The One Who Got Away Read online

  THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY

  THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY

  EROTIC ROMANCE FOR WOMEN

  EDITED BY

  KRISTINA WRIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 by Kristina Wright.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStockphoto

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-177-0

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-177-0

  Contents

  Introduction: Always on My Mind

  Homecoming

  Again

  Polyglot

  Sunshine

  How to Get Your Wife Back, in Only About a Million Steps

  Proof

  The One Who Came Instead

  In the Dark, So Bright

  Triple Threat

  College Days

  A Few Gray Hairs

  Photographs

  Danish Affair

  Beginnings and Endings

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION:

  ALWAYS ON MY MIND

  We all have...that One, the one who got away. The one we fell for or simply were attracted to, but we never got our heart’s desire. That One, but not necessarily the One, at least not the first time around. That One who slips into our fantasies late at night when we’re feeling melancholy or nostalgic. Maybe we took a chance once upon a time and it simply didn’t work out. Maybe we never took the chance…and we wish we had. We all have the name of the one who got away tattooed on our heart, always with us, never forgotten. And sometimes, we get a second chance with that One.

  There is something hopelessly romantic about the idea of connecting with a long-lost love. Note I said idea. In truth, reconnecting with someone from our past can be…awkward, at best. Of course, it does sometimes work out. I know of two couples who, under very different circumstances, reconnected long after their first meeting and rekindled their passion for each other. In the first case, the couple had dated off and on for years, never quite being on the same page until their paths diverged for a decade and then crossed again. Now they’re happily married and raising two children together. In the other case, the two people involved were always attracted to each other but were so very different they both knew they’d never be compatible. Years later, throwing caution to the wind, they took a chance and discovered it was their differences that made them work as a couple. The lesson here is that time has a way of working magic on our lives and our hearts and what might have once seemed foolhardy or even impossible can suddenly turn on a dime at some point in the future.

  And so, dear reader, I present you with this luscious collection of second chance stories, about couples who have known each other, and sometimes loved each other, only to be separated by choice or fate. And in every case, something has brought them back together, either deliberately or by happenstance. More than any other anthology I’ve edited, this one is filled with longing—and hope. Here in these pages, you will find lovers discovering that the heart wants what it wants and is often willing to wait however long it takes to be fulfilled. So much longing, it will make your heart ache, but it isn’t unrequited and it doesn’t go unfulfilled.

  Happy reading, and may the memories of your one who got away be fond. Who knows what the future holds…right?

  Kristina Wright

  Chesapeake, VA

  HOMECOMING

  Alex Tobin

  Feels strange to be back in Orange County. Like returning to the scene of a crime. I don’t remember everything I did when I was here, but it was sex and drugs and punk rock, a laundry list of unpunished misdemeanors and—I’m sure—a felony or two. Still, it’s been over a decade. Statutes expire and memories fade.

  I sit up, turning to look through the front seats. A SoCal dusk greets me, framed through the windshield, wisps of cloudlike scars on a canvas of purple and orange. I feel dirty and sticky, the beginnings of a headache tapping a heartbeat rhythm through my skull. Back, hip and knee resume their grumbling, a low murmur of constant complaint at my poor posture, at days spent sleeping in my car. The dashboard clock says it’s a little after eight. Almost showtime.

  It’s not quite summer in Anaheim, but in a city where summer’s never very far away, that isn’t saying much. The sun’s out of sight, but the heat of the day still radiates from every surface. I can feel it coming off my car, from the asphalt beneath my feet. I could use a shower, but the best I can hope for is a whore’s bath in the restroom of the bar. The Duchess, it’s called. I’d say it’s seen better days, but I think this is about as good as it ever got for this place. We played here, of course, more than once, on a tiny stage in a tiny room downstairs. I have a vivid memory of opening my eyes between songs and seeing a congregation of expectant faces looking up at me, red with exertion, glistening with sweat, ready for my anger to explode out into that space, to wash over them on a wave of distortion, slam them into one another, into the walls.

  Walking in is like going back in time. The bartender’s an old punk like me, shirtsleeves rolled up to his biceps, tattoos all the way down to his knuckles.

  “I’m Bill Anthony,” I tell him.

  “Good to meet you, man. Get you a drink?”

  “Bourbon. Neat. Beer back.”

  “Any particular beer?”

  “Whatever’s cheapest.”

  “On the house for performers.”

  “Humor me,” I say.

  “You’re the boss.” Then, as he pours, “Gonna be a turnout tonight, I think.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Most of what we get in here is jazz and blues. Good stuff, but the same every night, you know? Soon as we put you on the schedule, people started asking. They remember you.”

  “Triumphant return of the hometown boy,” I say, taking a sip of the bourbon.

  “Where you been?”

  I down the rest in a couple of quick swallows, drain the beer in turn. “Around,” I say.

  I never went far, in truth. Just needed to get out of town. The scene got old and then it got dangerous. The vibe changed. We were all drinking too much. I felt like I was leaving my soul onstage most nights, shouting myself hoarse to be heard over the music, watching the pits get ever more violent. In August of that year, oh-two or oh-three, a kid got his face destroyed at one of our shows, a shattered nose and a broken orbital bone, blood everywhere. The camaraderie that used to be there—the silent code that said you weren’t there to hurt anybody else, that if somebody fell you helped them up—was gone, an early casualty of the new suburban angst, of hockey shirts and back-to-front baseball caps and waved middle fingers.

  Then Sonny died.

  I didn’t even know him that well. Lucky Dragon 3 was Jake and me. It was our band. Drummers came and went. Sonny was the fifth and last. He joined the band the same summer that kid got fucked up in the pit, played maybe twenty shows, then got drunk and totaled his car out on the 5 one night, just lost control and drove off the road. Jake called me in the early hours of the morning to give me the news, and we ended it right then and there. He asked me if I wanted to stop and I said yes. We haven’t talked since.
<
br />   I went north. Grabbed some shit from my apartment and took the 101 up the coast. I thought about Canada but never got farther than Seattle, where I bummed around until the money ran out then worked a succession of McJobs, saved up enough money to buy a guitar, and started thinking about the music I’d grown up on, the LA, Orange County, and Bay Area bands of the Eighties and Nineties. I reworked my favorite songs, slowed them down and bluesed them up a little, played some open mics, got some gigs, then started adding in my own material. After a year or so, I didn’t have to do the shitty jobs anymore. I slept in my car sometimes, sure, but a choice between eight hours spent sleeping in a beat-up Camaro and eight hours spent pretending to give a shit for minimum wage was no choice at all.

  After three drinks and a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up, people are starting to show up for the gig, and I catch a few glances as I carry my equipment through the bar, a few nudges and “look over there”s. This amount of booze is normally just right for a confidence buzz, but I feel uncomfortably warm and a little nauseous. Only a few of them have made their way downstairs, but I can feel their eyes on me as I set up. It isn’t much, just a couple of amps, a microphone, and a stool, but it helps me get focused, takes my mind off the sound of people pulling up chairs, talking amongst themselves.

  “All right,” I say into the mic, settling myself on the stool. “Not much point sound checking in here. If the levels are off, just yell. My name’s Bill Anthony. A long time ago, I had a band called Lucky Dragon 3…” A couple of whoops make me smile despite myself. Nobody’s recognized the name since I’ve been playing alone. “Now it’s just me. Same songs, but I got old and stiff and kinda sore, and these days I prefer to do them like this.”

  I play some Black Flag and TSOL, a couple of my own, then Bad Religion and the Vandals. They’re into it, singing along when they know the words, listening politely when they don’t, applauding enthusiastically between songs and calling out requests. I usually do Social Distortion’s “Story of My Life” at or near the end, but the kid who asks for it is so desperately sincere about hearing it that I go early.

  That’s when she walks in.

  I don’t stop playing or fuck up any chords, but I do forget the words to the second verse for long enough that I have to start singing the first again, which isn’t the smoothest thing to do when you’re playing acoustic and the song’s a narrative, but for a few moments, the only word in my head is her name.

  She’s older, of course, different hair and different clothes and a different way of carrying herself, but I know her face as soon as I see it, and when she makes eye contact and offers me a hesitant smile, I know she came here for me.

  Sadie. I don’t remember what city we were in, but we were playing an all-ages venue with no bar, supporting some hardcore straight-edge kids who were about as fun as a brick to the face. When we finished our set, we immediately headed out to the parking lot and our van, where we’d left a stockpile of alcohol. As the front man, I usually got more attention than the others, and I was held up chatting to a gang of sweat-soaked teens who wanted to tell me how much they’d enjoyed the show as if I hadn’t had the perfect vantage point from which to watch them throwing themselves around with joyful abandon. By the time I got outside, there was already a gathering around the open back doors of the van, where I could see Jake and Connor, our drummer at the time, holding court.

  I usually liked these little postmortems, the drinking and the talking and the girls, but it was our third gig in three days, my stage-high was wearing off and I found I wanted nothing more than to get something to eat and then lie down somewhere comfortable, quiet and dark.

  “You guys killed it.”

  I turned my head and there she was, five-feet-nothing of contradictions, this little porcelain doll of a girl, all pale and fragile and absurdly pretty, skin still shiny with sweat, jeans marked with dirt from the dance floor, ill-fitting T-shirt so stretched from being grabbed and pulled in the pit that it hung off one shoulder like a dress.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You didn’t stay for the rest? I hear the headliners have good things to say about orange juice and broccoli.”

  She smiled and I was done for, all plans for the evening traded in for whatever this girl was doing.

  “You don’t like them?”

  “Their music’s okay,” I said. “I just don’t really…connect with their message. My edge is quite curved.”

  “So how come you’re not drinking with your boys?”

  “Tired. Not in the mood for it. Really want a doughnut.”

  “You sure are punk compared to those straight-edge guys. There’s a Krispy Kreme up the street. It might still be open.”

  “Lead the way, mysterious savior.”

  “Sadie,” she said.

  “I’m Billy.”

  We turned away from the van, heading across the parking lot to the street. I felt better already, feeling the breeze on my face and drying my clothes, sneaking glances at Sadie as we walked.

  “Are you here by yourself?” I asked her.

  “I came with friends, but they were just hanging out. I don’t go to shows to sit and chat, you know?”

  “You look like you’d get absolutely killed in a mosh pit.”

  “I hold my own. It’s kind of an advantage. Imagine being the guy that knocked a skinny little girl like me on her ass. It doesn’t happen much.”

  “Never thought about it like that. I’m not in pits that often.”

  “No,” she said, and looked at me with a frankness that made my insides do a lazy backflip. Her eyes were a washed-out blue that was almost gray. “You inspire them, though.”

  “I scream at people,” I said.

  “I work at Starbucks.”

  “Touché.”

  “Your Krispy Kreme, sir,” she said, as we rounded the corner.

  “Sadie, I think I love you. I’m buying.”

  We were just in time. There was nobody else in the store, and the kid behind the counter was clearly annoyed at his closing ritual being interrupted. Disgustingly smitten by the idea of a doughnut filled with custard and dipped in chocolate, I ordered four to go, and we went outside and sat on a low wall in the parking lot, where Sadie looked dubiously into the bag I handed her and then started laughing as I tore into my first doughnut.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said.

  “This is amazing,” I said, through a mouthful of doughy sweetness. “This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “All my preconceptions of what it is to be in a punk band, shattered.”

  “Try one. These are punk. They’re a ‘fuck you’ to diabetes.”

  She laughed again, reaching into the bag to pull out a doughnut, holding it between her fingers like it was toxic as she took a tiny bite, eyeing me all the while.

  “All right,” she said, “it’s pretty good. You have custard and chocolate all over your face, dude.”

  “And that little fucker didn’t give us any napkins.” I wiped the mess from around my mouth as best I could with my fingers, then sucked them clean.

  “Here.” Sadie reached over and wiped a bit I’d missed, raised her eyebrows at me, then slipped her own finger briefly into her mouth.

  “Can I ask you something?” I felt like my skin was tingling where she’d touched me.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you go to a lot of shows?”

  “You mean am I a groupie?” She took a bite out of her doughnut, watching my obvious discomfort as she chewed. “No. I go to a lot of shows, but I get my kicks in the pit, not blowing the bass player. Do you fuck a lot of groupies?”

  “I’m not gonna say I never have, but Jake’s the reigning champ there.” I smiled at her look. “We’ve got really different stage personas. Some girls like his stoic, relentless rhythm section thing, some like my energy and anger.”

  “Passion. Not too many people are attracted to anger.”

  “Not too many people are attracted to guys who ta
lk about how passionate they are, either.”

  “Touché.”

  “I guess it kind of extends to who we are when we’re not performing. Jake can sleep with three or four different girls in a week and not give it a second thought. I’m always overthinking motives or worrying that they’re going to get attached to me or I’m going to get attached to them.” I take a bite out of my second doughnut. “Jake says I put women on a pedestal.”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe. A little. Sometimes.”

  “I’m not really into the stoic, relentless type.” She tossed what was left of her doughnut back into the bag. “And these are too much. Do I have any on my face?”

  “Just a little bit.”

  “Seriously?” She swiped a hand across her mouth. “Still there?”

  I nodded, throwing the remnants of my own doughnut into the bag.

  “And the little fucker closed the store so I can’t go and look in the mirror.”

  “Here,” I said. I leaned in and kissed her lightly, briefly on the side of the mouth. “I think I got it.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice was low, her eyes holding mine.

  I shook my head and kissed her again, open-mouthed this time. She responded immediately, and I heard the paper bag fall to the ground as she wrapped her arms around my neck, her tongue dancing around mine. I could smell the show on her, the sweat and cigarettes. Beneath that, a cleaner, more intimate scent, soap or shampoo. I put my arms around her waist, slid my hands up under her T-shirt, feeling the warm, smooth skin of her back. She sighed against my lips, let her head fall back a little. I kissed her jaw and the side of her face, her neck and then that exposed shoulder.

  “Making out in the Krispy Kreme parking lot,” she murmured.

  “Does it fit your preconceptions of a guy from a punk band?”

  “It’s pretty grimy.”

  “You like that?”

  She snorted laughter. “Grimy or that?”

  The latter was my hand finding one of her small breasts, bare beneath her T-shirt.