Bring Me Back(29)

I wipe at my face. I know it’s bound to be red and splotchy. I point to my desk calendar even though she can’t see it from where she stands. “We were supposed to get married today,” I croak.

Her mouth parts in a surprised O shape. She forgot. Ben hasn’t even been gone a month yet and she already forgot our wedding day. He’s gone, so suddenly today doesn’t mean anything to anyone else.

“I’m so sorry, B,” she says, coming around my desk to hug me. I don’t want her hug, but I do at the same time. It’s a weird feeling—feeling like you want someone to hold you together, but wanting to fall apart at the same time. “I’m sorry,” she says again as she holds me. “God, I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

“I wish no one ever had to feel this kind of pain.” My voice cracks when I speak. My throat is raw and sore from so much crying and screaming.

“Me too, sweetie.” She lets me go and looks me over. “I’m going to make you some homemade soup. How about that? Your favorite—broccoli and cheese?”

I’m not hungry, and the thought of food makes me want to throw up, but I nod anyway. I know she wants something to do besides sit around while my dad watches sports. “Sure, yeah, that’d be great.”

She smiles. “I’ll go to the grocery store, is there anything else you want?”

I think. “Fruit roll-ups,” I say. I don’t know why I ask for that, of all things. I haven’t eaten any in years, but right now it sounds like the best thing ever.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

She starts for the door, but turns back. “Is that the pen?” She points at one lying five inches to my right.

I look at the pen—studying the slender barrel. “Yeah, that’s the one.” I sigh.

She leaves me alone then and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I force myself to focus on replying to emails—there’s over two hundred so it’s going to take awhile. I’m grateful that so many people are interested in working with me—and city people, at that—but it’s a bit overwhelming. After answering close to thirty emails, I decide to take a break. It’s probably not a good idea, because the chances of me going back to work are slim, but I can’t take another second of staring at my computer. I go to shove my keyboard back under the desk when my pen goes flying through the air.

“Stupid pen,” I mumble to myself and climb under my desk to retrieve it.

While I’m under there, I happen to look up at the underside of my desk. Taped beneath it is a paper crane. I gasp, and my heart momentarily stops before restarting and picking up speed.

Ben.

It’s like he’s speaking to me from beyond the grave.

I carefully peel away the tape and the paper crane comes loose. I want to open it and read it immediately, but at the same time I want to savor the moment.

I opt for savoring.

I slowly peel open the wings of the bird to find what he’s written.



“Why didn’t the lifeguard save the hippie?

Because he was too far out.”

Right about now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me and saying, “You and your stupid jokes.” But I know you secretly love my stupid jokes. You know what else I know? You’re smiling right now.

Love you.

—Ben

He’s right. I’m smiling. Not a little smile, but a full-blown grin. Despite my smile, I feel tears creep into my eyes.

“Oh, Ben,” I whisper. “What has become of us. When did our love story become a tragedy?”



I take a deep, shaky breath and refold the bird. I climb out from under my desk and let out a scream when I find my dad standing in the doorway.

“Any particular reason why you’re under your desk?” He raises a brow, holding his hands behind his back.

“I dropped my pen and then I found this.” I hold up the paper crane for him to see.

“Ah.” He nods.

“What are you hiding?” I ask, nodding at his still hidden hands.

He smiles sheepishly and holds out a plate. “I made you lunch—I figured you’d use lunch as an excuse to stop working.” My dad knew me way too well. “So here.” He sets the plate on my desk. I eye the sandwich. It’s a mess—seriously, it looks like a bear mauled it. Before I can say anything, he says, “I know it looks bad, but I tried. Give your old man some credit.”

“It’s great. Thanks, Dad.”

He stands by my desk. “Aren’t you going to take a bite?”

I stare at the ham and mustard sandwich and my stomach rolls. “Um…”

“Come on, Kid, one bite?” he pleads.

“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I promise it has nothing to do with your sandwich making skills.” He frowns. “Fine,” I groan. “I’ll take one bite.”

He brightens immediately. “I made one for myself too,” he says. “It was good, I promise.”

I lift the sandwich and nearly gag from the smell, but I swallow back the bile and take a bite. I chew slowly and the texture of the meat and bread is too much.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I cry, and launch out of my desk chair. I run into the hall bathroom and fall to the floor, throwing up all the contents in my stomach—which isn’t much.