Page 38 of Please, Sir

Knowing I can’t escape this moment, I right myself, take a steadying breath, and jog home, catching his attention when my sneakers hit the driveway.

He takes a few steps back, lingering around my porch as his eyes rake over me. I feel sick when he looks at me, and I feel extra sick that he’s here, at my new little house, looking at me in my new life.

“Riley, my god, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

I ignore the comment.

I don’t take him in. I don’t catalog the changes in his features, or make note of his body language and what it might mean for his mood. I simply step past him, using my keyless entry on my smart watch to unlock the deadbolt.

Standing in the threshold of my front door, I turn to face him, gripping the door jam so I don’t drive my fist between his eyes.

I say nothing, only glare at him and wait for him to explain why he’s here. I don’t want to hear it, but I know if I just close the door in his face, I’m likely worse off.

He licks his lips, stepping back up on the porch, the toes of his boots on the edge of my welcome mat. “My parents said you called your parents, finally. I hope that means what I think it means,” he says, stammering a little.

Still, I stay silent, gripping the door frame until one of my nails bends backward.

“I’m glad you called them,” he says, still holding a bouquet of roses in front of his chest. “They miss you, Ry.” He tries for deep, emotional eye contact but I don’t give it to him. I glance behind him, unbothered, and wave at the mail lady filling my box. She waves back, and only then do I return my gaze to Michael. “I-I miss you, Ry,” he stutters.

“Why are you here?” I ask, deciding I’ve had enough and need to shut this and him down.

He adjusts his grip on the bouquet, wearing a too-big smile. “I’m here just hoping that because you called your parents, that means you’re, you know, moving on. And ready to come back to me.” Michael steps nearer and right then I decide, if he takes one more step toward me, I’m closing this door. “I’m waiting for you, Riley. I’ve been waiting and I’m still waiting, and I’ll wait forever, but right now, I’m here to see… if you’re ready.”

His words bounce around my brain. How can someone be so damn delusional? It doesn’t even matter. None of this matters and it all stopped mattering the day I got in my car and drove to Bluebell.

“No one asked you to wait. And there is nothing to wait for.” I shake my head, angered by him being here, by his gaslighting, by his bullshit. “We are done forever. End of story.”

He extends the bouquet to me, making puppy dog eyes. Right now, I’m allergic to dogs, and I don’t want these roses. I don’t want to see him or hear his voice or listen to any of his bullshit. I want to slam the door, pretend this didn’t happen, and continue on with my Saturday.

But it’s not that simple. I shove the bouquet back into his chest. “No.”

“Ry,” he coos, using my nickname like he has the right. He doesn’t even have the right to use my name at all, that’s how I feel about Michael Rhodes. “Don’t be that way. These are for you.” He extends them again, and I push them away again. On the street behind him, the mail truck sputters off, and even though we’re standing on my porch in broad daylight, the slightest niggle of fear slithers through me.

“I don’t want the roses, Michael. And I don’t want you to show up here and do this. I don’t want this, I don’t want to talk to you about my parents and I don’t want you!” I say, clinging to calm but unable to hold on, my voice rising with each shaky, angered word.

“Riley, seriously? It’s been six months. You moved away. You proved your point.” He steps closer, pressing the flowers into my chest, one of the thorns piercing my skin. I wince, and look down to see a trickle of blood swimming down my skin, beneath my tank top. Michael follows my eyes to the place where the roses punctured me. The metaphor swims between us, and his lips pull up at the ends. “I’d never hurt you.”

I look down at the blood again then back up at him, reaching between us to wrap my hand around the base of the bouquet. “You just did,” I tell him, my voice deflated and quiet. I tried to tell him to leave. I never invited him here. On the street, a black truck drives up, killing the engine at the curb. Somewhere in my brain, I think I recognize that truck, but with Michael an inch from my face, I can’t think straight.

I take possession of the bouquet and before he has time to do anything, I raise it up and smack him across the face with it as hard as I can. “Get the fuck out of here!” I shout, bringing my hand to my chest, pressing it to the tiny puncture he left from his thorns. Rose petals settle all around himon the porch step, and he winces back, blotting his hand to his face to make sure he isn’t cut.

“Riley, that was completely unnecessary,” Michael says, his tone of voice no longer conciliatory. He touches his cheek, looking at the blood on his fingers like I slit his throat. His eyes come to mine. “You cut me,” he says, and he moves toward me in one single step but then–

Jake steps between us, his massive build shielding me from the sight of Michael.

“Who the fuck are you?” Michael asks, his voice husky, like he’s trying to sound tough in front of Jake.

Jake moves toward Michael, and Michael instinctively steps back. “Wouldn’t you love to know,” Jake says, with so much depth and strength in his tone. “She said leave.”

Jake turns, and it’s the first time we’ve locked eyes. His are lined with concern, etched with anger, and he places a hand on my shoulder, nudging me inside as he walks toward me. He closes my front door, twisting the deadbolt, and I move past him, rocking to my toes to peer out the peephole. Michael, in a heap of rose petals with tiny cuts marking his face, stares at the closed door for a moment before he turns and leaves. My heart is racing as I grip the grooves on the door, watching until his car is so far down the road I lose sight.

Sliding my palms against the cool wood door, I lower myself to the floor and turn..

Jake is studying me, his head tipped to the side just slightly, hands in fists at his sides. “I came here to yell at you,” he says slowly.

There’s a knot in my throat. Keeping my embarrassment and fear at bay, I swallow it down, saying, “Then give it to me.”

CHAPTER

---