Until I See You Again



  Until I See You Again

  By Joshua Cole

  Edited by Curiouser Editing

  Cover Art by Paramita Bhattacharjee

  Copyright © 2015 Joshua Cole

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This manuscript is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Until I See You Again

  The Embassy Suites resided in a newly renovated industrial park on the lesser-known side of Kansas City. It was removed from the bustle and traffic of the city and was only a couple of exits from the airport and shopping centers. While a cacophony of laughter and chatter spilled into the first floor of the hotel, Amy twirled the ice in the bottom of her glass with the thin black cocktail straw that arrived with her Sprite.

  There were 172 people in all, not including the presenters at this convention. Though it was aimed at the nursing profession, there was a large number of men in attendance—eighty-seven, to be exact. This wasn’t a surprising number, as experience taught Amy men used these events like they used the profession: as a way to pick up women. She divided these prowlers categorically by age: those who wanted to make sure their pricks still worked, and those who needed to validate their manhood.

  One man with gray hair was definitely in the first category. He was bound to approach her and ask to buy her a drink, even though she was giving off her best “don’t even think about talking to me” vibe. It was a look she had perfected during a twelve-year marriage that produced her most beloved treasure, her beautiful boy, Tyler.

  She checked the phone and wondered if it was too soon to call her sweet boy. It was the first week he had spent with his father since the divorce, and was probably resigned to eating nachos and frozen chicken, while watching endless hours of television, because Robert would most likely be on his laptop every evening. Though, honestly, Tyler probably loved it, which made it even worse. Thirteen times she found him in similar situations.

  “Children need to be engaged,” she had implored, but Robert dismissed it with a grunt and a shrug. Amy accepted that he didn’t want to interact with her; she had convinced herself Robert no longer found her attractive, but their son was different. How could he not want to be completely involved in his own son’s life?

  The marriage counselor had suggested separation as an actual remedy that had helped other couples. He quipped some phrase about fondness and distance, but the separation had only confirmed what Amy had long known in her gut: she and Robert were living separate lives under the same roof.

  Amy’s new counselor strongly suggested she use this time away at the convention as a growth opportunity. “Do your best,” she said, “to only call your son once a day.”

  Once a day? Amy rolled her eyes. The hours between hearing her son’s voice were stale, like eating a piece of cardboard. This counselor had obviously not paid attention when Amy told her about the blatant absenteeism her ex-husband exhibited on a regular basis. If she didn’t count the texts she had sent Robert to ensure he was taking Tyler to school, which technically was not contacting her son, then she still had thirty minutes to go before she hit her next twenty-four-hour increment.

  Counting had long been a comfort—something Amy could rely on. It helped her organize her thoughts, and it reminded her that she wasn’t alone. When she was a child, her father would drive her to school. Amy had been excited to spend time with him and thought they might sing in the car together, but he didn’t listen to music in the morning; he preferred the AM stations that discussed weather, politics, and the local news. Amy had to sit still, so he could hear the news. Why her movements affected his ears, she wasn’t sure, but Amy found herself staring out the passenger side window nonetheless. Every morning, they passed forty-seven houses, four stop signs, and two gas stations.

  Perhaps someone in one of those houses, she had thought in the foolish way children think about love and attachment, wanted to spend time with her, just her. The colonial houses stood tall and secure with white porch lights dulled by the sunrise and windows covered in curtains of condensation. Each one hinted that marriage would be the definitive answer to that quiet question that lingered inside her.

  In those last couple of years with Robert, however, she once again stared out the windows of their home and counted trees, birds, and the yellow birch leaves that collected on the dew-covered crabgrass.

  “Hello there,” said the tall gentleman with silver hair and stark-blue eyes—eyes that undoubtedly lured many women from their underwear. Her pursuer soaked each word in a husky bedroom voice, and she couldn’t respond out of sheer principle.

  “Are you here alone?”

  This inquiry forced her into an involuntary gag, and she didn’t acknowledge his presence even though he was invading her personal space as he slid up to the bar.

  Still, he didn’t pick up on the hint.

  “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said to the bartender.

  Amy realized that he was one of those guys who just kept pushing and pushing until he had his way, and if rejected, he would act mortally wounded. She had a theory about men like this: their mothers breastfed them too long, and they were never able to disassociate themselves from rejection of the opposite sex.

  She had a plan for such scenarios.

  “Look, you seem like a nice guy,” she lied through gritted teeth, “but I’m not interested. Okay?”

  Amy tapped the wedding band on her left hand. This is why she kept it on, or at least this is what she told herself.

  “Oh, yeah, I have one of those shackles too.” He twisted a thick gold band from the base of his ring finger and dropped it into a front pant pocket. “But they don’t need to know everything, am I right?”

  Amy’s eyebrows shot up.

  The gentleman chuckled and revealed teeth that were too white for someone outside of Hollywood. “What happens at the convention stays at the convention.”

  “You’re actually serious, aren’t you?” Amy’s stare was stoic and ice cold.

  “It was only a joke—relax.” He placed a hand on Amy’s upper back, which she promptly removed with a thumb and forefinger, as if it were a soiled diaper.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  The man’s clean demeanor quickly soured, and his cheeks turned crimson. “Just trying to have a little bit of fun.”

  And there’s the inability to deal with rejection, Amy thought and leaned away in her seat.

  “Wow, you sure are a piece of work.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.” Bottom-feeders clung to any sort of chum dangling from the hook, but she couldn’t resist.

  “Listen, I—”

  “Hey, buddy.” The bartender tilted his head to the side and offered a sanguine smile. The man snorted and walked away. He left his Sprite with lime beside Amy’s; it continued to fizz.

  “Thank you,” Amy said.

  “Don’t mention it. These conventions bring in all sorts, ya know.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Just a word of advice: there’s another big company in town staying h
ere, and they enjoy their manager’s hour, so if this isn’t your scene …”

  “Duly noted.” Amy checked her watch, and there were still twenty-seven minutes before her next twenty-four-hour increment, but who was counting? “I have to make a phone call anyway.”

  Amy left a message on her ex-husband’s answering machine and kicked herself for not buying Tyler a prepaid cell phone. Though nothing said “overbearing mother” like an eight-year-old with a cell phone; it would be nice to hear her little man’s voice. Now that she had already called in this twenty-four-hour period, was she allowed to make another call, or would that be too needy? Amy considered calling her psychologist to check and then remembered why she hated all counseling in the first place: it made her question basic decisions.

  She walked through the lobby of the hotel determined to bypass the crowd, which had nearly doubled; gray and dark-blue suit coats hugged half of the seats in the room. Not surprisingly, these middle-aged businessmen blended well with the female nurses who had decided to whet their palate with a round of less expensive hotel drinks before heading into town for a night of cocktails and carousing. Amy raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  Then she saw a familiar face.

  What is he doing here? she thought.

  Amy found herself smiling and involuntarily walking toward the bar area; it had been a couple of years since she had seen Michael. He had been a good