
Until this moment, wondering how much it’d cost to buy a lawn mower versus hiring some local kid to mow for me, thinking about how hard it was going to be to repaint some of the rooms on my own, and move heavy furniture when I sought fit, I didn’t know just how lost I was.
Because I’d relied on Hunter and his family to take care of me, I depended on a man who made me need him more than I needed anything else in the world.
For the first time in a long time, I whisper to the wind what I hadn’t let myself admit since I’d taken back my maiden name.
“I’m not okay.”
The knock on the door comes late morning as I’m teetering for balance on one of the kitchen chairs trying to hang my new curtains. Thanks to the money my coworkers collected for me, I was able to update the kitchen with cute décor, including light green curtains, and matching dish towels, white hanging shelves that matched the white counters and cabinets, and some new pots and pans from my favorite TV personality’s cooking line. For once, the space starts to feel homey.
I almost fall when the second knock sounds, and I pinch my face trying to figure out who it could be. I’m not expecting Dad until tomorrow to help me install all my shelving, and Mom left an hour ago for a hair appointment with Aunt Rebecca.
Carefully stepping down, I walk across the house to the chipped white door that needs a fresh coat of paint since the movers accidentally scraped some off when they were moving the living room furniture in and open it to find three women standing on the other side. One of them looks around my mom’s age and either has a bad case of resting bitch face or just doesn’t like me already, and the other two both look to be a little younger with partially welcoming smiles.
The mean looking one says, “You must be the new owner. I’m Maggie. This is Brenda—” She points to the brunette next to her, then the shorter, fake blonde on the other side. “—and that’s Kristen.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I offer, though the look I’m being pinned with makes me nervous when all three gazes start wandering around the front of the house.
I’d invite them in, but aside from them being perpetual strangers, the inside is a disaster. Boxes are still thrown everywhere, furniture is in disarray, and some rooms are still half empty because I haven’t had time to do any shopping for things I want to buy for them. Slowly, I’m working from room to room, starting with the ones I’ll spend the most time in and leaving the others for whenever my free time and motivation will allow.
“We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the shortest of them, Kristin, tells me, smiling.
Maggie, the ringleader, based on how the other two pipe down as soon as she opens her mouth, says, “We’re part of the Homeowners Association, and we’ve been getting complaints.”
My eyes widen at the statement since I’ve never had a complaint made against me in my life. “I don’t understand.”
She sighs. “Your lawn is unkempt and needs to be mowed, and something needs to be done about the flower beds. You can’t leave things like this if you want to remain here. I’m sure the realtor you went through gave you a list of regulations for the HOA you would have needed to sign, including penalties for any violations.”
I blink.
Gape with parted lips.
Close my lips and blink again.
The middle woman, Brenda, clears her throat and digs in her purse before pulling out a card and handing it to me. “There are a few people who do lawn care for residents here if you’re interested in hiring someone who knows the regulations better. Me and a few others use them. They’re great.”
“Either way,” the ringleader says. “We wanted to come by and give you a warning. A written notice will be the next step if it’s not taken care of in the next three days, which should give you plenty of time to handle it.”
I almost smile when I see Kristen roll her eyes over the dramatic woman who’s standing as straight as possible to seem more authoritative. If height is how she chooses to dominate others into doing whatever she wants, there’s no competition between us. I’m barely over five feet. Most people I meet are taller than me.
I wave the card in my hand. “I’ll make sure to give someone a call as soon as I can. It was nice meeting you all.”
The dismissal doesn’t seem to go over well with at least one of the women, but I’ve had enough practice with my ex-in-laws to know a stubborn woman when I see one. I was raised with manners, but there’s a fine line between being rude and standing up for yourself so you don’t get walked on, and I swore I’d never let that happen to me again.
Sighing as soon as the door is closed behind me, I know more than likely that if I call the number listed on the card, they’ll be too busy to come before I get something written in the mail. And considering I have no interest in making enemies here, especially not in record-breaking time, I do what I do best whenever I have a problem.
I call my dad.
After greeting him, I fill him in on what happened and hear him chuckle over my rendition of the neighborhood police. “So, can you bring the push mower with you when you come?”
“Damn, kid. Making friends already.”
I stare at the curtains I hung, then at everything else I need to do yet and feel overwhelmed with what I’ve gotten myself into. “You could say that. Vickie is supposed to come help me unpack some things, though, so at least I’ll have one person who doesn’t hate my guts.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” His tone is teasing no matter how much he tries to sound offended.
“You and mom are obligated to love me. It’s your job as parents.”
My argument is lacking since I’ve met a handful of family members of my students, and not everyone has the same mentality as I do about parental-child relationships.
“I let Sonny borrow it, but I’ll get it back and make sure the lawn is taken care of. Anything else you need me to bring?”
Alcohol, I want to say. But considering my father hasn’t touched a drop of it in six years and seven months, according to the AA tokens he’s collected and proudly shown off, I don’t even bother saying it no matter how much I’d love to curl up on the couch with a bottle of wine.
My father’s alcoholism changed everything when I was in middle school. He and mom got divorced because of how much time he spent at the bar with a bottle of his favorite malt liquor instead of spending time with us. Now that he’s better, their relationship has gotten significantly better too. They still talk, check in on each other, and even have dinners together once in a while. But I don’t think they’ll ever get back together again, and the thirteen-year-old in me still wallows over that.
“Just your gorgeous face,” I say instead, hearing the groan and grumble that makes me brush off my thoughts and smile.
It takes a few more hours to finish the little things in the kitchen that I can do on my own, washing, drying, and putting away all my new dishes and cookware, hanging up the second set of curtains, moving around some smaller appliances until I get them where I want, sweeping and mopping since I keep tracking in mud on the light tiled flooring I already hate and heating up some food Mom stockpiled in my fridge before she left earlier.
I’m glancing outside at the grass through one of the front windows and cringing at how bad it looks compared to the other lawns around me when a big, newer model black four-door pickup truck drives past the house and slows as it nears a raised-ranch style house kitty-corner to mine. The turn signal flicks on as it glides into the driveway and stops right in front of the closed garage, and it doesn’t take long before two bodies emerge.
One large.
And one small.
I see the green attire first, the color that always sparks something in my heart, making it go into overdrive. It used to be excitement coursing through my veins because I knew it meant the person wearing the uniform was home, right where he belonged. Now it sparks something completely different.
Pain.
Regret.
Anger.
The man isn’t wearing a uniform, though, just a T-shirt the same color green I’ve grown to hate and a pair of dark jeans. I know it’s not the person who caused the massive hole in my chest. He’s taller, bulkier, and the little boy whose hand he’s holding is the dead giveaway.
Hunter wasn’t ready to have kids.
I’m not sure he ever was, even though he knew how badly I wanted them from day one. How much pillow talk we’d have about our kids and animals and the home we’d grow in.
Swallowing, I close the curtains and walk over to the couch with my steaming food and glass of water and put on the news to drown out the heavy, bitter feeling carving itself deep in my bones.