Page 67 of When I Come Back
Ripley rifles around behind the bar, and I suddenly hear “Hate To Say I Told You So” by The Hives start playing throughout RED’s empty dining room.
He stands up sporting a Cheshire Cat smile. “Hardy har har,” I deadpan with an eye roll. He flicks his eyebrows up with that usual smug face I’d like to slap off him one day. In a loving way, of course.
“I know, okay? I know I shouldn’t have frozen him out like that,” I whine. “But what do I do now? Do you think he’s pissed? And if you think he’s pissed, do you think he’s pissed at me? Or just because of the letter in general? If you think he’s pissed at me, do you think it’s because I haven’t answered him? Do you think he might have gone back to Iris? What kind of fucking name is Care Bear anyway? Fuck, I should have listened to you and answered him. Should I call him now? I should ca—”
“Okay, first—stop talking,” Ripley cuts me off. “Second, Care Bear is a stupid fucking name, and I will be calling him that every chance I get. Third, drink this.” He slides a shot glass filled to the brim with clear liquid toward me.
“Is that tequila or vodka?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, his lips quirked in a smirk.
“No, a surprise is finding a five-dollar bill on the sidewalk. This is a fifty-fifty chance we’ll be picked up by the sheriff’s deputy skinny dipping off the dock.”
“That happened once! And I still think someone slipped something into our margaritas that night,” Ripley replies, affronted.
“Yeah, tequila…” I say with an eye roll.
“Regardless, old Brucey’s probably really bored this time of year, it’ll make his night,” he says as he walks around the bar until he’s beside me. He grabs my hands which have made their way to my lap, spinning the rings on my fingers without me even realizing.
“Listen, you know I’m just giving you a hard time. It’s my love language, babe. It’s entirely possible Cary’s just busy. It’s only been a day, let’s table this for tonight, and if he hasn’t reached out by morning, I give you full reign to freak the fuck out,” he says as he pulls me into a hug. I nod into his chest, not knowing what else I could say. “Let’s get drunk on this here tequila.”
I take a deep breath just as Ripley’s suggestion reaches my ears causing a strangled sounding laugh to escape me. “That seems like a terrible idea,” I say as I pull away from him.
He shrugs. “I didn’t say it was agoodidea. But it’ll at least distract you for a bit.” His smile isn’t one that reaches his eyes. That realization makes me want to ask why, but he’s already pulling away to grab the drinks from the bar. Before I know it, there’s a shot in one of my hands and a lime wedge in the other. “Drink up, babe. And then we dance.”
The last few days have been a blur. I’ve tried to keep busy and not think about why Cary isn’t reaching out to me. Part of me is screaming ‘I told you so’ to myself while the other part is begging for me to give him more time to prove me wrong. The problem is, I know how it feels to be loved by Carrington Grant. I knowwhat the sliver of hope feels like thinking he could be mine. And I know he wanted me enough once to buy a ring, I just didn’t stay long enough for it to land on my finger.
I’m reminded of the first time he ever told me he wanted to marry me. It was such a mundane moment, one where things felt more up in the air than settled. We’d just moved into our first apartment together.
13 Years Ago
(18 years old)
I’m watching him from the kitchen bar where I’m standing, not sitting on a barstool, since the consignment store we planned on going to was unexpectedly closed today. Because of that, we are now living in an empty place until Monday.
Weekends usually go by fast, but I have a feeling this one won’t. I’ve been bummed and so stressed about moving into an empty space that Cary decided a gourmet meal was in order. It’s his fix to every problem in life. Sad? Eat some amazing food. Mad? Let this French inspired dish settle your anger. I can’t even fault him for it since it usually works.
The thought brings a smile to my face at the same moment he decides to turn around, his eyes coming off of the dish in front of him for the first time since he started cooking.
“Oh, she’s smiling now! I told you this would help,” he mocks.
I put the glass of water in front of me, letting it rest on my bottom lip for a fraction of a second before tilting it into my mouth. As I set the glass back down, I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip into my mouth to catch the residual liquid away, never letting my gaze waver from him. “Or is it the view?” I joke, a smile pulling at the sides of my mouth as my gaze flits to his ass.
“Oh, I’m sure getting to stare at my ass uninterrupted… helps some. I won’t deny that. But the food is going to make you forget all about your worries,” he promises with a wink.
“I should probably go find the plates before I get too carried away with my thoughts of said ass.”
He points the spoon he’s been using to stir the sauce at me. “Yes! Good idea.” Sauce drips from the spoon, and his eyes jerk down to the floor. “Shit. I’ll clean that up, go, go,” he says, shooing me away in the direction of the boxes.
I take one more sip of my water as I laugh, before I start toward the boxes that line our otherwise empty living room. We have two unopened boxes labeled ‘kitchen’ that could contain the plates. We’d opened the other two to find the pans and cooking utensils he needed to start dinner. I open the first one and shuffle through it quickly but come up empty handed. After having the same luck with the second box, I huff a breath in exasperation. Once I check the others we’d already been through to make sure they weren’t missed, I decide today just isn’t my day.
I pad back over to the kitchen, my annoyance obvious on my face.
“What?” Cary questions.
“Can’t find the plates,” I state plainly.
“What do you mean?”
