Something More Than This (3 page)

Right now, though, his protectiveness has reached its limit with me. Especially when I get to my car door and he says, “How many times have I told you to park closer to the entrance or under a streetlight, Katy?”

Under my breath, I mumble, “So many times, I’ve lost count.”

“I heard that,” he says. I turn around and give him a hug. “I’m just looking out for you.”

He lets go of me and I smile, fully aware that he really does mean well. “I know, Simon. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure thing. Good night, Katy.”

“Good night.”

I toss my bag onto the floor of the passenger side and place my takeout container on the seat. When I pull out of the parking lot, I look in my rearview mirror. At exactly two car lengths behind me, Simon’s police cruiser is following me home, as usual.

I sigh out loud and continue driving while thinking some things will never change no matter how much I wish they would.

CHAPTER THREE

W
hat time did you get home last night?” I ask Mimi as I’m filling up my to-go mug with coffee.

“Um, I don’t know exactly, it was late.” She yawns, then slowly shuffles her Kermit the Frog slippers against the hardwood floor until she reaches the coffeemaker. Once she’s done getting herself a fresh cup of coffee, she shuffles as if on autopilot back to her bedroom and closes the door.

“It was nice talking to you too!” I shout down the hallway.

Muffled, I hear her say, “Ditto. Have a good day at work.”

After I’ve gathered all my essentials and put them in my messenger bag, I check myself in the mirror one last time. I’ve never been one to get all decked out for work and tend to wear clothes that are practical, much to Mimi’s disgust. Same can be said about my hair and makeup. My long, wavy brown hair starts out each day cascading down my back, but by the time I reach the newsroom, it’s up in a hair clip with flyaway strands escaping all day long. And as far as makeup, I don’t really wear any other than the occasional lip gloss, if you can call ChapStick that.

Today, I’m dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans, a white silk blouse with black polka dots, a black blazer, and black ballet flats. But as soon as I’m in the comfort of my own home, it’s sweatpants, tank tops, or T-shirts so old they should have been thrown out years ago.

I’m comfortable in my own skin, as dismaying as it is to other people—Mimi—who wonder why I never get dolled up. A part of me believes in order to be taken seriously I need to look it. However, there is another part of me that wishes I didn’t have to waste time even thinking or worrying about my appearance.

When I arrive at the newsroom a half hour or so later, my hair is in its rightful hair clip and I pick up where I left off last night after I got home from the restaurant. Over the next few hours, I research the stats on the visiting high school team and compare them to the Barracudas. Since it’s Thursday and there’s no practice for either team because it’s opening week, I’m able to lose myself in my work. I don’t know if it’s the numbers or the science of taking all the stats and poring over them carefully, but I could easily spend an entire day doing exactly this.

My desk is on the far end of the newsroom, so it’s simple for me to block everyone and everything out. When a light knock on the corner of my desk starts out of the blue, I pop my head up in surprise to find my brother Jonathan smiling at me.

“I called your cell a couple of times but you weren’t picking up.”

After scanning the desk for my cell, I remember that I never took it out of my bag. Rummaging through it, I find that my cell has three missed calls, two from Jonathan and one from an unknown number, and a text from Dylan that reads:

In 1973, which player became the first punter ever drafted in the first round, 23rd overall to the Raiders?

I quickly text back:

Ray Guy

“So what’s up?” I ask Jonathan, placing the phone on my desk, knowing without a doubt that my answer is correct.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits on the corner of my desk. “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to take you out to lunch.”

“Is it lunchtime already?”

“It’s one thirty in the afternoon. Tell me you’ve eaten something today other than that.” He points to my to-go mug on the far side of my desk.

“Of course I have,” I lie.

He leans forward a bit. “Like what, exactly? And don’t say Butterscotch Krimpets.”

I have a stash of Butterscotch Krimpets in my desk. They are my one and only guilty pleasure and taste sinfully good, especially when dunked in coffee. But today I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I haven’t had one . . . yet. I would have, though, in an hour or so, if Jonathan hadn’t shown up when he did and offered to take me to lunch.

“Fine,” I say in defeat. “Let’s go.”

When we approach the elevator my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, and it shows an unknown number again, and this time whoever or whatever it is left me a voice mail. It’s probably a telemarketer. This doubles as my work phone, which means I get bombarded with calls, e-mails, and texts all day, every day, so an unknown number isn’t out of the ordinary. Especially when my desk phone’s calls have been forwarded to my cell phone since yesterday. Just when I’m about to listen to the message, Dylan’s response pops up on my screen.

How did you know that? You looked it up on Google, right?

I don’t even bother to answer and instead grin from ear to ear and put the phone back in my pocket. Jonathan notices and says, “What’s got you all smiley?”

With a shrug of my shoulders, I say, “Nothing, just Dylan trying to be funny.”

We walk to the café across the street, and since the weather is lovely for late September—a perfect not-a-cloud-in-the-sky eighty-one degrees—we opt to eat outside. Once we’ve ordered, Jonathan begins with the usual questions.

I don’t mind his so much as Simon’s. Maybe it’s because Jonathan has always had a way of talking to me as if I wasn’t the baby sister who tagged along with her older brothers, even if that was exactly the case. And when our parents died, he easily slipped into the role of comforter and confidant rather than guardian and warden like Simon did. He’s the first person I went to when I decided to become a sports journalist, and his support of me has never faltered.

“Nothing new to report, brother dearest,” I say before taking a bite of my cheeseburger. “Simon followed me last night, but that’s old news. Like really, really old news. Isn’t there something you can do about that for me?”

“I’ve tried, Katy. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

I nod while I take another bite. Jonathan looks on in disgust as I mix ketchup and mayonnaise together in the perfect concoction to dip my french fries in.

“What? It’s delicious.” I dip one french fry in the mix and present it to him across the table. “Try it. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

He waves a hand dismissively at the slathered fry and shakes his head. “God, no. You know I have an aversion to mayonnaise.”

“So what’s up with you? How’s work?” He’s a practicing divorce attorney hoping to make partner one day. He’s usually in court, so a lunch date with him is a very welcome treat.

Jonathan wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering. “Good, good. I’ve got a new case coming up where the soon-to-be ex-wife was cheating on her husband for almost the entire time they were married.”

“How long was that?”

“Twelve years.”

My mouth drops open. “Really? I mean, the
entire
time? Why did she bother to get married?”

“Who knows,” Jonathan says under his breath.

Here’s the thing with Jonathan. He’s really handsome, extremely sweet, caring, and thoughtful. He would and should make a woman very happy. But his career has tainted how he views relationships. He’d be a great catch for the right woman.

Simon, on the other hand . . . well, who knows what’s going with his personal life. Trying to keep tabs on his dating life is harder than trying to find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

“How are the Barracudas looking this year?” he asks, obviously wanting to change the subject.

I’m glad for it, because the last thing I want is for him to ask me about any guys I’m not at all dating or could be dating at the moment.

“Really good. I think they’re going to go all the way this year. The new coach seems to be picking up where Coach Fraser left off last year.”

“That’ll be great for our alma mater,” he says.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “But they’re still not as good as when you played for them.”

Jonathan was the leading passing quarterback in the entire state of Florida in his senior year of high school. Everyone thought he would pick a football-centered college and continue to flourish at the sport. He was courted by quite a few of them, actually. But he fooled everyone by choosing academics over sports. Not me, though. I always knew that he never intended to play football past high school.

“Thanks.” He flashes me a big smile. “I needed that.”

“You’re welcome.”

After we finish eating, we both make a mad dash to grab the bill at the same time. He winks and clucks his tongue at me. “Now, Katy, what kind of big brother would I be if I let you pay when I asked
you
out to lunch?”

“Fine, but next one’s on me, okay?”

He reluctantly agrees before leaving a tip on the table and then walking me back across the street to my office. We say our good-byes with tentative plans for him to meet up with me at the game tomorrow night.

Once I’m back at my seat, I take my cell phone out of my pocket and place it on my desk, where I continue to work for the next few hours, oblivious to everything and everyone around me. I don’t see or talk to Dylan the rest of the day, so as the day winds down, I decide to see if he wants to meet me at Mimi’s work for a couple of drinks later.

But before I call him, I remember the voice mail from earlier. I check and find that I actually have three voice mails. The first is of no importance and the second is from the camera shop, letting me know that the camera I left earlier in the week to be repaired is ready to be picked up, which is perfect timing for tomorrow’s game. I have a couple of backup cameras, but this specific camera is my favorite for taking action shots.

I jot down a note to myself to pick up the camera, and then the third message begins to play. I play it again and again. And one more time for good measure, because the caller is unmistakably familiar to me, yet totally foreign at the same time. The fourth time I play it, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the ripple of nerves that flows through me is enough to confirm that I’m not imagining things. Because even with the twinge of age added to his voice and the years between us, there is no doubt I’d recognize it anywhere.

“Shadow, I can’t believe it’s really you. Give me a call back at 786-555-4439.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I
t can’t be.

But nobody other than Conner has ever called me Shadow, so it must be him.

How is it even possible? Where has he been? How did he find me?

I grip the edge of my desk so tightly my fingers feel numb. My breaths start to come out shallow and I can feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck.

In a brief moment of clarity, I realize that I’m reacting like an absolute lunatic. I mean, it’s just a phone call, right? Nothing more, nothing less. People call each other every day and reconnect after years of silence. I mean, that’s exactly the point of Facebook. So why should this be anything different?

Katy,
I think to myself,
get yourself together.

Once I begin to feel like everything is settling back to the way it was before I heard his voice . . .

Oh my God, his voice. It sounded so . . . so grown up, mature . . . unmistakably manly. Conner’s voice made me feel like I was falling into a blanket and wrapping it around myself until my limbs felt warm and gooey.

Whoa!

Where did that come from? I need to get a grip!

I’m not some lovesick sixteen-year-old girl anymore.
I’m
a grown-up now. I can handle this.

“Okaaay,” I say out loud to myself.

“Okay, what?”

I almost jump out of my chair at the sound of Dylan’s voice. Swiveling around in my chair, I watch as he leans against my desk. He folds his arms across his chest and stares at me with curiosity brewing in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“What could be wrong?”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks me over. “I don’t know. You’re acting weird and talking out loud to yourself, which is a definite sign that you’re losing it.”

“I’m not losing it.” I roll my eyes at him. “Just, um . . . gathering up some notes and stuff. You know? The usual.”

I snatch up whatever I can from my desk and chuck it into my messenger bag. I can feel Dylan watching my every move. When I stand and peer up at him, he’s trying to stifle a smile as I pull the strap over my head and across my chest.

He steps in closer to me with one hand already slowly reaching for the flap of my messenger bag, and in a low voice, he asks, “May I?”

Before I can say yes or no, and with his eyes never leaving mine, he opens the bag. He pulls out my stapler and places it back on my desk. I’m speechless when he dives back into my bag with his green eyes still pinning me in place and comes out with my Post-it Notes dispenser.

When Dylan’s gaze breaks away from mine for a moment to calmly place the dispenser back in its rightful place on my desk, I feel a blush creeping up my neck until my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

“Obviously, you’re not losing it,” he says, still smiling and turning his attention back to me again. “Not even a little bit, huh?”

I tug some loose hair behind my ear and then tilt my head to the side. “I got carried away, I guess.”

He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. His lips freeze mid-word as his hands go into his pants pockets and he takes a step back at the same time. I can tell that what he says next isn’t what he originally intended by the mask that smoothly slips back into place, wiping the smile almost clean from his face.

“If you say so, Katy.”

“I do,” I rattle off like an idiot with a huge fake grin. “I say so. I’m A-OK, I promise.”

Dylan nods, then asks, “Are you heading over to Mimi’s for a drink?”

Then I remember that I was going to invite him to meet me there as an olive branch for skating so close to the deadline yesterday, but after Conner’s call, I’m reeling. I couldn’t bear to be around Mimi, much less Dylan, while I’m contemplating Conner and his voice mail and all that it entails.

“No. I’m going home. Want to make it an early night tonight. You know, with tomorrow being the big game and all.”

“Sure. Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Dylan turns on his heel and weaves ever so efficiently through the throng of desks and general madness of the newsroom. When he reaches his office, he closes the door behind him. The sound of his door closing literally snaps me back into action.

To do what, exactly, I have no idea whatsoever.

Probably go home and brood over Conner and that last meeting of ours before he left. Of course I have thought about him over the years; we were best friends, so it’s only natural. Sometimes all it takes is a song or something similarly cheesy to trigger a memory of him and how much I wished things had gone differently between us. Alas, it was never in the cards for us, because he never saw me as anything other than a friend. His shadow.

But now . . .

“Now what?” I say out loud to myself while walking through the lobby.

“Now what, what, Katy?” Jamie, the perky blonde receptionist, asks me.

She startles me, and I stop walking long enough to turn to face her. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud about an article.”

Jamie looks at me with sympathy. “You poor thing. You always look so stressed. Go home and take a long, hot bath with some candles and a glass of wine. That does the trick for me when I’m feeling like that.”

Since when do I
always
look stressed? And how come nobody’s ever bothered to let me in on that tidbit of information until now? I know I can come across as maybe a little busy and in my own head sometimes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m stressed. The newsroom can be a cutthroat environment, so there might not be time during the day to play catch-up with everyone and see how they’re doing. Then again, I don’t have many acquaintances here that I would confide in due to the fact that most people think I have an in with the boss.

“I’ll be fine.” I start walking toward the elevator doors again and then add as an afterthought, “Thanks for the advice, Jamie. Good night, and have a great weekend.”

“You too.”

Once I start driving home, I plug my phone into the audio jack and do the one thing that could possibly place me in the realm of definitely losing it, like Dylan suggested earlier—I play Conner’s voice mail through the speakers of my car in stereo surround sound. His voice, I’ve learned after listening to the message another three times on the drive home, sounds hopeful and expectant and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.

While parked at my apartment complex, I crane my neck and listen to the message one last time to try and pinpoint more inflections in his voice when the phone rings, scaring me to death. That might be because it’s Mimi’s special ringtone of Madonna’s “Vogue” blaring through my speakers.

She changes the ringtone every so often, and I have no idea when or why she does it. After the first couple of times, I changed my phone’s passcode, but the little sneak will catch me over my shoulder when I’m engrossed in something and memorize it so that she can do her handiwork without my knowledge. The worst was when she changed the ringtone to “Milkshake” by Kelis and proceeded to call me, knowing full well I was at a very important staff meeting.

I’m still trying to live that day down. Unsuccessfully, I might add.

“Are you coming by tonight?” she asks by way of hello.

“Not tonight.”

“And why not?”

“Just not feeling up to it. Gonna get some rest instead. It’s a big day tomorrow, season opener and—”

“Please. Stop. Say no more,” she says, already bored to death. “Okay then, I’ll catch up with you later or tomorrow, depending on what time I get home tonight.”

Once she says good-bye, I don’t torture myself any further and unplug the phone from the audio jack. A glance at the clock in the dashboard tells me I’ve been sitting in the parking lot for just over ten minutes. Not healthy behavior in the slightest.

I walk toward the apartment door with sweat already accumulating on the back of my neck from the early evening humidity. I’d like to think that it’s because of the weather, but it’s much more than that. But why am I feeling anxious and nervous and completely unsure of what I’m supposed to say to him? That is, if I actually call him back.

Who am I kidding?

Of course I’m going to call him back.

Still, how would the conversation go?

Hi, Conner! Oh yeah, can we forget the very last thing I ever said to you? That would be great, thanks!

“Not likely,” I mumble under my breath as I stalk closer to my apartment.

A wall of cool air blasts me when I finally swing the door open. I relish the central air conditioning while dropping my things on the couch and make a beeline over to the kitchen. Taking Jamie’s advice, I uncork a bottle of already chilled wine and pour myself a tall glass. Mimi would probably throw a parade if she could see me now, since I don’t drink this quickly after I’m home from work, if at all. I enjoy the taste on my lips before taking a large, unladylike sip.
God, that’s good.
Not that alcohol can cure any problem, but right now, I desperately need something to calm my nerves.

Leaning against the kitchen counter for a few minutes, I let the wine seep into my bloodstream while I stretch my neck and luxuriate in the feel of it coursing through my veins. Then, I’m off, knowing full well that what I do next can only be chalked up to my already frazzled state. The funny part is that I’m aware of the wrongness of it all as I’m walking toward my bedroom with my wineglass in one hand—clutching it for dear life is more like it—and the mostly full bottle of wine in the other.

I crouch down until I’m on my knees by the foot of my bed. When I lift one corner of the sky-blue-and-chocolate-flower-patterned comforter to the side, the plain white storage box is sitting in its familiar place, tucked safely away from prying eyes. Mine, in particular.

I can count on one hand the times I’ve pulled it out to relive my past. The last time was a couple of years ago on the anniversary of my parents’ death. Once I finished looking over the pictures and letters, knickknacks, and other odds and ends, I put the box back underneath my bed thinking that it would be the last time, that I could somehow move on and not go back to it. However, something always seems to trigger the urge to pull it out and dredge up the other kinds of memories, the not-so-good kind; the kind that I want to revel in right now no matter how awful it will be.

After I drag the box toward me, I sit on the floor and place it on my lap. I take one last long drink from my wineglass and immediately decide that I need a refill. So I top off my glass and then gather up the courage to open the storage box.

The scent of lavender immediately envelops me, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. My mom used to buy bundles of it to display in my childhood home. The piney, floral, and slightly camphoraceous scent always tickles my nose, reminding me of her and how’d she spend hours arranging them just so.

I gingerly pick up the dried sprigs and place them on the floor beside me, careful not to damage them in any way. Then I start rifling through the box with more determination than I thought I had in me.

When I reach the very bottom of the box, I see it. The letter.

It’s still folded neatly, as if it was never opened. But it was, only once, by the person whose name appears on it in my handwriting: Conner.

As I pull it out from its secure hiding spot underneath all my other treasured memories, I think about a girl who was lovesick and unsure, afraid and thrilled, and completely different from whom I am today. But as I sit here with it in my hands again after all these years, I’m her again: the sixteen-year-old girl who thought Conner hung the moon.

“God, I was so stupid.”

A chuckle escapes me, but it sounds forced to my own ears. Finally, I move the box off of my lap and lay the letter faceup in its place. It stares back at me, egging me on to open it. And I do. And when I read it now, years later, feeling everything the sixteen-year-old me was feeling when she wrote it, I still wish that I never wrote it in the first place.