Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vickie groans. “That’s cheating!”
Dad and I both laugh while Mom rolls the same hazel-green eyes I have at our theatrics. Even as adults, family game night is part of our get-together routine. This time, it’s at my house since it doesn’t look like a total disaster now. Vickie is the only non-family ever invited, mostly because she’s a sore loser and always entertaining when she moans and groans about something being unfair.
“While you try justifying how me rightfully putting property on my own land is cheating just because you landed on it, I’m going to get more snacks.”
Mom stands up too. “I’ll help.”
I know that’s code for ‘let’s talk’ since it doesn’t take more than one person to pour chips into a bowl and grab the homemade salsa and guacamole she brought with her.
“How’s work?” she asks, opening the fridge for the dipping options and sighing over who knows what. It isn’t nearly as empty as last time she was here, and nothing like my first home where I mostly had premade meals and salad kits because I didn’t know how to cook much.
I throw away the empty bag of tortilla chips once the bowl is refilled. “It’s going well. I have a great class.”
That doesn’t seem to be enough for the nosey woman who birthed me. “Victoria told me that one of your neighbor’s kids is in your class,” she pries, and I have to fight from making a face over the thought of Vickie blabbing my secrets. Not that Nicki is one of them, per se.
“Did she now?” I hum, grabbing the chips and walking out of the kitchen and to the dining room where, the game is set up on the table.
Mom follows with the other things. “Is this the same one who was kind enough to let you borrow his lawn mower?”
I purse my lips. “Yes.”
We stop at the table where Vickie cusses at whatever move my dad made. She looks up at me, frowns at my expression, then looks at my mom. “What’d I miss?”
“We were just talking about Stevie’s nice neighbor. The man.” The man. She knows I have plenty of other neighbors I talk to, including Bex, but she’s hyper-focused on only one. I know if I bring up who he is, who he knows, she’ll more than likely stop prying on details of what else I may have borrowed from him or where our nonexistent relationship is going. “I was telling her I think it’s great he was nice enough to let her use his mower. And the fact she’s teaching his son seems like a great way to get to know him.”
I remind myself to bite my tongue. If they know he’s far from a stranger, the questions will rise. Does he still talk to Hunter? Does he bring him up? Does he know about the divorce? It’ll go on and on until I hide away in the bathroom and feign some sort of gross GI illness until they leave.
Vickie hiccups. “Oh, the one who saved her from her drunk coworker at the bar?”
I shoot her a look at the same time both my parents turn to me. Dad with narrowed eyes, and Mom with a wide gaze as she gasps, “What?”
My friend hiccups again, cringing at her lack of filter. “Whoops. Sorry. I blame the margaritas. Your mom makes them strong.”
“Yeah, she does that on purpose so people will have loose lips.”
Mom puts her hands on her hips with indignation. “I do no such thing!”
Even Dad chuckles over that lie.
Knowing they won’t let this go, I internally groan and explain. “It’s not a big deal. I went out with some people from work, and one of my coworkers offered to take me home. When I told him I had it covered, he was just a little pushy. Seriously, it was nothing.”
Mom disagrees. “So why did your neighbor feel the need to save you?”
I not-so-subtly shoot my best friend a look, and she mouths sorry.
Shoulders squaring, I shake my head. “I didn’t need to be saved. He was just making sure everything was okay. You know how some men can be. They always want to be the white knight.”
Vickie hums. “Shining armor is sort of like a military uniform.”
Thankfully, my parents choose not to dissect that comment. I either need to stop telling Vickie everything or water down her drinks whenever my parents are over. Right now, I’m too irritated to decide which is more tempting.
“Can we get back to game night?” I ask, sitting down and grabbing a chip. “I think we may see 2012 Victoria. What I would do to have a video recording in slow motion of her flipping the board game and watching all the pieces go everywhere.”
My friend’s head hits the table. “I thought we were going to let that go.”
“Payback is a bitch,” I mumble under my breath.
“Stevie, language!” Mom chides.
Dad laughs.
I sigh.
Vickie looks at me with apologetic eyes, and we both know I can’t stay mad at her.
I cackle when I see the fruit basket sitting on my desk when I get back from lunch with Sonia and a few others in the teacher’s lounge. One noticeable difference while I ate some leftover pasta from the night before was Miles. For a while after the bar, he wouldn’t show up to eat with everybody else. Apparently, he got over it, even smiling at me and asking how my week has been.
I pluck the note off the edible arrangement display sitting in pretty packaging and grin when I see Vickie’s note that says, “sorry for being a tattletale bitch” along with a signature in her messy handwriting. It’s probably a good thing all her work is strictly online as a social media manager because her handwriting is barely legible, especially to people who aren’t used to it.
When the kids come back from their recess, I let them pick from the fruit basket and try not to act disappointed when, not surprisingly, all of the pieces coated in chocolate are picked first. Seeing the happy looks on their faces makes it worth it, though.
After a long day of dealing with cranky ten- and eleven-year-olds, who may or may not be coming down from sugar highs, I’m glad when the final bell rings and the classroom quiets. I sit back in my chair and look around my messy room, knowing I’ll need to reorganize the desks before the janitors come in later this evening and think a tornado tore through here.
Blowing out a breath, I give myself a few minutes to look out the window and smile at the suddenly enthusiastic students as they run towards the busses parked along the long driveway and others skipping toward the line of family vehicles waiting to pick them up.
Walking closer to the window, I pull down one of the blinds and notice a familiar black truck in one of the first spots. I’m not sure what it is that Fletcher Miller does these days, whether he’s on leave or retired from the army, but he’s always one of the first parents to arrive. The few times I’ve seen everyone leave, I always notice the way he waits by the side of the truck, leaning against it with crossed arms on his chest and long legs planted on the pavement. Usually, one ankle casually crossed over the other, and he smiles as soon as Dominic appears. Like Nicki, Fletcher’s outfits rarely vary. It’s always some kind of dark denim on his legs, a different T-shirt or long sleeve plaid button down covering his broad shoulders and huge arms, and those work boots are never missing from his large feet.
I also notice some of the other parents, mothers mostly, who gawk in his direction. If he knows they’re watching, he doesn’t seem to care. I don’t think he even greets them at all. He just stands there, waiting for his son, and always lifts an arm once Nicki gets close enough to give him a one-armed hug before opening the back door for him to climb in.
It’s sweet.
“What happened in here?” a new voice asks, making me peel myself away from the window quickly like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. But, then again, mesmerizing a student’s father like many of the moms do probably isn’t considered right by many people’s standards.
I blink at Miles, surprised to see him with his hands casually in his pockets as he takes in the messy classroom. “The kids got a little rambunctious toward the end of the day. Long weekend and all that.”
He chuckles. “I know that feeling.”
Deciding I’ve lurked like a creeper long enough, I move away from the window and start picking up after the gremlins who ditched me for whatever is in store for them after school ends.
“So…” Miles walks in and helps me clean up a little, not that he knows where anything goes. I could tell him he doesn’t have to help, but I know he’s just being nice, so I try not to make any faces when he puts things in the wrong spots. “I was wondering if you had any plans tomorrow night.”
The question makes me freeze, my eyes staying glued to some papers tossed on the floor that way he can’t see the panic building.
I haven’t been asked out in a long time, and even though I’d love to pretend that’s not what’s happening now, I’m smart enough to know better. “Oh.” My voice comes out funny, a little raspy, but Miles doesn’t seem to notice.
“I know I talked too much the night we were all out, but I swear I’m not usually like that. I’ve always been a nervous talker.” If that’s true, I’d probably find it cute if I weren’t internally freaking out right now. “And I know you usually keep to yourself, but I’d really like to get to know you better. All I’m asking for is one date.”
Doing controlled breathing as I’ve learned in yoga, I finally pick my head up to meet his hopeful green-blue eyes. Miles really does seem like a great guy, but not somebody I can picture dating.
He’s also determined, a trait I should probably admire but don’t in this instance. “What’s the worst that can happen? You don’t like me? At least you’d get free food out of it.” His humor does make me crack a smile, which he quickly notices and looks triumphant over. “One date, Stevie.”
If Vickie were here, she’d push me at him or give him my number without me having a say. She’s been trying to get me to go on dates since at least six months after Hunter and I separated. Then, the wounds were so fresh that any little thing would make me sob. I was a wreck. I couldn’t even imagine looking at a guy at that point. It may not be easy now, but the idea of going out with Miles this weekend wouldn’t be horrible in theory.
I have no idea why “okay” slips out of my mouth. None at all. Because Miles may be attractive and a seemingly nice guy, but I already know I’m not interested. He’s younger than me, probably has a different lifestyle, and has no clue that I’m a 32-year-old-divorcee with serious emotional baggage.
My coworker beams. “Great. I can pick you up if you give me your number and text me your address.”
I already regret my decision the second that charming, boyish smile tilts his mouth. The same one he’d shown off at the bar before he spent all his time talking my ear off and stealing my food.
Deep down, I tell myself this is a sign.
A good one.
One that tells me I’m letting myself heal.
Move on.
Even if it’s not with Miles, it’s a big step in a direction I would have never seen myself in months ago.
So, I give Miles my number and watch him walk off with a victorious look on his face even though my expression must be anything but.