Back to You Read online

  “Shit! That must be the shuttle.” He unlocks my ankles from behind his back, running his hands all the way up to my thighs and leaving me aching for more. “It pains me to say it, but this will have to wait ‘till later,” he says it with a frown fit for a sullen little boy. Adorable. We’ve had sex more times in the last few days then we have since we’ve gotten back together. He’s insatiable. All because of me. That makes me smile.

  “Don’t worry, baby. Not too much later,” I hum, stroking the thick bulge that’s formed in his Dockers. “We’re gonna christen that vineyard.”

  It was Mia’s idea to take the shuttle so that we could both enjoy the wine tour and not have to worry about sobering up to drive back to the house. It seemed like a stellar idea at the time, but now, sharing this cramped, smelly, van-like vehicle with three other couples—let me rephrase that: three other weird couples—I’m wishing we’d taken our own car.

  Mia sidles closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder. Call me a snob, but I’ve tried to avoid small talk with our solo-vacation intruders for the last fifteen minutes. That is until Mr. Body Builder and his Gucci-toting wife strike up a conversation.

  “So, have ya’ll been here before?” the bleach blonde asks while scanning me and Mia and the other two couples.

  Mia answers first, “Nope. This is our first time here. It’s our anniversary.”

  Everyone, including the bulky too-tan mammoth sitting next to his trophy wife, lets out an “awwwww” in unison.

  Bleach Blonde continues with the questions, “How long ya’ll married? I’ll bet it’s only a year… ya’ll are so young lookin’.”

  Mia lets out a tiny laugh, huffing though her nose. “Well, thank you, I’d like to think we are still young, but we’re celebrating five years.”

  Blondie clasps her hands together and looks over to her own husband. “Oh, Daddy, just like us! And it looks like they’re still in the honeymoon stages too.” She gives her brawny husband a peck on the cheek and he lets out a grunt. Can’t tell if that’s a positive thing or not.

  The older couple ping-pong looks between me and Mia and then Gucci and Daddy. Yeah, lady, other than the five year thing, we have nothing in common. Still mentally appraising us, the plump woman clutches her fanny pack and says, “We’ve been married almost thirty. Our kids sent us on this trip for Steven’s birthday. The big six five,” she gloats, tapping big Steve on the shoulder. “You have any little ones?”

  The blonde jumps right in with her irritating southern drawl, “Nah. Not yet. Me and Daddy wanna see the world before we tie ourselves down to lil’ ones. Just last month we went on one of those African safari thingies. Mosquitos up the wazoo, but what an experience! Next, we’re doin’ a European cruise for the holidays. I can’t wait to eat a real Italian pizza!” She enunciates Italian wrong—making the I long instead of short. It actually hurts my ears. But her eyes glass over with enthusiasm as she drones on about her plans. I won’t lie—I can’t help feel a little envious.

  “What about you two?” she asks, nudging Mia with her elbow. “You’d make gorgeous lil’ ones… with his eyes and your complexion… holy molasses they’d be just stunnin’.”

  Mia tangles her fingers in mine and then answers, “Yes. We have two little girls. Cara’s four and Charlie—Charlotte—is two. They’re home with their grandparents. I actually kinda miss them,” she admits, looking to me for approval.

  “Ohmygoodness! Two little girls under the age of five? Ya’ll are nuts! I’m too selfish to share big Daddy with babies yet. I like our freedom and being able to just pick up and go wherever, whenever we want.”

  The quiet couple stares out the window, still ignoring the conversation, but I can’t help notice an eye roll from the husband. Yup—parents. I can spot ‘em a mile away.

  The older couple just shrugs their shoulders.

  Mia tenses up, her grip on my hand tightening.

  I sit back and watch as she gets her defense on.

  “No, I wouldn’t say we’re nuts. My girls certainly have their moments, but I wouldn’t change a thing about when we had them or how close in age they are. Don’t get me wrong, traveling from country to country like carefree newlyweds sounds rather appealing, but those little girls are our lives. And you’re right—we do make stunners. They’re absolutely gorgeous!”

  Don’t fuck with the Mama Bear! I lean down to whisper in her ear, “Well played. Hopefully that shuts up Southern Barbie for the rest of the ride.”

  And it does. The remainder of our trip to the winery is soundtracked by the driver pinpointing the local scenery and soft, almost-muted music coming from the tiny speakers. I think it’s country. I’ve never minded country, but I could so go for something a little more upbeat. I’ve been toying with that song that keeps coming to me in dribs and drabs and cowboy whining ain’t gonna keep it flowing.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Mia finally says as her eyes travel to my foot that’s tapping to the beat I’ve started to create with my imaginary guitar.

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it?” I ask, kissing her on the cheek. Before she can answer or worry that my silence has any significance, I let her know about the song. “Wanna know a secret?”

  She squeezes my arm, snuggling closer. “Is it juicy?”

  I laugh, because Mia loves gossip. Too bad I have nothing dirty or scandalous to feed her curiosity. “No, nothing juicy, but I think you’ll like it anyway.”

  “Do tell,” she sings.

  “Lyrics to this new song have been playing out in my head. An original. I think it could be pretty epic. And lucky for me, my beautiful wife made me my very own recording studio. When we get back from Newport I’m gonna play around down there and see what I can come up with.” The idea of writing something new excites me. In fact, something like this is exactly what I need as an outlet. This trip has been very relaxing and fulfilling so far, but after that talk Mia’s forcing us to have and once I tell her about the job offer, I know I’ll need a release… pouring it out creatively has a way of proving constructive.

  “You have no idea how happy that makes me, Dec. That’s exactly why I built it for you. It’s been too long since you worked your magic… I haven’t even heard one word—and I don’t want to until you’re done—but you’re right. This is going to be epic!”

  She’s just as excited as I am. I’m so grateful that she supports my hobby. Most wives would probably bitch and complain at the idea of their husband locking themselves in a sound proof room after working a fifty hour week. Not my Mia. She deserves an entire album full of songs dedicated to her—I better get to work. And God knows I have plenty of angsty material to work with. I might even write up a song about strangers on shuttle buses and what they can do with their useless opinions. I’ll call it Shove It!

  If I’d known I was supposed to call ahead for a private tour, I would have gladly done so—and maybe even sold my fucking soul to the devil just so I don’t have to spend my supposed-romantic afternoon with these assholes.

  Yes, I get the thrill of looking important by asking all kinds of pretentious know-it-all questions about the natural character, acidity, and fermentation of the grapes, but we can’t step two feet without one of these bozos making a comment or clicking their tongues in their mouth.

  What happened to getting lost in one of the vineyards and screwing around? I’m here to get drunk and get it on. And Fanny Pack and Steve-O are not part of the equation.

  I eye the tour guide for any chance of a quick, discreet getaway, but then notice that Mia is just as content as the rest of the group, listening to all the details and sipping away on a sample.

  I follow suit, accepting yet another mouthful of one of the whites (can’t remember if we’re in Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay territory—who gives a fuck?), and chug it down without following any of the suggested guidelines for proper tasting. Tastes fucking fine to me! I’m annoyed that I have to share Mia with these people and frustrated that this isn’t going as I�
��d planned it in my head.

  “Hey,” Mia nudges against me. “You okay?” She must sense my agitation.

  I roll my neck on my shoulders with an audible crack. “Yeah, but… wanna head out of here?”

  Her eyes go wide and she actually stomps her foot. “No! I’m having fun! I’ve always wanted to do this. Aren’t you having a good time?”

  How can I tell her I’m not, especially since she’s obviously enjoying herself? From the looks of her glassy eyes and the grin on her face—Mia’s having a really good time. “Ha! You’re tipsy, aren’t you?” I ask, poking her in the stomach with my finger.

  “No,” she says with an ear to ear grin. “Okay, maybe a little,” she whispers, bringing her thumb and index finger an inch apart as measurement. “I didn’t eat anything before we left and that cheese they offered in the beginning smelled like feet. You know how much I hate cheesy feet.” She giggles, letting out a loud hiccup this time. Her hand flies over her mouth, trying to hide her embarrassment.

  “Wow! Mia Murphy, you are a lush!” I joke.

  “And… so what if I am?” she asks with her hands on her hips and an adorable, face-brightening smile.

  “I can’t take advantage of a drunk woman.”

  “A: I’m not drunk. And, B: you can if she gave you permission before she started drinking.”

  Who the fuck am I to argue with that? “Perfect. Love it! Let’s find a way outta here.” I pull her by the hand, starting for the other direction.

  “No!” She protests. “We’re just getting to the good stuff. I want more wine.”

  “I think you’ve had enough for one day, don’t you?”

  “Barely. Come on, they’re moving again.”

  Her enthusiasm forces me to concede, half-willingly.

  We walk, arm-in-arm, following the rest of the herd. We stop at another section and get another lesson in grapes. Believe it or not, it’s not the tour that’s boring the life out of me. The tour guide is nice enough—she even has a sense of humor that’s brightened up the dullness of our crowd, but that damn Barbie is so irritating. I don’t even know what it is. She just rubs me the wrong way.

  And here she comes… great! I try to look interested in our surroundings by fingering one of the vines and making a concerned face, but she’s in between me and Mia before I can finagle an intelligent-sounding assessment of the fruit before me.

  “My gosh, how does one choose? I think I’m gonna have Daddy ship home a barrel of each!”

  I scrunch my nose in disgust—her voice is like nails on a damn chalkboard. But when she starts to speak again, I snap back to attention. That’s it! Now, I know why she looks familiar! Cheryl Hines from Curb Your Enthusiasm! She’s a dead ringer… only Larry David would have cut her up in to little pieces—and even found a way out of it—if she were anything like this chick.

  “Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look like—” Before I can finish making my accusation, Big Daddy’s calling for his bride.

  “Samantha! Come back here, baby. Why do you keep running off?”

  Mia’s face turns white and tears pool in her eyes. Her hands drop to her side, balling into tight-knuckled fists. I can’t help but see the hurt radiating off her—she’s paralyzed by it, unable to move or speak. I want to reach out to her and erase whatever it is she’s feeling, but I can’t imagine what the hell’s got her so worked up. Did I do something? Did I say something? And then it hits me—of all the fucking names in the world this irritating bimbo has to have the same name as the woman who nearly cost me my marriage? “Oh shit!” I groan, rushing to Mia’s side.

  She shoves me away, already stalking off.

  “Mia! Wait! Stop!” I never imagined something like this would trigger her. It has to be the alcohol, the heat—I don’t fucking know! Why does that bimbo’s name have to be Samantha?

  Why does her name have to be Samantha?

  I’ve been fine—content even—just going about my business, following Declan’s vacation rules and then, BAM! Instant reminder of all the ghosts that just won’t stop haunting me!

  My pulse quickens, my cheeks heat up as if they’re on fire, and the latest sample of wine creeps up into my throat, pooling there as if getting ready to erupt like an angry volcano. I’m gonna be sick. Right here. Wonderful.

  Memories of that night at Declan’s Christmas party come back in sharp, vivid flashes. I was mortified finding out about his infidelity the way I did—where I did. Being humiliated in public and having to deal with the crippling feelings while trying not to make a fool out of yourself—yeah, impossible. And that’s exactly how I feel right now.

  Declan calls out to me as I run off, but I don’t even look back. I’m not dealing with these emotions in front of all these strangers. I knew they were bound to escape me some time, and that’s why I’d begged Declan to have a talk while we were alone, but—damn him!

  “Mia!” His calls are getting closer and I can hear his footsteps reaching me. I still don’t turn around, afraid to see that everyone’s staring at me and wondering what my outburst is about. How flipping embarrassing.

  His hand grips my shoulder and I shrug it off. “Leave me alone for a minute, Declan. I’ll be fine.” It’s a blatant understatement, but if we’re to get on with this tour and the rest of this day, I’ll have to push it all down for just a little while longer. I can’t let Samantha bring out the ugly.

  “Please. Mia. Please just look at me. I’m sorry.” His voice drips with remorse. It’s heartbreaking.

  I don’t know what it is but hearing him say those words—again and again and again. This time it makes me angry because I have an awful lot to be sorry for myself.

  Without caring who’s around to hear, I take a deep breath, turn around, and purge the way I need to. “Why do you keep apologizing? Please stop saying you’re sorry! I know you’re sorry, I get it, but you didn’t take it further than a kiss with that girl, you didn’t leave your kids weekend after weekend to spend time with her, and you didn’t throw it in my face either. So, tell me Declan, why the fuck are you apologizing to me again when I should be the one begging for your forgiveness?”

  Declan’s face says it all. He doesn’t need to say a word. I know I’ve just picked at all the healing scabs, poured salt deep into the cracks of his wounds, and broke his heart all over again. Does it get any worse than this?

  “Um, Mr. Murphy. We’re going to have to continue the tour witho—”

  Declan doesn’t take his eyes off me to answer the tour guide. He says the words like an emotionless robot, “Go on without us. We’ll catch up or make our way back home.”

  The tour guide doesn’t argue or try to persuade Declan otherwise. Instead, she turns to join the rest of our group, which is doing a piss poor job of pretending not to be nosy.

  We both stare at each other in complete silence as we wait for everyone to clear. We’re left alone in the presence of grapes—I don’t even remember what flipping kind they are—and the tension is thicker than the hot summer humidity.

  “Say something!” I finally shout, unable to take it any longer. This is finally that moment—it’s all come to a head, and he has nothing to say.

  He finally slumps forward, digging his hands into his hair that’s become unruly from a long day in the heat. When he comes back up to face me, his expression breaks my heart. “You wanted this. You wanted to hash it out, didn’t you? You’ve been waiting and nagging me to talk about it and I know I was doing the wrong thing by making you keep it all bottled up inside, but—” He takes a breath to steady himself, maybe even to gulp back the tears I see forming in his eyes. “You don’t think part of me wants to hate you for what you did to us?”

  When I hear him use the word hate I cringe. Could he really hate me? I never once hated him when I thought he’d slept with that girl. I felt betrayed and hurt, but I never stopped loving him. “You hate me?” I say, impossible to hold back the tears.

  Crossing his arms across his chest, he starts to p
ace. “I didn’t say I hate you. Of course I don’t hate you, but—Listen, Mia, I know I fucked up and I know you ran off to fulfill some fantasy with what’s-his-name because of what I did, but don’t think for one second that I wasn’t dying inside.

  “You don’t think it fucking killed me to watch you pretty yourself up for another man? Or to play babysitter for you while you did God knows what with him? It was torture. It was infuriating. It broke me, Mia.” If any words could sear through a person’s heart, those were it.

  “Part of me didn’t think you cared, Declan. You just let me go. You came back from Hong Kong and barely put up a fight.” That’s what it had felt like. Yes, we argued. Yes, we threw ultimatums back and forth, but never once did he try to stop me from being with Noah. He never asked me to choose him until that night he sang to me.

  “Because I wasn’t going to force you to be with me if it wasn’t what you wanted. You needed time—I thought that was fair. But you took that time and spent it with him. You didn’t try to work on us or figure out what was wrong with us, you—”

  Wait a damn minute! “I didn’t think there was anything wrong with us, at least not until you “almost” fucked that masseuse.” I made a show of air quoting almost. Sure, that’s what he said—and yes, I believed him, but how could I ever really know the truth? “You know what, I guess my sins seem greater than yours and I hate to pull out the you started this card, but Declan, you made me feel like all of a sudden I wasn’t enough for you. You made me doubt everything we had because in that moment when I thought you’d been with someone else, I felt like everything we’d ever worked for was taken away. That broke me.”

  Broken. It seems like the theme. And lately, the reason I’ve had this plaguing need to talk this through is because I don’t want to feel broken anymore, when it’s so obvious that the two of us want to be whole again—together.