Page 38 of Come Back To Me

“Gross, get it dry-cleaned.”

I nodded, but there was no way I’d wipe off someone’s history from my dress. How did it get there? Was it in love or lust, anger or joy? I spent so many days imagining that scenario that I was almost tempted to go back to the store and ask about its original owner. I decided not to dry-clean it, to wear it as is with all the bad or good still attached to the fabric. We planned on marrying in Vancouver, a favorite city for both of us, just a few friends in tow. David found a blue velvet suit in the back of his aunt’s closet and told me he would wear it. David told me that Lazarus Come Forth would sing a cappella as I walked down the aisle.

“What aisle?” I asked him, and then he told me that he booked a church and a restaurant for after we’d taken our vows where we could all celebrate. I hadn’t done a thing, hadn’t lifted a finger. It was like he could sense my hesitancy and rushed into action making the plans.

“Is there anyone you’d like to invite from back home? Like a friend…some distant family?”

“No,” I said quickly. “My life is here now, my people are your people.”

“Yara,” he urged. “You can’t just cut people off when you feel done with them. They’re part of your tapestry.”

I watched his lips as he spoke. It was mesmerizing the way they moved. He licked his lips often and I always wished he were licking something else.

“I don’t want anyone else to come,” I said with finality.

I felt guilty. I thought of Posey, who didn’t even know I was getting married. She still texted me once a week and I told her about everything but David. There were a handful of others I could call. They’d all be excited and shocked to hear the news—some of them would even offer to fly out for the wedding. But, in the end, I chose to tell no one. What I had with David felt private, like it needed to be protected from the outside.

And then it was time to meet his parents, who were angry with David and suspicious of me. I didn’t blame them. He asked a girl to marry him, a girl they’d yet to meet. They didn’t know it was my fault and not his, that I’d been dodging their dinner invites and weekend trips for almost a year. But I took the ring, and bought the dress, and now it was time.

Dear Yara,

The band’s in London November 12th. Want to catch up?

David

I re-write it twenty-four times before I send it. I don’t even know if she uses this e-mail anymore. If she answers, it will hurt. If she doesn’t answer, it will hurt. She replies three days later.

Hi David,

Yeah, sounds good. Let me know when and where.

Yara

She’s so cold.

I remember the smell of her clothes, her perfume, her skin. The tilt of her chin when she was offended and the way her mouth pulled in at the corners when she was wary of your motives. I remember the way the tip of her tongue peeked out and touched her top lip when she was having an orgasm. And the way she’d hold the first sip of wine in her mouth for what seemed like a full minute before swallowing it. The way she closed her eyes and moaned when she swallowed…the wine. And me. I remember how she wouldn’t take shit from me or anyone else. She didn’t care what you thought about her, she cared what she thought about you. She wouldn’t let you in just like that. You had to prove it. I remember the open bags of Cheetos, all lined up in her pantry. The first time I saw them all lined up like that I’d pulled a couple rubber bands off my wrist and started closing them so they wouldn’t go stale.

“What are you doing?” she’d said, when she caught me tying one up.

“Someone left them open,” I’d said. “They’ll go stale.”

“That’s the point.” She’d taken the bag from me and pulled off the rubber band, handing it back to me.

“Stale Cheetos are my favorite.” She’d pushed it between her lips, wagging her eyebrows at me.

And then as she was walking away, she’d said, “Are you going to write a song about it?”

I remember the way she’d always say:Are you going to write a song about it?

And I’ll never forget that I did write a song about it. All of it. And those songs. I wrote one song, I wrote two songs, I wrote three songs, I wrote four songs. Yara gave me one gift: endless inspiration. One song, two songs, three songs, four songs go platinum. We make money, we acquire fame, we travel all over the world and live the very dreams we dreamed.

But I’m poor.

I have nothing but money.

And her sweater, I still have one of her sweaters. Her smell has long since faded out of it, but if you look closely at the cuff of the sleeve, you can see tiny flecks of orange trapped in the wool. Cheeto dust.

I lift it to my nose before every show, trying to find her somewhere. It comes with me when we’re on tour. I keep it in a box that looks like a coffin. The guys give me shit about it, but I don’t care. There was one time I forgot the box in a dressing room in Albuquerque; I only realized it by the time we reached Reno and we were getting ready to play a show.

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