Come Back to Me Page 7

  “Thanks.” Jamie sipped her coffee slowly then pursed her lips and stared at the cup, as if she were gathering her thoughts. “Bottom line is I’m afraid he’s gonna flake out on me or leave. Just . . .” She made diminishing circles with her hand. “. . . drift off and find someone new.”

  Megan scrunched her brow. “Has he cheated?” Granted, she didn’t know Alan that well, but given his reaction to her teasing, she figured his marriage meant something to him.

  Jamie shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “Then why would you think . . .?” She let the question hang as she tried to understand why Jamie would worry about what seemed like a non-issue.

  “It’s the baby thing.”

  “Baby thing?” As she spoke, a baby cried from the opposite end of the shop, drowning out the nasally crooning of an aging rock star coming from the overhead speakers. “Are you pregnant?”

  “No. But Alan’s ready to try.” Jamie turned her paperboard cup in circles. “It’s not that I don’t want a baby. I do. And he says he does, but I don’t know. Does he want to be a dad or is it like moving in or getting married? Just the next thing we’re supposed to do? We find out Chris’s going to be a dad and suddenly Alan wants to impregnate me, like, yesterday.”

  “You think he wants to have a baby because of sibling rivalry?” That seemed a stretch. Competition about grades, sports, or girls, yeah. Income and status? Okay. A baby? Being that Megan had never given thought to a baby beyond tossing the negative pregnancy test into the trash can, she’d never considered it.

  “When you say it like that, I’m not sure. But even if it’s not that, c’mon, what are Alan’s priorities?” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Following the Dave Matthews Band, having a good time, and keeping things light. Not exactly top qualifications for paternal stability.”

  Megan saw her point—to a point. Yeah, Alan was easy-going and liked to party. Sure, he went to a lot of concerts. But he also held down a job, made decent money, and had committed himself to Jamie, however flimsy his original intentions had been. His dad was a great father by all accounts. She sensed Jamie’s fears, while not unfounded, may be misplaced or, at the least, exaggerated. What really made her fearful of motherhood?

  “Dumb question, but have you talked to him about it?” Calling it dumb would soften the blow, Megan hoped. Sometimes the obvious had to be asked.

  Jamie’s shifting glance and fidgeting hands said she’d booted her confused, baby-badgering husband out the door without an honest admission of her reluctance. “Of course,” she said, her tone curt but her eyes never meeting Megan’s.

  “Jamie.” She waited until her friend’s eyes lifted. “I hope you guys work it out. I know he’s not perfect. And you’re not perfect—” She held a hand up as Jamie opened her mouth to object, her lips curled in a smile. “Though pretty darn close.” Megan grinned. “But, you’re pretty perfect together. And I know he loves you.”

  Jamie’s eyes misted and she pursed her lips. “I love him too, overgrown kid or not.”

  Megan ignored her jab at Alan, reached across the table, and squeezed Jamie’s hand as her phone chimed, signaling a text message. She retracted her hand and glanced at the message.

  Alan? She didn’t even realize he had her number. What could he possibly want?

  She glanced at Jamie, who’d blinked back her tears and was zippering something into her purse. What would she think if she knew her husband was texting her friend, right across the table?

  “Listen, I’ve gotta go.” Jamie grabbed her nearly-dry raincoat from the back of her chair and slid her arms into it. “I want to touch base with my mom. She had an appointment with her orthopedist this morning. She’s gotta schedule a double knee replacement and then she’s recovering at my place. Y’know, while Alan’s . . . gone.”

  Megan nodded. How had Alan taken that news, that his mother-in-law would be moving into his house while he’d been evicted? Or had Jamie even told him?

  If Megan was going to fret about anyone’s happiness, it should be her own. She hadn’t found the magic prescription so far. Men and martinis offered only a short-term fix. Marriage was a crap shoot. Her parents’ marriage was a disaster. Aunt Trudy and Uncle Rich’s had been a fairy tale. Alan and Jamie, practically newlyweds, couldn’t keep it together. Chris and Rebecca seemed ridiculously happy, but what marriage with Chris Reynolds as half the equation wouldn’t be? Tim seemed happy, after his come-to-Jesus moment. Who knew if that would last?

  She stuffed her used napkin into her cup as Jamie tugged her hood over her head and exited the store into the rain. The storm outside had eased and the blowing ceased. Had their conversation helped ease Jamie’s personal turmoil? Doubtful.

  How had Megan got thrust into the middle of it all, with Alan becoming her drinking buddy and Jamie the other member of her coffee klatch? The less she got involved in their marital drama the better, but she got the sinking feeling she was already in deeper than her thigh-high stockings.

  12

  Snow Outside

  February

  Snowflakes fell in thick clumps on the lawn, blanketing the icy crust of last week’s snowfall with a fresh coating of white fluff. Alan’s breath fogged the living room window of Chris and Rebecca’s house, but the cold pane felt good against his achy head.

  A snowblower engine hummed from down the block, and a boy bundled head to toe in winter garb chased a black and white puppy, kicking up clouds of snow.

  Under the weight of his troubles, Alan turned away from the peaceful scene and leaned against the sill. A bouquet of red roses, still thriving two weeks after Valentine’s Day, sat on the end table. In the corner beside them, a long, rectangular box leaned against the wall. The UPS guy had delivered some kind of playpen thing yesterday, expecting a signature while Alan stumbled through a phone interview with a recruiter.

  Three months had passed since his manager had informed him he’d been terminated after not meeting his sales goal two quarters in a row. He’d sent a panicked text to Megan on Black Friday, hoping she had a lead on a sales position. Hers was a support position, but the public relations/advocacy firm she worked for had a few sales-type account management positions.

  It had been worth a shot, he’d thought. But after a month of contacting just about everyone he knew and scouring online job listings day in and day out, he’d taken a retail position at a big-box electronics store. It wounded his pride and ate into his job search time, but at least he could offer Chris and Rebecca something for letting him crash at their place. After all, Chris had not-so-subtly tossed around the word “rent” more than once while poring over his and Rebecca’s finances.

  A light flicked on in the kitchen, and the gurgle and hiss of the coffee machine working told him Chris was up. Rebecca had stopped drinking coffee months ago, saying the taste didn’t appeal to her anymore.

  Gripping a mug with one hand and scratching his belly absently with the other, Chris rounded the corner, his gaze fixed on the snowfall. “How many inches did we get overnight?”

  Alan glanced out the window from where he stood alongside it. “Four more, maybe?”

  Chris nodded and blew on his coffee, steam wafting from his mug. “Think maybe you can manage to shovel the walk this time or should I tell Rebecca to drag her thirty-six-week-pregnant body out here and get a move on it?”

  Back to that, were they? Alan gritted his teeth. “How long are you gonna beat that dead horse, huh?” Last week, Chris had come home to Rebecca shoveling the front steps while he sat in front of the blaring TV in sleep pants and an undershirt, feet up, popping potato chips into his mouth. It hadn’t been a pretty picture, and Alan regretted it.

  Heck, he hadn’t even known she’d gone out there. Rebecca had mentioned something about clearing the front before Chris got home, and he’d said he’d get to it, but he’d been engrossed in season three of Parks and Recreation, and it had slipped his mind.

  Despite her condition, she insisted on doing things
herself, so he guessed she got tired of waiting and went out the back, shoveling her way around to the front, unbeknownst to Alan. Yeah, he should’ve done it right off when she first mentioned it, but, darn it, he’d been out all day knocking on doors, resume in hand. Chris acted like Alan had harnessed Rebecca, lashed her with a whip, and forced her to dig out from under a foot of heavy snow.

  Chris normally exhibited more patience than anyone he knew, but lately, whether it was the impending birth, Alan’s presence, or something else, it seemed his fuse had been clipped so short a mere static charge resulted in a massive explosion.

  Rebecca remained as pleasant and accommodating as ever, but even she couldn’t cool the roiling boil bubbling between the brothers. If they were going to go another round now, he hoped she’d sleep through it. She tended to sleep later these days.

  “Dead horse, huh? Oh, I’m gonna flog it a good, long time. Until you make up for it and then some.” Chris took a long drink, set the mug on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch. He grabbed the instructions for assembling the playpen thing from the table and flipped through them, turning it over and upside down before concentrating on the diagrams and tiny text.

  “Fine. I’ll get dressed and shovel now.” He pushed off the wall, pacing in front of the window. “Then I’ll go and, I don’t know, stand in the street with a signboard saying, ‘Need work.’ In a residential neighborhood . . . on a Saturday . . . in the snow.”

  Chris didn’t look up. “Yeah, while you’re at it, why don’t you find somewhere else to crash?”

  Alan nodded in an exaggerated fashion and propped his hands on his hips. So that was it. He’d worn out his welcome. “Yeah, ’cause I’ve got so much cash rolling in.”

  For someone who’d woken up minutes ago, the fire in Chris’s eyes gleamed with intensity. “Then why don’t you, oh, I don’t know . . .” He flung his hand in the air. “GO HOME?” He flipped a page in the instruction manual, which he held in front of his face.

  Alan stilled for a full three seconds, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding. Go home? He’d never wanted to leave in the first place. He reached forward and whacked the bottom of the directions, causing them to smack Chris’s forehead.

  Chris tossed the booklet onto the couch and leapt to his feet, lunging for Alan and wrenching his arms as he tried to escape.

  Shooting a hard glare, Alan tried twisting his arms free. Were they really gonna do this? Could he take Chris? They hadn’t gotten into a scuffle since Chris’s college years. Chris had been a little on the scrawny side back then, but he’d added some muscle.

  Alan swiveled around, finally yanking his arm from Chris’s grasp. “You want me to leave? I’ll go.”

  Chris ground his jaw, probably determining how far he wanted to take this. He crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging beneath the sleeves of his white undershirt. Yeah, he’d gained some muscle. “No, you know what I want? I want you to think about someone besides yourself for a change. Maybe pick up some of the slack that I’m sick and tired of carrying.” His voice elevated.

  The bed creaked down the hall, and Alan’s gaze darted in that direction. He shot Chris a narrowed look, but it went unnoticed. He purposefully kept his voice low, though it strained with irritation. “What are you talking about?”

  Chris scoffed. “What am I talking about?” He shook his head. “When Dad had his leg in that immobilizer thing in September, who cut his grass? Who cleaned out their gutters?” He stepped closer, encroaching on Alan’s personal space. “All while, you know what my wife was doing?”

  Let’s see. Probably preparing a home-cooked meal, baking a gourmet dessert, and scattering rose petals all over your bed? At least that’s what he wanted to say, but he clamped his lips shut.

  When he got no response, Chris resumed his rant. “Rebecca spent the day alternately hanging over the toilet with morning sickness and blowing her nose ’cause she caught some cold. You don’t think I wanted to be here to take care of her? I was pretty cheesed off about the whole thing. You know why? You remember what you were doing that weekend?”

  Alan didn’t give an inch. Not in space and not in his unflinching stare. He’d beat Chris at staring contests since before they’d given up training wheels. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember that weekend. How would he have known what Chris had been doing?

  Answering his own question, Chris waved an arm in the air, his voice louder still. “You’re off at some Dave Matthews concert with Tim and whoever else, hanging out at bars, goin’ wherever, and after I’m done at Mom and Dad’s, I come home to a sick wife, filthy dishes in the sink, and a pile of dirty laundry. Then guess who calls me. Your wife.”

  Ah, that weekend. Alan still couldn’t recall details, but he remembered what he’d come home to, too: Jamie, peeved that he’d been hundreds of miles away when the washing machine had flooded the laundry room. His gaze fell to his feet, and he raked a hand through his hair, pushing a lock from his line of vision.

  “She didn’t know where to find the shut off valve when the washer busted.” He poked Alan’s chest, then shoved, two-handed.

  Alan stumbled back, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re gonna be sorry you did that.” Maybe Chris had a point, and maybe he had good reason. Maybe the fact that Rebecca had become a ticking hormonal time bomb frayed Chris’s nerves.

  Alan couldn’t have cared less. His stressors exceeded Chris’s, hands down. Chris had a job to go to and a wife to come home to. At present, Alan lacked both. If anyone needed to blow off steam, it was Alan. His blood pressure must be sky high with the level of near-constant frustration he endured. Not to mention the sexual frustration. He hadn’t gone this long without sex since he was a pimply teenager dependent on cheap alcohol and a smokin’ playlist to facilitate his satisfaction. It didn’t help that he slept mere feet away, separated by only a thin wall, from the happy honeymooners, more often than not with his head buried in a pillow so he wouldn’t overhear their conversation—or anything else.

  He pushed Chris backward onto the couch, tackling him as they went down, their legs banging against the coffee table.

  The ceramic mug toppled and thudded to the floor.

  Chris’s palm connected with Alan’s jaw, shoving his face away, while he fought to get a leg on the floor.

  Alan jammed his knee into Chris’s gut.

  A moan turned into a growl, and Chris shoved him off, rolling Alan onto the coffee table with a thud.

  A jolt of pain shot through Alan’s back.

  “Are you guys for real?” Rebecca’s voice rose above the clatter, coming out high and tight, as if she were on the verge of tears. Pushing, pulling, grappling for the upper hand, they probably appeared as little more than a mass of tangled limbs on the floor. “I guess I don’t have to wait another month to have a kid in the house, after all.”

  Chris relented and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, then rocked onto his heels and stood. He scowled at Alan then approached Rebecca.

  Alan pushed himself up too, his back aching where it had hit the table.

  Rebecca’s bottom lip quivered. The tears would come any second. It didn’t take much to set her off these days—a greeting card commercial, a video clip of a soldier’s homecoming. Last week, she’d cried during the national anthem played before a hockey game.

  Despite folded arms and a wrinkled brow that told him to stand back, Chris wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest and kissing the top of her head. His voice was muffled by her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  Alan rubbed out the pain in his lower back and bent and straightened his left knee, causing it to pop and crack. “Good morning, Rebecca,” he said, his greeting laced with sarcasm. He regretted his sharp tone when he caught sight of a tear trailing down her cheek.

  She sniffed and wiped a hand across her eye but didn’t answer.

  “I’ll be outside.” He turned his gaze to Chris. “Shoveling,” he spat, and then stomped to his b
edroom.

  He yanked off his t-shirt and pants and tugged on clean underwear, jeans, and a knit jersey.

  Voices carried in from the hall. First Rebecca’s, firm and reprimanding despite the tear he’d seen. Then Chris’s, first contrite then more adamant. He couldn’t make out the words.

  After yanking on his jacket and shoving his hands into gloves, he grabbed a snow shovel outside the kitchen door and dug in.

  The snow, powdery and feather light, slipped easily on and off the shovel. The peace of a fresh snowfall engulfed him. The absence of vehicles on the road made for a silent weekend morning, and the scent of burning wood filled him with a sense of warmth and nostalgia as he recalled his parents’ wood-burning stove.

  The scrape of the shovel against the concrete reminded him of the previous winter, when he and Jamie had removed a foot of snow from their driveway. Stranded at home for a day while they waited for the snowplow to reach their neighborhood, they’d made the most of their time together. They’d shoveled then played in the snow before thawing out in a hot shower and warming up with hot cocoa. Then they’d climbed into bed and played some more.

  When they’d woke in the morning to discover the electricity, and therefore the heat, had gone out, they added two more blankets to the bed and kept each other warm until the afternoon.

  For the millionth time, he contemplated what had gone wrong in their relationship. What was at the root of it? How could he fix it if he didn’t know? His frustration mounting, he shoveled the walkway around the side of the house, his work quick and methodical. The snow tapered off, making his job both easier and more effective.

  When he’d cleared the front steps and reached the driveway, the garage door hummed and opened, revealing Chris, fully dressed and sporting a bandage on his temple.

  “Did I do that?” Alan flicked a hand toward Chris’s forehead.

  “Indirectly.” He tightened a brown, wool scarf around his neck, failing to cover the scowl on his face. “I clipped the corner of the coffee table on the way to the floor.” He stepped forward and the garage door lowered behind him. “We need to talk.”