From the April issue of Deb’s Quill
Liz crumpled the reunion announcement and tossed it into recycling. Twenty years since graduation from Sir Winston Churchill Secondary. What could she share with people who felt like strangers now? That her husband and high school sweetheart cheated on her with a younger woman from their church and they were now separated?
That she’d risen as high in her accounting firm as she could?
That her boss took her for granted and just kept piling on the work without a thank you or asking if she could handle more?
That her daughter blamed her for her dad moving out and barely seeing her anymore?
No, no and no.
She had little time to think about it over the next few days. She was drowning at work. Drowning at home. Drowning in anger and sorrow and sadness. And yet, that invitation preyed on her mind.
At night, she browsed through yearbooks from those four years at Churchill. She and Karla in their skimpy basketball uniforms, grinning for the school picture. Karla had been first string, but she’d been happy just to be a bench warmer cheering the team on to Regionals.
And there was Andy Miller, standing behind the team. The class misfit, always hovering, always trying to be helpful but always the butt of jokes. She didn’t like that her classmates were cruel to him. No one deserved that. So she tried to be nice to him, to balance the cruelty with a breath of compassion.
Oh! There was her prom photo. She’d loved that turquoise strapless gown that hugged her body like a warm glove. Dad had sputtered and turned away but not before she’d caught the tear on his cheek.
Brad had looked so proud in his rented tux, gangly limbs fidgeting in the suit that didn’t quite fit. But he’d melted her heart anyway.
What happened to us, Brad? Where did we go wrong?
She wiped her tears, blew her nose and started to close the book, but the next prom photo caught her eye. Jackson and Dania, arm in arm, smiling intimately, wearing their king and queen crowns like they’d known they were the most beautiful people there.
Her fingers traced his outline, and her breath hitched. He’d been hers for a while until final year. Why had he wanted her, anyway? He was the football hero and the most popular guy in the school. Everyone, teachers and classmates, knew he’d be super successful after graduation. She’d known it, too.
Why had Jackson chosen her? She’d questioned that for the entire three years they’d dated.
Why had they broken up? Because of her. Because Brad had swooped in and dazzled her with romance and naughtiness: flowers strewn from his locker to hers; silly love notes slipped between the pages of her books; stealing her away from class for a motorcycle ride to the beach.
I think Brad wanted me just to take something of Jackson’s. But then got trapped into marriage when I got pregnant with CiCi.
She was such an idiot. Dumping dependable, solid Jackson for a lying, cheating man-whore. Stupid.
She fell asleep on her tear-soaked pillow and dreamed of better times. She’d married Jackson instead, and they’d built a life together. He was still in her bed, faithful and loving, even after two decades. She woke up with a terrible ache in her heart that wouldn’t go away.
She cleaned up the breakfast dishes after Cici huffed out of the house, but still she ached and no amount of rubbing her heart erased it. Then she spied the envelope, still in the recycler.
Pulling it out, she smoothed the edges, her mind still on Jackson and what might have been. Logic said her dreams were foolish, but she wrote a cheque for the reunion anyway and mailed it on her way to work.
Over the next two weeks, she stuck to routine: work, home, CiCi — except for her dress. She haunted every shop in Calgary until she found it. Not any dress would do. She might not be the most successful attendee, but she was damn well going to turn heads. Whatever happened at the event tomorrow night, a lot of male eyes would be on her. Maybe even Jackson’s.
On reunion day, a dozen red roses arrived with a cryptic note but no name. “Twenty years has been too long. I can’t wait to see you.”
The delivery guy didn’t know who sent them and the florist didn’t know, either. Just some guy who stopped in and paid cash.
Could it be Jackson? Who else would send me flowers?
“Anonymous flowers,” Karla said over the phone. “It’s a little creepy, you know.”
“It isn’t creepy. It’s romantic.”
“It would be romantic if he’d left his name.” Karla’s voice was worried. “What kind of guy doesn’t want you to know who he is. The creepy kind. Just be careful, okay?”
“You could come with me. These were your friends once, too.”
“Just you, kiddo. You were my only friend. Besides, I’m on evenings all this week. The Emergency Room waits for no one.”
By five-thirty, her stomach was jittery with nerves: tight, slightly queasy, edgy. She gave up and headed an hour early to the school. She sat in her car and rehearsed what she’d say to Jackson. Others started to arrive, but she waited a while longer, searching for a calm center that was nowhere to be found. This night meant everything. She couldn’t blow it.
Don’t be stupid. He’s probably happily married.
Eventually, she forced herself out of the car and into the school’s auditorium. The first impression was the smell: a clash of perfumes and after shaves, with floor polish riding underneath. Let’s Get it Started blasted across the room, and a few couples hip-hopped to it on the dance floor.
Her heels clicked on hardwood as she strode over to the welcome table and claimed her name tag. Scanning the room of mostly strange faces, people she’d probably remember once a name was attached to them, she saw a few familiar ones.
Over by the punch bowl, a blonde — twenty pounds heavier but still pretty — stood with a glass in her hand and a handsome man by her side. Penny, head cheerleader three years running until she disappeared mid-term senior year. Pregnant, the rumors said.
Over at the buffet, she saw Carter, math whiz and soccer star, with two plates piled high with food. He was single that final year. She wondered who he ended up with.
In a corner across the room, a short man, balding, wearing oversized glasses, waved. Andy. She smiled, waved back — and forgot about him in her search for Jackson.
Jackson’s voice reached her and guided her eyes. Surrounded by women, his voice carried. It was deeper, sexier — but too loud and slightly intoxicated. She didn’t remember him drinking when they were teens, not that they had much opportunity to sneak booze.
She wandered over, her feet uncertain, her pulse jumping. Would he remember her?
“Jackson?”
He turned, confusion on his face.
“It’s Liz,” she said.
A grin broke across his face. “Lizzie!” He pushed through the crowd to reach her and pulled her in for a hug. “My God, you’re even more beautiful. You’ve filled out since high school. I approve.”
She kept the polite smile on her face, not sure how to react. “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”
He laughed and drank more beer. “Oh, you know. Just dandy.” He winked. “Currently between wives.” He laughed. “They both said it was me!” He drained his glass in one huge swallow. “I need more of this. Can I get you something?”
“No. Thanks, I’m fine.”
He scanned the crowd. “Brad not here?” He glanced at her right hand. “You married him, right? Pretty sure I read that somewhere.”
She nodded.
“Well, then. He isn’t here so does that mean there is trouble in paradise?”
She snorted. “I used to believe in paradise.”
His eyes lit and he touched her arm. “You know, I almost got you into bed, back in high school. Until loser Brad swept in.”
A memory clicked, something she’d buried long ago. Jackson’s campaign of subtle pressure to “come across.” How could she have forgotten that? It was the main reason she’d let Brad sweep her off her feet, to escape that pressure in the only way she knew how.
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” she lied. She’d escaped one pressure only to end up in exactly the same place with Brad. And married because of it. “Listen, it was great seeing you again, but I think I’ll mingle a bit.”
“Hey, don’t go. You just got here.” He caressed her shoulder. “After I grab another beer, how about you and I go find a quiet spot and finish what we almost started in high school.”
She stepped back out of reach, disgust with herself roiling through her gut. How could she have fantasized about him? “Thanks,” she lied keeping her voice level. “A tempting offer but I’m saying no.”
Jackson took a step toward her, determination written across his face. “Don’t be skittish. It’s not like you’re a virgin. What’s the harm with a little bump and grind for old time’s sake?”
The dress she’d obsessed over now disgusted her. She’d tried being a different version of herself because memories, like a mirage, had tricked her reality. Her hand reached to his chest and pushed him back.
“It isn’t going to happen, Jackson. I’m sorry I came over. Go back to your harem. Okay?”
“Leave the lady alone.” Andy moved into view and placed himself between her and Jackson.
She admired his bravery, as Jackson was twice his size.
But Jackson eyed him, with a smirk. “You’re too puny to bother with,” he declared, shoving Andy out of the way, and turning back to his bevy of women.
“Thanks, Andy,” she said. “It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate the gesture.”
“No problem,” he answered. “I was hoping you’d come. You’re the only one I wanted to see tonight.”
They walked to the buffet table. She wasn’t hungry, her encounter with Jackson still making her skin crawl. Andy disappeared to fetch punch. She didn’t want any, but he’d stepped in to help her and she felt obligated. Just one drink before she ran back to her safe haven.
“I’m so glad you came.” He handed her a plastic cup of sweet, pink punch. “You’re the only reason I came.”
His words skipped right past. Her mind was back home, ripping this dress off, and crawling under her comforter where she planned to stay for the next year.
“Liz?” Andy touched her arm. “Did you hear anything I said?”
Her eyes jerked to his, his mouth pursed in concern. “I’m so sorry, Andy. I shouldn’t have come. I think I’m going to head home. Thanks again for stepping in with Jackson.”
Discarding the plastic cup in the refuse bin, she lightly touched his arm. “It was nice seeing you. I wish you all the best.”
She turned to go but he kept pace beside her. “Would you meet me for coffee?” he said, his voice pleading. “Just two old friends, catching up?”
No. I don’t want to catch up. Not with you. Not with anyone.
But he’d stepped in to help her, against a man twice his size. A coffee wasn’t too much to ask — but still she hesitated. They weren’t old friends. He was someone she’d been nice to because he’d seemed so lonely and friendless.
“Please,” he begged. “Just a coffee. You pick the place, the day and the time.”
“Alright,” she agreed, with a heavy sigh. She dug her business card out of her purse, scribbled a Starbucks address on the back and handed it to him. “Sunday. Eleven.” If she couldn’t go to church, at least she could discharge this obligation.
His smile lit his face, turning the slightly off into normality. She admitted to curiosity about him. Not curious enough to pursue it if he hadn’t begged but enough that at least the meeting wouldn’t be a complete waste.
She cried herself to sleep again. CiCi banging at her door the next morning woke her. She was drained but CiCi needed her.
The emergency — wasn’t. CiCi couldn’t find her sneakers. At sixteen? With a growl, Liz retrieved them from under the kitchen table and tossed them at her daughter. Then she crawled back under the comforter and slept.
Hours later, her doorbell rang insistently. She dragged herself up, threw on a robe, and yanked the door open.
“You should take a hint,” she growled at her best friend.
Karla laughed. “Not a chance. It’s noon and I can’t wait.”
Mercifully, her friend brought two mugs of coffee to the table. “Spill,” she demanded. “Was Jackson there? Is he still a hunk? Did you two get it on?”
Caffeine reaching her brain dispersed the fog but not the headache. “Jackson is a drunken pig,” she moaned, rubbing her temple.
Karla chuckled and fetched Tylenol. “All men are pigs,” she declared. “I thought you knew that.”
She did now. The mirage fogging her memory had disappeared the minute Jackson spoke.
“Come on, girlfriend,” Karla pressed. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”
So, she told her about Jackson’s disgusting behavior, chuckled about Andy stepping in to save her, and about the obligatory coffee date tomorrow.
“I remember him,” her friend said. “He’s odd, Lizzy. At least, he was in high school. I don’t think you should meet him alone.”
Liz brushed it off. “He’s harmless.”
Her phone beeped. A text from Andy. “It was good seeing you last night. I’m looking forward to our coffee tomorrow.” She showed it to Karla.
“That’s creepy,” her friend said.
“He’s just being polite.” But a thread of unease snaked up her spine. How had he gotten her phone number? It wasn’t on the card she gave him last night.
When Karla left, she headed back to bed, to sleep but hopefully not to dream. She’d had enough fairy tale nonsense. Reality sucked but at least she knew what to expect.
The alarm woke her the next morning. CiCi had left a note on the counter. “Going to church with Dad.”
Maybe CiCi would punch Bunny in the nose for her. She felt immediately horrible and retracted that thought. Her daughter was having a tough time navigating the hostility between Brad and her. She refused to heap bitterness on top.
At eleven, she entered Starbucks and saw Andy at the counter. He ordered them coffees, found a table. His shirt and pants were pressed, his remaining hair combed neatly into place. His aftershave was strong enough to gag her, but it was clear he’d made an effort.
She caught her reflection in the window — faded jeans, a tee with an egg stain on the front, her uncombed hair up in a messy bun — and a flush crept up her neck.
“Thanks for the coffee, Andy. Did you stay long after I left?”
He shook his head. “I left right after you did. Followed you home, made sure you got there safely.”
Her forehead broke out in a cold sweat. Unease crawled up her spine. “You followed me home?” There was so much wrong with his following her, where did she start? “You shouldn’t have done that.”
He brushed her concern off. “It was no problem. I was happy to do it.”
He set his cup down and reached across to place his hand over hers. “Back in the day, I was trying to get up the nerve to ask you out. I could see you were tired of that boor, Jackson. But then Brad swooped in and I knew I’d blown my chance.”
Her eyes jerked to his face as her head snapped back. “I didn’t know that.” She moved her hand out of his reach.
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter but his eyes sparked with disappointment. “Did you like the flowers I sent?”
“You sent the flowers?” Karla’s words echoed in her mind. Creepy. “How did you know where I lived?”
Pride flashed across his face. “That was easy. I’m a computer pro, you know.” He swept his arm to encompass the room. Or maybe the world at large. “I’ve done very well for myself.”
“I’m happy for you,” she said, though unease pressed behind her eyes. “But that doesn’t explain how you knew where I lived.”
“Pfft. Easy. Like I said. The internet and social media are powerhouses of information these days.” He leaned forward, slid his hand toward hers but stopped short. “You should be more careful with the information you put online. Addresses, phone numbers, where you work — people can find anything these days.”
“Clearly.” Her tone stayed polite but her shoulders twitched uneasily and her legs itched to carry her out of the café.
“I can help you with that, maybe. Install some firewalls. Virus protection. Maybe a VPN, though we have to be careful with those or you’ll get booted off Amazon and out of your banking.”
“No. Thank you.” The words screamed in her head but a lifetime of being polite kept her tone level. Civil.
“Oh, it’s no problem. I’m happy to do it. Maybe we can go to dinner tomorrow. I can fly us to Toronto, and we can dine atop the CN tower. I hear the view is gorgeous.”
Pulse thumping, she pushed back in her chair. “You need to stop, Andy. Seriously. I’m not dating you.” She rose and gathered her purse.
His head tilted, eyes wide, brows furrowed. “You’re leaving? Why?”
“We aren’t friends, Andy. And I’m not interested in dating you.”
“You haven’t given me a chance yet,” he pressed. “How do you know?”
“I know I’m upset that you followed me home. That you sent anonymous flowers. That you just assume that I’ll date you. I’m tired of men assuming I’ll just do what they want, because they want it.”
His eyes glinted with — something. Dismay? Hurt?
She might feel like a heel but she wasn’t bending on this. Still, maybe she could soften the blow. “I get that your intentions are good, Andy. I do,” she lied. “But this,” she said, waving her hand between them. “There’s nothing between us. I don’t want there to be anything between us. I’m not interested in renewing our acquaintance. I can’t say it any plainer than that. I wish you well but I’m going home now.”
She gathered her purse, rose and took a step before turning back. “Don’t follow me.” Then she hurried to her car, checking over her shoulder the entire way.
She told Karla about it later that day and got a snarky “I told you so” for her trouble. But thankfully, it was over. She’d fulfilled her obligation to Andy; made sure he understood she wasn’t interested. That was that.
Until the evening, when another bouquet of a dozen red roses arrived at her door. She read the card before accepting them.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “Give me another chance. Andy.”
She refused them, made the florist take them back. Then she made sure CiCi was home before locking all the doors and windows.
More roses came on Monday. This time, at work. The receptionist received them and placed them on her desk when she was at lunch. She didn’t bother reading the card, just tossed them in the trash. Unease was no longer curdling her stomach. Now it was fear clenching her chest like a vise. She sent Andy a text that he couldn’t mistake this time. “I told you I’m not interested. Please stop.”
After work, she walked to her car, head full of ledgers and balance sheets, and clicked the car open. She reached for the handle — when Andy stepped into view. She spun around, pulse pounding, breath rapid, key protruding through her fingers, weapon ready. “What are you doing here?”
“I just want to talk.” Andy kept his distance, his tone level, hands palm up and empty.
Ignoring him, she climbed into her car, locked the door, and sped away. A glance in her rearview confirmed he hadn’t moved. She let out a sharp breath. What had she done?
At home, she checked the locks on all doors and windows again — but fear left an acid taste in her mouth that not even a quiet dinner with CiCi erased. Pushing her mostly untouched dinner aside, she scanned the internet for lawyers. Her phone beeped.
It was a text from Andy. “You wouldn’t talk to me. Were you afraid I’d hurt you? I’d never cheat on you. I’m not Brad.”
Bile crawled up her throat. How did he know about Brad? She rushed to the toilet, stomach heaving, but nothing came out.
Many deep breaths later, she felt calm enough to reply. “You’re behaving like a stalker, Andy. Stop. Just stop. Next time, I’m calling the police.” And then she blocked him.
The doorbell rang while she was loading the dishwasher. CiCi’s steps headed to the door. Heart thumping, she called out. “Don’t answer it, CiCi.”
But her daughter ignored her and opened the door. There was a low murmur of voices, but she couldn’t make out the words. Then CiCi hollered. “Mom! There’s a man here to see you.”
The hallway blurred as she raced to the door, grabbed an umbrella from the stand. “CiCi, go to your room,” she barked. “Now.” Holding the umbrella as a weapon, she yanked open the door.
Andy stepped back, surprise etched on his face. Shifting from foot to foot, a tick pulsing in his cheek, he eyed her, the hallway, CiCi’s retreating figure. Then he focused on the weapon and took another step back.
“I only want to talk,” he insisted. “But you blocked me.”
“I don’t know what your life is like now, Andy,” she said, trying one last time to reason with him. “Planes to Toronto? I guess that means you’re rich. Maybe it means you have trouble taking no for an answer. But if you care about me, as you say you do, then respect my wishes. I don’t want a relationship with you. Not now. Not ever.”
“I don’t understand. What did I do? I know if you just give me a chance, you’ll realize what a great guy I am. I’ll never cheat on you like Brad did. You have my word.”
What? Like Brad did? How did he know? How could he ….
It didn’t matter how he knew. She wouldn’t let fear paralyse her. She wouldn’t. She forced ice into her veins and into her voice. “How do you know about Brad?”
That infuriating shrug, like it was no big deal. “I told you. The internet. Social media. He’s even more careless about it than you are.” He took a step forward, his hand reaching for the door jamb.
“Hear me,” she growled, a headache pounding her skull, making her knees shake. But she had to stand her ground and make him stop. Gripping the umbrella like a weapon, she poked it into his chest. “I will not date you. You are not welcome here. Don’t contact me again. Not here. Not at work. If I even see your face across the street, I will call the police.”
“But I …”
“But nothing.” She pulled out her phone and typed in 9-1-1, her finger hovering over send. “This is your last chance, Andy. I’ve had about all I can take from men.” She angled the phone so he could see. “Leave now or I’m pressing this button.”
His face crumpled as he backed away, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to be nice anymore. She slammed the door on his retreating back and locked it, as a relieved sob escaped.
“That man,” she told CiCi, “if you see him again, get somewhere safe and then call me.”
“Whatever,” CiCi said, but her eyes were as wide as her skin was pale.
Liz hugged her. “It’s okay, honey. I didn’t mean to scare you. You’ll be okay as long as you do what I say.”
For the first time since the separation, CiCi hugged her mother back and held on. Then she extricated herself and flounced to her room with a final “Whatever.”
Liz laughed.
The next day at work, she gave clear instructions to reception and HR about Andy. She hoped she’d reached him last night, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
Mid-afternoon, her boss stopped in with another pile of files. She raised an eyebrow as he tried to leave them on her desk.
He just shrugged. “I need you to handle these, Liz.”
She sucked in a breath. Could she take this gamble? Hell yes!
“No,” she said and pushed the files away. “I’m already handling a caseload far higher than anyone else in the office. Find another desk to dump them on. I’m at capacity.”
“Excuse me?”
She huffed out a breath. “I mean it, Sam. I’m tired of being dumped on. Take them back. Or I’ll walk them over to your desk myself.”
“You don’t get to tell me …” he started, but she cut him off.
“This time I do.”
He studied her face. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. There would be hell to pay for this, but she didn’t care. It was tax season. There were lots of other accounting firms in the city. She had choices. She’d just been too scared to make them. No more.
He picked up the files and left. Liz kept her smile carefully hidden and got back to work.
The End.
© Deborah Sarty. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced without permission.
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