Come Back To Me (39 page)

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roses? Does he know that when your nostrils flare like

that it’s because you’re trying to stop from crying and

that when you say “yeah, sure” it usually means “no”?’

He takes a step nearer. ‘Does he make you see stars?’ he

asks in a low voice. ‘Does he call you his
north
star?

Because that’s what you are to me. You’re the reason I

made it home.’

I squeeze my eyes shut.

‘Does he know exactly where to kiss you?’ Kit mur-

murs and startles me by brushing his hand just beneath

my ear. ‘Just here?’

My eyes flash open as I suppress a shudder.

‘Does he know exactly how to touch you?’ he asks, his

gaze falling to my mouth. ‘Does he tell you that you’re all

he thinks about? Does he tell you that he lives for you?

That he breathes for you? That he dreams of you every

damn moment, awake and asleep? Does he tell you any

of that?’ He pauses to look at me and I try to keep a blank

face. ‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he says quietly.

I narrow my eyes at him, taking a small step back-

wards to put some distance between us, because his

nearness is muddling me almost as much as his words.

‘He might not say or do any of those things, Kit, but he

does keep his promises. He wouldn’t walk away and not

come back.’

‘I did come back,’ Kit says under his breath.

I shrug. For a few moments we stand there watching

each other. My fingers hurt from gripping my sides so

much. I’m trying not to cry, but with each breath it feels

as if the sob is going to come tearing out of me. ‘It’s too

late,’ I finally say.

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‘OK,’ Kit says after a beat. I watch him struggle to

compose his face. ‘I’d better be going then,’ he says. ‘I’m

sorry.’

And after all those words, with me watching him half

in disbelief and half in horror, words rising mute up my

throat and bursting silent on my tongue, I watch him

walk away. Does he not see? I want to scream and call

him back. I was just testing him. I don’t want him to

leave. I want him to stay – to fight for me, to prove to me

that he really means it, that he isn’t ever going to walk

away again. But he’s failed the test.

‘That’s right,’ I whisper as he walks towards his bike.

‘Walk away. That’s what you’re good at.’

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Kit

I’m standing in exactly the same place I stood almost a

year ago on the day of Jessa’s birthday party. This is

where I came when I was trying to decide whether to go

after her or walk away. I stood here staring at the waves

slamming into the pier, trying to weigh up the pros and

cons. It wasn’t possible to stay away from her then. And

now?, I think to myself. If I’d stayed away then, would

things be different now? Would Riley still be alive? It’s

those kinds of thoughts I have to stop myself from think-

ing or else I end up following them down rabbit holes

and getting lost for hours, sometimes spinning out

completely and having a full-on panic attack.

Part of my therapy was learning how to cut the

thoughts off as soon as they arise. There’s no point in

thinking
what if
. What is
is
, and there’s no changing it.

The only thing to do is move forwards.

Does the same philosophy apply to this situation, I

wonder? Should I just accept it, cut Jessa off and move

on? For the last three months, ever since my dad found

me in that bar in Guam, I’ve been working so hard to

edge back from the precipice, the whole time keeping

Jessa in my sights like a lighthouse in the dark. My dad

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was the ballast that stopped me from sinking. Without the

two of them I don’t think I’d be here today. I’d probably

be passed out drunk somewhere, maybe dead.

Though I try to push it away, the memory of Jessa’s

face when she opened the door flashes into my mind. I

know I saw for just a split second after the initial shock

had passed and before she rearranged her face into blank-

ness something resembling joy. I didn’t imagine it. I know

she was happy to see me.

She was thinner than I remember, and grief seems to

have rubbed away the last traces of girlhood. Her face

was more defined, her eyes bigger, though maybe it was

just the short hair making them stand out more. But the

biggest difference was the lack of spark in her eyes, as

though she’d shrunk back in on herself. I shake my head,

trying to jar the memory loose, but it doesn’t go any-

where. It won’t be going anywhere for a very long time.

Man, she was even more beautiful than I remembered.

And Riley . . . the thought that passed through my mind

when I saw Jessa standing there holding the baby was

that
that could have been us
. That could have been Jessa

holding
our
baby. Stupid dream. That’s never going to

happen now.

My teeth clench hard enough to crack as Todd’s face

superimposes Jessa’s. In my darkest times I’d sometimes

imagine Jessa with another guy, but he was always face-

less and nameless. Seeing Todd walk up behind her like

that made my blood run cold. What was that with his

fucking hand on her neck? I thought I might rip his arm

clean off when I saw him do that. And calling her
babe
? I

take a deep breath, reminding myself I have no right to

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get angry. She waited for me for months and I didn’t even

have the decency to email her. Why am I surprised she’s

found someone else and moved on?

But did it have to be Todd? Is she having sex with him?

I slam my fist into my hand and lean over the pier railing

breathing deeply, trying to banish the images that start

flooding through my head. Don’t go there, I warn myself,

but even so I can’t stop myself from picturing Todd un-

dressing her, kissing her, taking her to bed. Does she like

it? Does she want him the same way she wanted me? Do

they make love or just have sex?

I don’t believe she loves him. Or is that me just not

wanting to believe it? Did I imagine the look in her eye

when I brushed my hand against her neck? Did I imagine

the quiver in her voice when she told me it was too late?

Did I imagine the slight flush in her cheeks? Isn’t that a

telltale sign she’s lying?

‘Hey.’

I spring upright and glance over my shoulder. A girl is

standing there. She’s about Jessa’s age, with long brown

hair, dark eyes and a copper tan that in twenty years

is going to make her look like an old leather bag. She’s

wearing Lycra shorts and a sports bra that don’t leave

anything to the imagination.

‘You’re Jessa’s ex, right?’ she asks, out of breath. She’s

clearly stopped mid-run.

‘Um, yeah,’ I say. She looks familiar but I can’t place

her. ‘Ex. Right.’ The word sticks in my throat like an axe

blade. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud.

She smiles widely, showing off perfect teeth the colour

of polar ice caps. ‘I’m Serena? Remember me?’ And when

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she sees my frown, she adds, ‘From prom?’ Every sen-

tence sounds like a question.

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, suddenly recognizing her as the girl

who was being pawed in the stairwell. ‘How you doing?’

I ask half-heartedly. I’m not in the mood for small talk.

‘I’m great,’ she says, wiping sweat from her brow.

‘How ’bout you?’

I laugh under my breath and look away. ‘Yeah. You

know . . .’

‘What you doing?’ she asks.

What does it look like I’m doing?, I feel like asking.

‘Just hanging out,’ I say.

‘You’re a marine, aren’t you?’ she asks.

‘Yeah,’ I say, before remembering that’s not true. ‘Well,

not any more,’ I clarify. ‘My contract just ended.’ After

four years I’m now out, just like I promised Jessa I would

be. Out, with no idea what I’m going to do next.

‘Wow,’ Serena says, crossing her arms over her chest in

a way that shows off her cleavage to better advantage. ‘So

what are you going to do now?’ she asks, and I look at

her sideways because it seems the question might have a

secondary meaning. I’m right, it does. She’s licking her

lips and staring at mine.

‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, choosing to ignore the

suggestion.

‘You want to go get a coffee?’ she asks.

‘Um . . .’ I say, thrown by her directness.

‘Or maybe something else?’ she asks, seeing my hesita-

tion.

It’s clear from the way she’s staring at me exactly what

the something else is. I muse with not a little incredulity

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at the timing. After a year of no women, of not even look-

ing at another woman, and within half an hour of Jessa

telling me it’s over, I’m being offered sex, what looks like

no strings sex. But I hesitate.

She’s now playing with her hair, twiddling it between

her thumb and forefinger, still looking at me with a small

smile playing on her lips. From the tilt of her chin and her

posture, one hand resting on her hip, it’s obvious she

thinks that there’s no way I’m going to say no, and for a

few seconds I do think about it. I think about what it

would be like. How it would feel. How it might help

me forget for five minutes everything that’s going on in

my head. It’s tempting. It’s been so long since I’ve been

with anyone and I miss closeness. I miss affection. It

might even help me get over Jessa. Isn’t that what’s rec-

ommended? Doesn’t it help you move on – screwing

someone else?

Serena raises an eyebrow as though wondering what’s

taking me so long to decide, and just like that I come to

my senses. What am I thinking? The thought of going

there turns me cold. The only person I want to be close to,

lose myself in, is Jessa.

‘Nah, I’m good,’ I tell her.

She looks startled for a second before recovering and

tossing her hair over her shoulder like an uptight stallion

before a race.

‘Whatever,’ she says, before jogging off, her ponytail

swinging angrily.

I laugh under my breath and turn back to contemplat-

ing the waves.

*

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A couple of hours later when I get home, my dad’s where

he can normally be found, doing the thing he can nor-

mally be found doing. He’s in the kitchen making coffee.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

I wonder if he’s been here for the whole day, pacing the

kitchen, waiting for me. He looks like he’s drunk about

fifty cups of coffee in that time. The bags under his eyes

have bags, and I know he’s worried that I might relapse. I

think his own alcoholic past has made him nervous. But

I’m not an addict. At least, not in the usual sense of the

word. The only thing I’m addicted to is Jessa, and that

drug is well and truly off the menu, unobtainable, so how

can I possibly relapse?

‘I told her,’ I say.

‘You told her sorry?’ my dad asks, unable to disguise

the nervousness in his voice.

‘Yeah,’ I say, and then, shooting him a sheepish look,

add, ‘and maybe a little bit more than that.’

My dad arches an eyebrow. ‘What she say?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘She said it’s too late. She’s moved on.’ Putting

the words out there makes it seem more final.

‘What are you going to do?’ my dad asks, pouring out

the coffee.

‘I’m going to sign up for another four years.’

There’s a long silence. My dad has frozen with the

kettle in his hand mid-pour. I don’t say anything. I’ve

spent the last four hours down at the beach trying to get

my head together and figure out the future, and this is

what I’ve decided to do.

‘I thought you were out,’ my dad finally says.

‘Guess not,’ I answer.

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My dad’s mouth pulls down at the edges. I know he

was looking forward to having me home for a while. ‘You

sure?’ he says. ‘You’re not just reacting?’

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Well, OK, maybe. But I don’t want to

stay around here. I can’t. Too many memories. Every-

where I go.’ I don’t add that I can’t stand the thought of

running into Jessa and Todd.

My dad frowns. ‘What about LA?’ he asks.

I look away, out the window, feeling the sting. ‘That

was our dream,’ I say quietly. ‘Mine and Jessa’s. I don’t