Come Back to Me Read online

  A knock to her passenger side window startled Megan, and she jumped, her hand flying over her heart.

  Alan stooped to peer through the window, a perturbed knot wrinkling his brow.

  With the touch of a button, Megan unlocked the doors and Alan slid in, shoving a white plastic bag between his feet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh,” he said, giving the bag a shove with his foot, “baby monitor Rebecca wanted came in. She asked me to pick it up.” He leaned back in the seat, his chest deflating on a deep sigh. Even in profile, Megan noticed the way his hair went every which way, the dullness of his eyes, and the slump of his shoulders. His head lolled to the side, and he caught her gaze. “Feel like getting wasted?”

  She chafed at his expectations. When did she become the person he called when he wanted to be irresponsible and stupid?

  If she could take tonight, jam it in a lockbox, and send it to the bottom of the ocean, she would. But her stubborn streak and a wee bit of self-respect wouldn’t allow her to get stupid drunk tonight. It would just confirm everything Tim thought about her behind his slamming refrigerator door and holier-than-thou glare. “Thought I was the designated driver.”

  Alan’s lips twisted. “I guess.” He exhaled and leaned forward, slowly thudding his head against the dashboard. “When did my life become so royally screwed up?”

  Several smart aleck remarks came to mind, but Megan bit her lip. “What happened?”

  He flopped back in his seat. “Let’s go to Maury’s, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Maury’s? A dive bar if there ever was one. Busted neon signs, cheap drinks, décor brought to you by the 1980s. At least she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew there. “Maury’s it is.”

  An hour and a half later, she’d heard Alan’s sob story backwards and forwards, straight and slurred. His job interview had been a bust. When he checked his messages afterwards, he’d learned he hadn’t even gotten a second interview on the job he thought was in the bag. He’d spent the remainder of the day in a second-run movie theater eating Jujubes and staring blankly at the screen, mulling over the many ways in which his life was a gargantuan disappointment.

  Megan had three drinks to his seven. She glanced at the time on her phone and nodded to the bartender. She tilted her head toward Alan and made a slashing mark across her throat, signaling him to cut off her drunken companion. He lifted his chin in understanding.

  “Know what I always wanted to do?” Alan twirled a swizzle stick in his glass, rattling the remaining ice. With his face half-shadowed in the dimly lit bar, his resemblance to Chris showed in the line of his jaw.

  “Hmmm?” She was so ready for this night to be over. The sooner they left, the better. She was mostly okay to drive, wasn’t she?

  “Go on the road. I’d be a roadie for Dave Matthews. Save a helluva lot of money on tickets.” His harsh laugh ended in a combination hiccup/cough.

  “Speaking of the road, we’re out of here.” She stood and slung her purse over her arm, hoping Alan would take the hint.

  He must’ve understood because he stood and clumsily shoved in his stool. For a minute, he struggled with trying to unroll and button the sleeves of his dress shirt before Megan grabbed his forearm and turned him to the door.

  Alan must’ve left every last ounce of self-control he possessed at the bar, because the moment the door swung shut behind them, he turned into a blubbering mess.

  ***

  Tears dripped from his eyes to the oily gravel parking lot as Alan weaved toward Megan’s car. He’d never felt so alone in all his life. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt like a failure. A string of sales managers had beaten his shortcomings into him. He’d shrugged it off as best he could. He’d come into adulthood cocky and overconfident. He could afford to be knocked down a few pegs. Only now he’d slid from the bottom of the pegboard.

  His foot twisted on a large rock, and he stumbled, slamming a hand out to steady himself on the cold, hard ground before he ruined his only suit. This was it. Rock bottom.

  Megan’s exasperated sigh pierced him. Why had he dragged her into this? If only he’d had somewhere else to go. Someone to turn to. Jamie. That’s where he belonged. Just the tender look in her eyes and her fingertips on his cheek could dissipate whatever black cloud loomed over his head.

  Eyes closed, he recalled the gentle touch of her hands, comforting and supportive as they kneaded his shoulders the day he’d learned the management position he’d been all but promised went to someone else.

  With Megan’s help, he settled in the car, again shoving the baby monitor out of the way. Thank God Chris was away and Rebecca would be asleep when he got back.

  The car door slammed as Megan slid into the driver’s seat. She jammed the key in the ignition and then hesitated, turning to him. Her eyes softened, and her lips turned up in a sad smile.

  Even in the semi-darkness, the wide-set eyes stood out, framed by her porcelain skin and chestnut hair. He marveled at how pretty she was when she let down her guard. How and why had Chris resisted her all those years?

  She reached a hand toward him and, after a moment’s hesitation, laid it over his.

  He wiped away a few more tears with his free hand, either too despondent or too hammered for embarrassment.

  “It’ll work out.” She patted his hand. “There’re other jobs.”

  Not another Jamie though. Couldn’t replace his wife. Still, he appreciated Megan’s attempt to make him feel better.

  She leaned toward him, cocking her head, then shaking it gently.

  “What?”

  Megan ran a finger over his temple, wiped a tear, then used the back of her hand to stroke his cheek. “I don’t know how I missed it for so long. How much you and your brother look alike.”

  Alan’s heart clenched, an ache of loneliness radiating through his body. Jamie didn’t want him anymore. Didn’t love him. He couldn’t take staying with his brother a day longer, seeing firsthand what he was missing. He knew touching Megan would be wrong, but the alcohol had clouded his feelings enough for the idea to wheedle its way in, and as Megan’s fingers lingered on his face, to take root.

  He knew she didn’t feel anything for him. Nothing more than pity. And that amorous look was meant for Chris, not for him. Still, if she could take away this pain, this relentless loneliness, for now . . .

  Megan stared, her glossy-eyed gaze flicking from one of his eyes to the other in the flash of a passing car’s headlights, his attempt to follow it making him dizzy.

  Drunk or not, he recognized the turning point before him. Nearly consumed by an insatiable desire to love and be loved, he considered lifting a hand to her face and kissing her. A dozen feelings tumbled through his mind and swirled amidst the broken pieces of his heart, then clashed against shame and regret. Without a thought, he threw up a wordless prayer to whatever god might listen. If the God Chris and Rebecca loved was everything they claimed by all the crazy things they did, then maybe He cared enough to throw Alan a bone. A crumb. Just one, itty bitty morsel of wisdom.

  A sense of peace unlike any he’d known washed over him. Could’ve been the alcohol and emotion catching up with him. Maybe he was going to pass out. More difficult to explain away was the strong sense of purpose he had. That he was done slip-sliding through life. He may have slid into marriage, but he would not slip into adultery or divorce. He would choose.

  Fidelity. That was his choice.

  Megan tilted his chin toward her, her gray-green eyes mirroring the loneliness and loss that muddled his own thoughts a moment ago.

  He sat back.

  Her eyes glistened as she shrunk into her seat, and her hand fell to her lap.

  Alan buried his face in his hands, trying to grind some sense into his inebriated brain with his fingertips. “I’m sorry.” He managed to spare her a glance. He owed her that much. “Sorry about all this. Could you just drop me off at Chris and Rebecca’s? It’s—”

  “I know where
it is.” Her voice was cool, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, filled with the same disgust he now felt at what could’ve happened.

  Silence was their companion on the ride back, the streets dark and somnolent. Alan felt both sick at heart and sick to the stomach. But he couldn’t shake the memory of that fleeting moment of peace. How could he get more of that?

  17

  Steady As We Go

  Alan jammed the key in the lock and pushed. The door didn’t budge. He gave it an extra shove, and it swung open, the seal creaking.

  Soft light spilled in from the living room along with the soft murmur of television voices.

  He glanced at his watch. Well after midnight. Rebecca’s still awake? He’d assumed she’d be in bed, and he wouldn’t have to traipse by her in a semi-straight stagger.

  With a push, the door shut behind him, and he turned the deadbolt. He slipped off his dress shoes and kicked them alongside Rebecca’s Birkenstock sandals. The temperatures hadn’t reached sandal-level yet, but her swollen feet no longer fit in her other shoes.

  He raised his arm and sniffed his sleeve. A little cigarette smoke. A little cheap beer. None of Megan’s perfume. Thank God. He breathed deeply to clear his head and rid himself of the lingering effects of the whiskey sours and his brush with temptation. With a clumsy tug, he straightened his wrinkled shirt as best he could, tucking it into his pants. Doing his best imitation of sober, he stepped evenly to the living room archway.

  Rebecca paced the room, twisting her hands. She stopped and stared, her eyes wide and red, as if she’d been crying.

  “Hey. What’re you still doing up?” He flicked a glance at the round, wooden wall clock. “Try and get some sleep. Chris’ll be here in like . . .” His brain couldn’t process the simple math. “Like six or seven hours or something.”

  Her brow wrinkled, and a sad frown twisted her lips. “I think I’m in labor.”

  He blinked and refocused. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Because she couldn’t have said what he thought he just heard. She wasn’t due for another week and a half or something. She couldn’t be in labor. Not until Chris came back anyway.

  “After you left I scrubbed down the kitchen cabinets. And then I started having contractions.” Her eyes welled with tears.

  Soothing emotional females was not his strong suit. Otherwise he’d be handling his own wife’s meltdowns, not his brother’s. “You probably just overdid it with the cleaning.”

  “No. I know what that feels like. All the Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

  The who?

  “These are different. I’ve been timing them. They’re three-and-a-half minutes apart.”

  He’d watched enough bad TV to know that if she was timing contractions, a baby was on its way. As if every trace of alcohol in his system had dried up, Alan’s focus sharpened on Rebecca, her belly, and the impending arrival of his niece or nephew.

  He held a hand out as if to stop her from panicking. If only he could stop the labor as easily. “Okay. We got this. Did you call Chris?”

  A sob choked her answer. “I called him more than an hour ago. It’s rolling to voicemail. I’ve left three messages.” She pointed to the TV and a blotchy, angry, red-orange blob moving across the regional map, signifying a line of thunderstorms. “The storms are right over him. They’re predicting hail and flash flooding. Someone’s even spotted a funnel cloud.”

  “I’m sure Chris is fine.” He needed to calm her. She sounded like she was about three weather events from full-on hyperventilation. “Let’s, uh, let’s time the next contraction.” He slid his phone out of his pocket and searched the app store. There had to be an app for timing contractions, didn’t there? He jabbed clumsily at the phone, trying to hit the tiny hyperlinks. His shoulders sagged in relief when finally he found one and waited for it to download.

  Rebecca paced the room, breathing deeply. A little whimper escaped her lips.

  “You okay?”

  “That was another one.”

  Shoot. He’d missed it. “We’ll get the next one.” He held up his phone. “There’s an app for that.”

  She sank into the couch, unimpressed.

  “Can I, uh, make you some tea or something? And I’ll give Chris a call myself. At least let him know we’ve got things under control here.” A laugh bubbled in his throat, but he stifled it. He’d never felt less in control of anything in his life.

  Without listening for her answer, he hustled to the kitchen. Fumbling with the handle, he grabbed the stainless steel tea kettle from the stove, filled it with water, and returned it to the burner. Where did she keep the tea bags? She’d been going on about raspberry tea this morning, and he hadn’t paid her any attention. Maybe she stored it in one of those canisters along the countertop. He spun in that direction, teetering slightly.

  Rebecca stood so close he almost smacked into her.

  “Whoa. I didn’t hear you. Water’s on. You okay?”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. Her eyes welled with tears, and in seconds, they spilled from one eye and then the other. She swiped them away. “It’s just . . . I’m so scared.” A sob shook her shoulders.

  He should comfort her. It was the right thing to do. But she was his brother’s wife. And he wasn’t the touchy-feely type. And then there was the practical matter of her huge belly.

  Another sob shook her, and she gasped.

  A pang of sympathy struck him. Of course she was scared. She’d never had a baby before, and she couldn’t get in touch with Chris.

  He opened his arms and pulled her to himself, sort of sideways so she could rest her head on his chest without the baby coming between them. This wasn’t about his comfort. It was about hers.

  “Shh.” He stroked her hair and rubbed her back. “It’ll be okay.” What else was he supposed to say? What more could he do? “You, uh, you guys pray. Maybe now would be a good time.”

  Her head shook against him as she laughed. “You’re right.” She pulled away from him but held onto his hand. “Would you pray with me?”

  He tapped his chest with his free hand. “Me?”

  “You’re the only one here.” She grinned, her bleary eyes finally happy-looking, and pushed some stray hairs behind her ear.

  “Uh, sure. Okay.” He cleared his throat, trying to brace himself for the impending awkwardness.

  She closed her eyes and squeezed his fingers. “Lord, I know you’re here with us. And that I don’t need to be afraid. Please give me the strength and courage to get through this. Bring Chris safely home to me.” Her voice cracked. “Bless me and our baby and this delivery.” Her fingers squeezed his again. “Thank you for Alan being here with me.”

  She was grateful for him being here? There were about a million and a half places he’d rather be. If he were to start praying—for real, with words—now would be a good time.

  Her eyes widened, and she dropped his hand. She pursed her lips and moved both hands below her belly.

  Apparently, this labor thing was still on.

  “I-I think my, uh, my water just broke.” She looked a little dazed, as if she didn’t know what that meant or what to do.

  He sure didn’t. He glanced down, struggling to maintain his balance by widening his stance, but there was no puddle on the floor, and her stretchy black pants appeared dry. Of course, she had some big, blousy maternity top draped over most of her body. “You think?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure. I’ll go change and then, uh, I guess . . .”

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Please say no. Please say no.

  “I think so. Yeah.” She turned and walked gingerly toward her bedroom.

  Alan pivoted in the other direction, smacking a hand to his forehead and cursing under his breath. Was he sober enough to drive her? He hadn’t taken his car tonight for a reason. Chris would kill him if he drove his pregnant wife to the hospital while under the influence.

  The tea kettle whistled behind him. First a squeak, then a full-out, blaring wh
istle.

  Maybe a cup of tea would help. He grabbed a couple of mugs from the cupboard and dropped one of Rebecca’s raspberry tea bags into each. After pouring the water and sloshing some over the rims, he pushed them back on the counter to steep for a few minutes.

  He padded down the hall and stood outside her bedroom door and listened for a second or two before knocking softly. “Rebecca? I’ll call Abby. She can swing by and take us to the hospital. Where’s your phone?”

  The door swung open. He started and stepped back.

  Rebecca wore the same top, but she’d changed into maternity jeans. She clutched an overnight bag in one hand. “No. Don’t call Abby. She can’t come.”

  “What do you mean? She’d want to come, right? I mean, especially since Chris is going to, uh, be a little late.” Yeah, just a little late. He’d make it in time. He had to.

  “They’re sick. Her kids. They were throwing up all day. Every one of them. She sent Joel to a hotel. I don’t want her anywhere near me and the baby.”

  “Oh.” Made sense. Alan bobbed his head absently, as if the mere motion could enhance brain function. Now what? “I can call Mom. She’ll be right here.”

  She shook her head. “In the morning. I don’t want to wake her. Besides, I might be in labor for a really long time.”

  He pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and stared at the blank screen. There had to be someone. Other than him. “Okay. Um, I’ll try Chris one more time. The tea’s gonna get cold. We should drink it.”

  “Thanks. I forgot.” She gasped and sucked in a breath, then leaned against the hallway wall, breathing heavily. Another contraction, he presumed. Her hand went to her swollen abdomen and then to her necklace. She fingered her wedding band where it hung from a gold chain. Along with her feet, her fingers had swollen, and with Chris’s coaxing, she’d taken off the band a week ago amid a fit of tears.