Come Back to Me (12 page)

I’d been
helping with Felicia Bennett’s decorum class in the ballroom.  It was a community
service requirement, but I liked the job, even if Katie joked that I was helping
indoctrinate new Bloom zombies.  I just didn’t see it, not with the tweens,
anyway.  Maybe it was the order and everything having its place, but I found
the idea of high tea somewhat comforting.  Besides, who wouldn’t crack a smile
at raspberries sandwiched between two pink macaroons?  I figured that at least
the girls were learning manners, and maybe one day they wouldn’t tote their
casseroles around with gossip.

On that day
though, the topic was using a thumb to steady a saucer.  A girl named Molly
(who liked to sneak extra sugar cubes) spilled tea on her napkin.  It was her
third spill, and I was out of extra cloth napkins, so I left the room to get
more.  When I walked back, folded white napkins in hand, I saw my dad with
another woman.  He didn’t see me, but still, in my stunned state, I ducked
behind a tall, potted tree.  It only took a moment to figure out what was
happening.  I instantly felt sick, but I waited for the next Sunday dinner to
voice my opinion.

That was
when I got another surprise.  The moment I broached the subject, my mom pulled
me into the kitchen and informed me that we weren’t going to talk about that,
as if it were simply the wrong choice of dinner topics, like talking about
athlete’s foot or menstrual cramps or something.  I was so confused because I
had been prepared to defend her, protect her, something, except she shot me a
pointed look, effectively shutting me down.  When the realization sunk in that
my mom knew about my dad’s indiscretions, and accepted them, I shut up.  I
stood silently in the kitchen, paralyzed as she picked up the jellyroll she
baked—one of my dad’s favorite desserts—and walked back into the dining room. 
Then they both told me it was none of my business and continued on with life as
if nothing had changed, like every other member of the Living Dead in Bloom.  Suddenly,
their comments and critiques on how I lived my life were no longer helpful
advice to improve my life but a part of the glossy-eyed, single-minded, zombie
diatribe that would have me shuffling along with the rest of them in no time.

That’s when
I decided I wanted to be far from Bloom and my parents.  So when senior year
started, I focused on applying to colleges, and when I got my acceptance
letters, I picked the one that offered me a full scholarship.  I didn’t want
any ties, financial or otherwise, with my parents.  Eventually, I would move on
to live my own life.  In the meantime, I would comply—and mind my own business.

Even though
Katie and I were on the same page regarding how we felt about Bloom, she didn’t
exactly get my strategy for picking a school.  She said I was cutting my nose
off to spite my face.  Unlike me, she’d had career goals since she was in kindergarten,
so I knew she couldn’t fathom picking a college the way I did.  My scholarship
was a great thing, because there was always the possibility my dad would just
write me off.  There was precedence in that matter.

Katie’s
judgment might’ve had more to do with losing her mom than anything else.  I
didn’t think she liked the idea of someone willingly tossing her parents
aside.  Not that I argued with that—I didn’t know what it was like to have a
dead mom (Katie reminded me of that).  Anyway, we agreed to disagree.  We were
best friends, and we accepted each other as is.

At least,
that was what I believed.

Even when
the missing parts in my family made me feel like I didn’t want to spend Sundays
with my parents, Katie seemed to want that.  Maybe it made her forget about the
hole in her own family for an hour or two.  When she started up another
conversation at our table, I forgot there were missing parts in Katie for a
little while, too.

Now, I had
my own missing parts to find.  So after dinner, I walked to Kyle’s and watched
a stupid movie with him until curfew, curling up next to him on the couch,
knowing that the key to unraveling my memories was right there.

My first day
of work at TEA was a never-ending cycle of making tea drinks and taking money. 
Despite its tired atmosphere, the cafe was busy in the morning. the bulk of the
line was filled with hospital employees—doctors and nurses in scrubs,
impatient
doctors and nurses.  Many of which I doubted had ever worked behind a counter,
or if they had, they were seriously forgetting the frenetic pace, and the pain
of a steam burn.  I mentally cringed at my past self for ever being impatient
while standing in a line, because it was not easy being a barista, especially
during the before work rush.

When I got a
break, I sunk into one of the cushioned chairs in the corner.  It was a perfect
place to rest my feet.  The morning rush was over, and it was finally quiet,
minus the low hum of sitar music.  I reached into the basket near my feet and
pulled out a few books.  They were mostly picture books, but my feet throbbed
in protest at even the thought of trolling the café for a different basket of
books.

I set the
books on my lap, smiling when I recognized the one on top.  Out of habit, I
sniffed the book.  I loved the smell of books, although it was hard to discern
through the strong smell of spices in TEA.  That was okay because together the
smells were almost euphoric.

I flipped
through the book, taking in the illustrations and skimming the words.  It
reminded me how much I’d always loved to read when I was a kid.  I used to
carry a book with me in my purse for such moments of downtime, and libraries
were like a safe haven.  My favorite library of all time was at Holt
University, a school right near my Grandma’s old house, almost an hour southeast
of Bloom, near Fredericksburg.  I used to visit most summers when I was
younger, and I loved to curl up on the wicker couch, the one with the floral
cushions, in the corner of her house’s massive stone porch.  I could smell the
flowers in every breeze.  If it were hot, I’d hike across the tree-lined campus
to the library to read.  The college was an older school, and the library was
huge with lots of polished wood, and museum type decor like antique swords and
paintings.  The rotunda was by far the best view, with its shiny marble floor. 
There was a round reference desk in the center, surrounded by four arched
doorways, each with alcove seating.  I would sit there, and if I got there at
just the right time, the sun would stream in, looking all glittery and
celestial.

I scooted
further into the chair at TEA and relaxed.  The door jingled, and I turned my
head.  Evan Foster walked in.

I tensed up,
watching him head straight for the counter.  The last time I’d seen him was last
week, when he introduced me to Steve.  He disappeared after that.  I owed him a
thank-you for helping me get the job, even if I’d actually been stalking him. 
That meant I now owed him two thank-yous.  Then there was the idea that I still
considered him a backup plan to jogging my memory.  Maybe I could lead with the
thank-you thing.

I blew out a
quiet breath as he moved to the bar.  He wore jeans, another button-down shirt,
the sleeves partially rolled, and again, he had a paperback book tucked into
the back of his waistband.  His arms were nice, tanned, and muscular.  He
probably did push-ups regularly.  There was no denying he was good looking, but
he also seemed to have his shit completely together.  So much so, that in his
spare time, he ferried drunk girls home or found them jobs.  Maybe somewhere in
his bag of tricks he had a key to the time machine car from Back to the Future. 
I could use it to fast forward time—no, rewind time.

Whatever.  Just
change some things.

While Evan
ordered something at the bar, I focused on the book at his waist.  Odd place to
carry a book.  But what did I know? Maybe backpacks cramped his style.  Maybe it
was an etiquette book.  After all, he was uber polite and had a penchant for
doing the right thing.  Or maybe he was reading something like
Running for
Political Office for Dummies. 
He could have easily passed for potential
senator or something like that.  He came across as one of those people who thought
they knew what was best for everyone else.

Bitter
much, Whitney?

It was just
that I wished I had been able to decide for myself on graduation night. I hated
that someone else took control and assumed they knew what my needs were, which
of course launched my parents into the same mode of thinking.

But that was
my problem.  I chose to pickle my brain with alcohol.

Still, I
held out some odd hope that seeing Evan would somehow unravel the knot of
memories.  Conversation was slow going with Kyle.  He was never clear-headed.

With his “to
go” cup in hand, Evan turned.  I dropped my head to the stack of books on my
lap and, absentmindedly, opened one.  From under my lashes, I watched him walk
to the sugar and milk counter.  He set his mug down and tore open a double
packet of sugar. When his sleeve moved toward his elbow, I saw it.  Evan Foster
had a tattoo.

Surprising,
and so
not
senator like.

I couldn’t
see any detail, but it definitely appeared to be a tattoo sticking out from
under his sleeve.  I scooted forward as if that extra foot might give me some
sort of advantage, but all it did was shift the books in my lap causing one to
hit the floor.

Evan turned
at the noise, and my gaze lowered to my lap to avoid eye contact.  My heart beat
a little too fast, not for any reason other than I’d just been spying on him. 
A moment later, he stood in front of me, with my fallen book in his hand.

“Oh, um
thanks,” I said, feeling stupid, awkward.  The chair I was in may have been
comfortable, but it wasn’t the easiest to move around in, let alone make an
attempt at an easy or graceful exit out of it. I just sat there, swallowed up
in the chair as he towered over me.

“You’re
welcome,” he said, now closer.  He smelled good, a distracting combination of
boy soap and . . . skin.

I took the
book he held out to me—Sylvester and the Magic Pebble—a favorite of mine for
sure, um, in kindergarten.  My hands shook.  If I opened my mouth, my words
would’ve also been shaky.  So I just sat there, feeling as if my throat was
closing over.  I wanted to wish on a magic pebble like the main character in
that book and turn myself into a nameless, faceless rock.

“Did you
know Sylvester and the Magic Pebble was once banned in eleven states?” he
asked, breaking the awkward silence.

I blinked at
his unexpected question, curiosity replacing my embarrassment.

“What?  This
book?”  I pointed at the illustrated cover featuring cartoon donkey parents
searching for their beloved son Sylvester, who accidentally wished himself into
being a rock.

Evan nodded
and stepped forward, motioning to the book.  “Here, I’ll show you.”

I held out
the book to him, and Evan opened it.  The cover was tea stained and wrinkled,
but instead of flipping through the pages, he was careful, turning each page
slowly.  I wondered if it was a practiced move, a strategic graciousness, but
even as my mind attempted to categorize him, my eyes moved to his forearms, his
bicep, and the circular edge of tattoo above his elbow that disappeared under
his rolled up sleeve.  That tattoo was totally throwing me off.

Evan turned
the open book back toward me.  “Look at this.”

I leaned
forward toward the picture.  It was the donkey parents pleading with the police. 
I shifted my gaze to Evan, and shook my head.

He smiled. 
“You don’t see it, do you?”

I leaned in,
but my eyebrows squished together in confusion.  It was odd sitting there
discussing a children’s book.  Especially after the drunk situation Evan had
seen me in.

Evan closed
the book and gently placed it back on my pile.  “That’s a good thing.”

“What?”

“That you
see the story for what it is.”

“Oh.” I felt
a little embarrassed again with the spotlight on me, even if it was a little
compliment.  Was he flattering me, making himself likeable like a politician
holding a baby?  What would he have said had he caught me reading one of the
romance paperbacks, Windswept Lover?

My face
warmed.  I shook away the thought of chatting about romance novels with Evan. 
“How did you know Sylvester and the Magic Pebble was banned?”

“English
class at UVA.  My professor did a series of lectures on banning and
censorship.”

“I always
thought it was just books like Catcher in the Rye that were banned, not kid’s
books.”

He shifted
his bag and nodded.  “Harriet the Spy, too.”

“What? 
That’s weird.”

Evan stared
at me for a second, a slight tilt to his head like he was going to say
something else, but then he seemed to change his mind.  He took a step back.  “Well,
I guess I’ll see you around.”

I chewed on
my lip.  He left me hanging, but it wasn’t like I had any scintillating
conversation to add. “So wait. What didn’t I see?”

“The answer
is on the page with the cops,” he said, as he stepped backward to the door. 
When I nodded, he mock saluted before disappearing outside.