Come Back To Me (7 page)

ting against the wall – the same bed I lost my virginity in

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Mila Gray

aged fourteen (to the babysitter). There are faded baseball

posters on the wall and a row of trophies sitting on a shelf

above the desk. My nieces and nephews sleep here when

they’re staying over, so there’s also a heap of stuffed ani-

mals on the end of the bed and a pile of diapers and baby

stuff on top of the dresser. My sister failed to heed the

‘always use protection’ advice my father likes to dole out.

Though at least she waited until she was married, my dad

likes to point out.

I head straight for the wardrobe, grab my backpack

and stuff a couple of sweaters into it, then throw in two

blankets from the laundry cupboard before heading

back downstairs again. My dad’s watching the end of the

game, so as quietly as I can I root through the kitchen

cabinets for a thermos and a torch. I fill up the thermos

with tea, grab some containers from the refrigerator and

finally make for the door.

‘I’m heading out, Dad,’ I shout over my shoulder.

My sister has left a pair of old flip-flops by the back

door, so I swipe them as well as the keys to the truck that

are hanging on a hook.

Jessa’s standing by my dad’s workbench waiting for

me, and when I see her I let out the breath I didn’t even

know I’d been holding. The sight of her standing there

in my old leather jacket, her legs bare, is the same as a

punch to the solar plexus. ‘OK,’ I say, tossing the bag onto

the flatbed of the truck. ‘Good to go?’

I unlock the passenger side for her, but just as she starts

to move towards me, the door to the utility room flies

open, blocking her way, and my dad appears.

‘Where you say you were going?’ he asks.

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I can see Jessa’s feet poking out from under the door,

but thankfully the rest of her is hidden. ‘Out,’ I answer,

feeling just like I did the time I was fifteen and got caught

stealing his car to go on a date. Back then I had no licence.

I have to remind myself I’m twenty-one now and not

doing anything wrong, legally speaking at least.

‘Seeing Riley?’ my dad asks.

‘No. He’s with Jo. I’m just going to go for a drive . . . ’ I

clear my throat. I’m not a good liar. ‘Mind if I take the

truck?’ I add.

‘Sure,’ my dad says, ‘though last time I checked, the

steering wheel was on the other side.’

I blink, then realize that I’m holding the passenger

door open. I close it slowly, glancing nervously in Jessa’s

direction.

‘How was the party?’ my dad asks.

‘OK,’ I mumble, walking around to the driver’s side.

‘You see him?’ my dad asks, his face set in a glower.

There’s only one person on the planet makes him glower

that way, and that’s Jessa’s dad.

‘Yeah.’

‘Still being a stubborn asshole?’

‘Um,’ I say.
Yes, but his daughter’s right behind you, so I

can’t admit that because I’m hoping to make out with her some

more tonight, and can you please go back inside already?

‘How was Jessa? She have a good birthday?’ my dad

asks, thankfully changing tack.

‘Yeah, I think so,’ I say, making a move to get into the

truck and hoping he’ll take that as a hint and go away.

Where are the gods of baseball when you need them?

‘You tell her yet?’

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Mila Gray

I stop with one foot in and the other out and stare at

my dad over the roof of the truck.

‘Tell her what?’ I ask, feeling like I have fire ants

marching up my back.

My dad throws back his head and laughs. ‘Tell her

what?’ he says as though I’ve just cracked the funniest

joke he’s ever heard. ‘You
know
what.’

Don’t say it. The ants march up my neck and swarm

across my head into my ears so all I can hear is buzzing.

‘That you like her,’ my dad says. And then he adds,

seeing my mouth fall open, ‘Oh, come on, you think I

don’t have eyes? I might be an old bachelor and a man of

God, but I still know a pretty girl when I see one and

Jessa Kingsley is about the prettiest girl I’ve seen in a long

while. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You should just

tell her how you feel.’

Thanks for that, Dad. I owe you one. I can feel my face

heating up, but then I decide to just shrug it off and smile,

because hell, Jessa already knows I like her. It’s not like

my dad gave away a big secret or anything. It’s actually

kind of funny.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I mumble, looking at my feet, ‘I’m

thinking about it. Don’t want to mess things up.’

‘Life’s too short, Kit,’ he says, with a touch of melan-

choly in his voice that makes my head snap up as it’s not

something I’ve heard in a long time. ‘When you get a

chance for happiness, you have to seize it before it’s

snatched away.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll take that on board.
Carpe diem
. Got it.’

I salute him goodbye, but still he makes no move. He

just stares at me and nods a few times, his lips pressed

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together as though on the verge of delivering a sermon.

Please, no
, I think. We’re going to be stuck here all night at

this rate, with Jessa hiding behind a door and me listen-

ing to my dad telling me to seize the day, while he’s the

one standing in the way of me doing just that very thing.

‘See you later,’ I say.

‘Drive safe,’ my dad says, finally turning towards the

door.

‘Roger that,’ I say, metaphorically wiping my brow as I

watch his departing back.

My dad pauses and looks over his shoulder. ‘Bring her

home safely,’ he says.

‘Bring who home safely?’ I say, my stomach dropping

with the weight of a bomb to my feet.

‘The truck – who did you think I was talking about?’

my dad answers innocently, winking at me before closing

the door.

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Jessa

‘Where are we going?’ I ask again when we hit the free-

way.

‘If you keep asking I’m going to have to turn around

and take you home,’ Kit says, ramming the stick shift up

a gear. His hand brushes my knee and my leg gives a

little jump. He notices because I see the smile he tries to

fight down. He takes his hand off the stick and rests it on

my leg for a moment, his thumb stroking my knee softly,

before he puts it back on the wheel to change lanes. I

shiver and Kit glances over.

‘You cold?’ he asks.

I shake my head. No. Most definitely not. I’m wearing

one of his sweaters. But even so I’m not sure my body is

ever going to feel cold again. Every time Kit looks at me,

my inner thermostat ratchets up another degree. I’m

starting to understand what my mom feels like when she

complains about her hot flashes.

In the dark gloom of the car, I try to study him surrep-

titiously. I like the way the muscles of his forearms

work beneath his skin as he moves through the gears. I

trace the line of his arms and the broad sweep of his

shoulders and then let my gaze linger on his face, which

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is illuminated every now and then by the strobe lighting

of on-coming traffic. Kit’s mom was Portuguese and he

has her smooth olive skin and long dark eyelashes. He

looks over at me, feeling me watching him, and smiles –

he’s always so ready to smile, it’s one of the things I love

about him. Love? OK, scratch that. Rewind. It’s one of the

things I
like
so much about him. He has an infectious

smile. I catch a glimpse of his father in him just then and

it reminds me of something.

‘I saw the photograph over by your dad’s workbench,’

I say.

Kit frowns. ‘What picture?’

‘The old one.’

It was framed and hanging on a nail over the lathe. At

first I thought I had to be seeing things, but closer inspec-

tion revealed that it was my dad in the photograph

standing beside Kit’s dad. They were both in uniform

and they both looked so young, as young as Kit and Riley.

They were smiling at the camera, my dad half turned

towards Kit’s dad as though laughing at a joke he’d just

made, and Kit’s father grinning much the same way Kit

does. Kit’s father was film-star good-looking when he

was younger. Even today some of the people who knew

him back then call him by his nickname McQueen, after

the actor Steve McQueen, because of his mesmerically

blue eyes. Like Kit’s.

‘I thought your dad and my dad hated each other,’

I say.

Kit smirks. ‘No. Your dad hates my dad. You forget my

dad is a man of the cloth. He doesn’t hate anyone. Or so

he says.’

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Mila Gray

I frown. ‘So what happened between them then? Do

you know? Has he ever told you? My dad won’t talk

about it.’

Kit shoots a quick glance my way. ‘No. I’m not totally

sure of the story. Have you tried asking your mom?’

‘She won’t tell me. She said it’s too sad and there’s no

point dredging up old memories.’

‘Well, there you go, then,’ Kit says. ‘Maybe we should

leave it alone. Let them figure it out by themselves.’

‘It’s been twenty years − I’m not sure they’re ever

going to figure it out.’

Kit looks at me curiously. ‘Why are you worrying

about it? Some things you just have to let go of.’

I sigh and look out the window.

‘What’s the matter?’ Kit says, putting his hand back on

my knee.

I turn towards him. ‘Just . . . um . . . It doesn’t matter.’

Kit looks at me, his eyebrows raised. I take a deep breath.

‘Just . . . I wish my dad didn’t . . .’ I tail off.

‘Hate me so much?’ he finishes for me.

‘Yeah,’ I admit.

Kit shrugs. ‘I can live with it.’

‘But it sucks, you know?’ I say, my voice rising. ‘It isn’t

fair. You didn’t do anything.’

Kit’s voice is quiet and soft when he answers. ‘Life’s

not about fair, Jessa.’ When I huff again he adds, ‘It’s

cool.’

‘But it makes things harder,’ I murmur.

‘What things?’ Kit asks.

‘This – us − ’ I say, gesturing at his hand on my knee,

then I stop. ‘Why are you grinning?’

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‘Because you said
us
.’

My cheeks flare and my insides squirm like live bait.

Have I been way too presumptuous? Is he teasing me, or

did he like the sound of it?

‘Let’s not worry about it now,’ Kit says quietly.

I press my lips together. Easy for him to say − he

doesn’t live with my dad. If he finds out I’m dating

Kit . . . hang on, I’m not dating Kit. Jump ahead much,

Jessa? Well, if my dad finds out I’ve skipped out in the

middle of the night to spend time with Kit, just the two of

us, then I don’t want to imagine what he’ll do. Or Riley.

Crap. I grip the edge of the seat so hard my knuckles turn

white. I’d been so worried thinking about what my dad

would do if he found out that I didn’t think about Riley.

But that’s almost as bad to contemplate. Riley’s been

protective of me since we were kids. He’s had to stand

between me and my dad’s rage on more than one occa-

sion, and I guess the role of protector has stuck.

I’ve never had a boyfriend so I wouldn’t know how

Riley would react, but one time he thought a guy looked

funny at me and almost hit him. Riley’s hot-headed, and

more than once my parents were called to the principal’s

office because he’d got into a playground fight, but since

he joined the military he seems to have mellowed. Ironic,

I know. He controls his temper a lot better, that’s for sure.

I think the fear of becoming like our dad has something

to do with it. Though I think discovering Kit and I have

hooked up might test that theory.

‘Hey, put some music on,’ Kit says, interrupting my

thoughts. He tosses me his phone.

I connect it to the radio speakers and start to flick

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Mila Gray

through his iTunes. There’s a lot of hip hop, but also, sur-

prisingly, a lot of blues and jazz.

‘There’s a playlist called “road trip”,’ he says.

I find it and press play and Joni Mitchell starts blasting

through the speakers. I raise my eyebrows.

‘Joni Mitchell?’ I say.

Kit smiles and shrugs. ‘What’s wrong with Joni?’

‘Just not what I expected from you.’

‘I have a soft and sweet side. You just haven’t dis-