Yours Always (7 page)

“Then you’ll need me as a barrier.  Let me stay with you.”

I give him a look to show that I mean business.  “You won’t try to cheer me up?”

“Not a chance,” he affirms.

“I don’t want any mock therapy sessions.”

“Understood.”

“I might not even talk to you at all.”

“That’s absolutely your prerogative.”

“Fine, you can come over later. I need a few hours to be alone.”

“Is six okay?”

I nod as I walk away from him.  I blow one final kiss in Lucas’ direction, say a silent hello to my dad as I pass his headstone, and make my way to my car.  Once again, I drive away before Fletcher, so I catch a quick glimpse of him in the rearview.  He’s kneeling beside a grave a few sections away from Lucas’ and my parents’.

I hope to rest the few hours before Fletcher’s arrival, but of course, it doesn’t happen.  Staring at the stark white walls, I will myself to drift into semi-consciousness, but instead mental images of Grampy holding eighteen-month old Lucas in his arms flit in and out of my mind.  These images should make me feel comfort and relief, but jealousy rages deep inside of me.  I want to be the one holding my baby!  My teetering faith allows me to see these images, but that tiny bit of faith that I cling to isn’t enough to diminish the pain and loneliness.

I contemplated suicide after Lucas died, and now I find myself entertaining the same thoughts.  What’s left for me to live for?  I have a sucky job, no family, one friend, bills that I’ll never pay off… However, the same thing that saved me before saves me again—I’m not a quitter.  Never have been, and obviously, I never will be.  Perhaps a glutton for punishment is the more accurate term for me?  Regardless, I’m bound to continue my arduous journey, except now I’ll be even more alone.

Not a single tear has been shed since visiting the cemetery, and I feel a little guilty about it.  Shouldn’t I be a huge sobbing mess right now?  I just lost my grandfather—my only living relative.  My advocate.  My savior.  I want to cry so badly, but the tears refuse to surface.  All of them are reserved for the days I visit my son.

Tired of moping in bed, I shower, then rummage through my drawers for a tank top and a pair of shorts.  I’m running a comb through my damp hair when Fletcher knocks on the front door.  I don’t even offer a “hello” before jumping straight to the point.

“I’m fine.  I really don’t need a babysitter.”

Fletcher scratches his beard.  “Oh, so I should just leave, right?”

“Yep.  I’m good.”

Fletcher nods, but remains in the doorway.  “So, you have plenty of food to eat?”

My eyes roll up in my head as I do a quick mental inventory of what’s in my fridge.  Zilch.  “I’ll have something delivered.”

He purses his lips and shifts them to the side.  “Do you have movies to watch, books to read… things like that to help distract you some?”

“I have cable, and I have plenty of magazines thanks to you.”

His tone changes to one more serious, “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m usually alone.  It’s not something that’s new to me.”

“That needs to change,” he says, propping his arm against the door jamb.

“Why?  It’s worked just fine all of these years.”

“Because you’re missing out on a lot, Savannah.”

“Like what?  Some big, strong, handsome guy hugging me and telling me that everything is going to be okay?  I already know that everything is going to be okay.  I’ve almost died twice, lost a child, survived an abusive relationship, buried both of my parents, and now I’ll be burying my grandfather.  It sucks, but I know that when it’s all said and done, it’s just another day.  I’ll wake up tomorrow, I’ll go to work, and I’ll continue to function, just like I’ve always done—until the day that I don’t.  And I refuse worry about that day until it comes.  It might be sixty years from now, or it might be five years down the road.  Who knows?  So, I’m definitely okay to stay in my apartment by myself.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.  I appreciate that you stopped by.  Goodnight.”

He shoves his hand against the door.  “Wait.  Savannah, every bit of me is saying that I shouldn’t leave you alone tonight.”

“Hoping for bereavement sex?”

Fletcher flushes.  “What?  No!  I assure you, I’m not that guy.”

“Then what do you want from me?  You don’t even know me.”

“That’s just it.  I don’t want anything
from
you.  I just want to be there
for
you.”

I open the door fully so he can enter.  “I don’t get it.  Why?”

“Just because,” he says with a hint of frustration, “I can’t put it into words.  It’s a feeling.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to entertain you.  I’m not feeling very sociable right now.”

“I’m not,” he affirms.

“Fine.  Have a seat.  What would you like for dinner, pizza or Chinese?”

“Chinese,” Fletcher volunteers.  I dig around the kitchen junk drawer until I find the menu I’m searching for.  “I don’t need that,” he says when I try handing it to him.  “Hunan shrimp, extra spicy.”

Give him a perplexed stare.

“What?” he self-consciously asks.

“Have you been talking to Lizzy?”

“Only to find out where you were last night.  Why?”

I let out a
hhmmmph
.  “That’s what I usually order.  Spring rolls or egg rolls?”

“Spring,” he answers without hesitation.

“Sweet and sour or duck sauce?”

“Sweet and sour.”

“Egg drop soup or wonton soup?”

“Egg drop.  Is this some sort of test?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Are you sure you haven’t talked to Lizzy?”

“About Chinese food?  No, I assure you, I haven’t.”

“I guess it’s just coincidental that you like all the same things that I like?”

“Obviously it is.”

I shrug my shoulders before dialing the number.  It’s almost embarrassing that they don’t even ask for my name or address anymore: however, it’s somewhat entertaining to hear the surprise in the order taker’s voice when I ask for two of everything. 

“Okay, food will be here in about twenty minutes,” I say, taking a seat next to Fletcher.  I stare ahead silently as thousands of questions come to mind, but not one of them has me curious enough to actually verbalize it.  Through my peripheral vision, I know that Fletcher is looking in my direction, and after a while, I give in to the urge to face him.

“What?” I ask, raising my eyebrows to make him aware of my observation.

“I just… you kind of let it slip earlier that you almost died twice, and I can’t help but notice the scars on your legs…”

Dammit!  I’m so used to being by myself or with Lizzy that I completely messed up and put on shorts.  Pants or jeans keep the questions at bay. 

“How is it that I’ve managed to avoid discussing my personal life with anyone for as long as I can remember, yet you pop into my life and all of my secrets suddenly surface?”

“When is the last time you socialized with someone other than Lizzy or your grandfather?”

“I socialize daily, thank you very much,” I assert.

“Random calls from Pole Co. customers do not count.”

I look to the floor.  “Oh, well then I don’t know.”

“Sounds to me like it’s long overdue.”

I rise from the sofa.  “Well, no one asked you.”

Fletcher laughs, and I’m miffed because it’s not the reaction I want.  He needs to get angry, hurt, or upset, then storm off into the night never to be heard from again. 
Ah, who am I kidding?  What is it that makes him so different from everyone else?  Why do I feel drawn to him? Compelled to confide in him? Unable to speak clearly when he’s near?  I really don’t want him to go, but it’s against my nature to relent.

“No, I wasn’t asked, but it needed to be said.”

I spin around to face Fletcher. Ever the cynic, I blatantly interrogate him.  “What do you get out of this?  What’s your motive for trying to wriggle your way into my life?  I’m broke.  Every penny I had went to help Grampy.  I’m boring.  As you well know, I’m not a social butterfly.  I’m not easy.  I can’t even remember the last time I had sex.  So what?  What is it?  Why is it so important for you to be here with me?”

His eyes darken, and his face softens somewhat.  He slowly closes the distance between us, and I start to back away.  When he reaches to touch my cheek, I instinctively jerk my head to the side, but it doesn’t stop him.  He gently moves his hand so that I’m forced to look into his eyes.  “I want to make this perfectly clear.  My only motive is to be able to spend time with you.  I hate that you’ve been hurt so much.  You’re a beautiful woman who has so much to offer, and I’m not talking about money, entertainment, or sex.  You’ve cocooned yourself away for so long that you don’t even realize you’re already a butterfly.  I see it plain as day.  I want to be around you because you’re intriguing, and frankly, being around you makes me happy.  Look, I know where you are because I was there not long ago.  Let me show you something.”

He slowly raises the hem of his shirt to expose a wondrous six pack and a hard, chiseled chest.  I have no clue where he’s going with it until he turns around.  His broad shoulders are just as rock solid as the rest of him, but they are heavily scarred from what must have been a horrific injury.  The thickened tissue, colors ranging from brilliant white to near maroon, trail down his back, and disappear beneath his waist band.

Sucking in deeply, I bite my lower lip to stop the gasp that wants to come.  “Fletcher, I…”

“You want to know what happened, right?” he asks, slowly pulling the shirt down. 

“Yes, I do,” I shyly admit.

“The same way I want to know about your scars.  I think we can help each other out, Savannah.”

“But, I don’t need help?  I’m okay with my life.  Why do people keep telling me that okay is bad?”

“Okay is just that—okay.  It isn’t extraordinary or spectacular.  Life should never be described as simply okay.”

“If you say so.  Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to continue with the impromptu therapy session you promised we wouldn’t have?” I demand in a bit bitchier tone than I intend.

Fletcher raises his hands.  “You’re right.”  He takes a moment before he begins, “It happened when I was overseas, and I’m not going to draw out all of the gory details.  Long story short, an IED explosion ignited our patrol vehicle, and I was trapped inside.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.  The pain must’ve been excruciating.”

“You have no idea,” he mumbles under his breath.

I’m uncertain of how to respond, so a twinge of relief courses through me when the delivery man knocks at the door.  Fletcher is on his feet, and before I can protest, he’s paid for the food and tipped the driver.  He sends him on his way.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“No, I didn’t.  I’m starved; let’s eat.”

“That’s it?” I ask.

Fletcher gives me a strange look.  “What more do you want?”

“I figured there would be some long lecture about how my allowing you to pay for dinner equates to me overcoming my control issues, or something equally ridiculous.”

Fletcher holds his chopsticks like drumsticks.  “I’m offended by your assumption, but intrigued by your hypothesis.  Perhaps it’s a step in the right direction?”

“Perhaps you should start filling your mouth with food instead of observations.”

“Ooooo, feisty.  Nice.”

I crack a smile.  “Thanks for dinner.”  He returns the smile then hungrily digs into his carton of Hunan shrimp.  I place my carton on the coffee table.

“Is something wrong with your food?” Fletcher inquires.

“No, the food is great.  It was stupid.”

“What was stupid?” he asks, swallowing his mouthful.

“The way I got the scars on my legs.”

“Why don’t you let me judge that for myself?”

I shrug my shoulders.  “I was stupid and naïve as a kid.”

Fletcher shakes his hand, so I pause my story.  “Isn’t that what kids are supposed to be?  Well, not stupid, but naïve and carefree?”

“Probably, but raising yourself kind of makes you grow up pretty quickly.  You know that my mom started leaving me alone at an early age, so I used to cry the entire time she was gone.  I was terrified being alone in that huge house; I was barely in preschool, and the threat of the boogeyman or ghosts coming to get me haunted my every thought.  The first few times she came home to find me a cried out, sobbing mess, she gave me butt whippings, but that didn’t work.  My fear was so intense that it outweighed the physical pain of her punishment. 

“Once she realized this, she tried a different strategy—lying and manipulation.  She told me that it was another one of our special secrets, and I couldn’t share with anyone, not even Dad.” I stop long enough to sigh. “If only I’d confessed everything to him way back when… Anyway, Mom came up with this elaborate story about how she and I were actually superheroes, and how she couldn’t use her powers since she got married, but I still had mine.  Supposedly, I needed to figure out which powers I was given because she wasn’t even sure what they were.  That said, she
did
know for certain that
courage
and
bravery
were two main traits I’d carry,” I say in an exaggerated superhero voice.