Wait for Me
Authors: Sara Tessa
Sara Tessa
Translated by Marco Condorelli
Edited by Reanne Crane
Wait For Me
When Sophie comes home to New York city after escaping a destructive relationship, the last thing she needs is to get involved in something complicated.
Sophie is focused on finishing college, working at her brother's garage and trying to put the past behind her â but she can't help feeling drawn to one of the garage's customers.
Adam is a successful businessman who lives in the neighbourhood. Scarred by a failed marriage, he attempts to banish his pain by having countless hedonistic flings.
Sophie and Adam meeting is exactly what Sophie has been trying to avoid. Before long, they realise their feelings for each other are unlikely, impossible, and yet inevitable and explosive. Sophie's tenderness and fragility force Adam to face up to the darkness of his past. If it is ever going to work, he must try and change for her sake before it's too lateâ¦
To Thomas
â¦always
Dad, I finally made itâ¦
and thankfully you can't read it.
Starting Over
“Next stop, New York City,” announced the metallic speaker.
I closed the book and put it in my bag. Five-forty, less than a quarter of an hour and I would see my brother for the first time in a year. I was already preparing myself for his âI told you so' smile.
Like any older brother, he intuitively knew what was best for me, and had been right about all of my wrong choices so far. Luckily, despite my endless poor decisions, he was always there to soften the fall, and this time was no different.
He owned a parking lot and repair garage and he had offered to let me stay there, in a storage room behind his office. The only catch was that I had to go back to college and finish my degree. I agreed. Besides, having a fixed goal would make it easier to start over.
We agreed not to mention this precarious housing arrangement to our mother â she would only worry. I told her that, on my return, I would stay with an old college pal. I couldn't even entertain the prospect of going home to the ritual arguments. I re-read the last text from Paul on my phone. âFUCK YOU.'
Simple and direct â a neat conclusion to another shattered love story.
With only a few exams remaining, I left university for him and moved to a remote town of a thousand residents in Nevada, where the scorching heat and the arid landscape had dried up more than just my skin. I spent two years on his family's farm, milking cows, looking after pigs, but mostly putting up with the atrocious manners of him and his family. I met him in New York when I was at a friend's house for dinner. From the first moment, I thought he seemed pure and uncomplicated â an introverted, feet on the ground sort of guy. He was devoid of the usual city persona, and most likely it was this that won me over. I fell in love quickly, but like the rest of my back catalogue he was a charmer, capable of blending sweetness and gallantry with relentless possessiveness. In the last year, I couldn't remember a single evening without his hands clawing at my skin and his alcoholic breath hovering in the air above me. Naturally, he was a saint and the problem was entirely me: she who wasn't adaptable; she who did everything wrong; she who couldn't clean; she who never said the right thing. I drove him insane.
After a fairly unremarkable argument, I finally made the decision to leave. I didn't say a word, I simply left a note on the bed with the same message that he had returned via text. With my bruises and a laundry bag, I bolted for the train station. And now here I was, back in my home town. Back where I started.
As I stepped onto the platform, the frenzy of people cloaked in New York indifference made me dizzy. The eight hour trip had launched me back to the center of the world. Too many people. This would take some getting used to.
Through the crowd at Grand Central, I saw Fred by the gift shop, a little fatter than I remembered. As soon as he saw me, he gave a beaming smile and took me in his arms.
“Hello Sophie,” he said, lifting me off the ground with a hug.
I struggled to silence my back pain, still recovering from Paul's belt.
“Hello Fred.”
“Good trip?” he asked, removing the bag from my shoulder.
“Yeah, perfect.”
“The car's in the parking lot, let's go.”
I followed him to his old Nissan pickup truck. He waited until we were enclosed and alone to ask the question that I was dreading.
“You look a little peaky. How much weight have you lost?”
I shrugged. “Five pounds, maybe.”
“I'd say twenty, at least,” he murmured, starting the ignition.
“Maybe,” I said shortly. “But you gained some for me.”
Fred shook his head, holding back his âI told you so'. I was grateful. Generally speaking, my brother was inherently optimistic. He had a kind spirit and a good word to say about almost everybody â my antipode.
In the traffic, he brought me up to speed with his life. He had been living with his girlfriend Miranda for five months, and three months ago they had adopted a Bernese Mountain Dog, who already weighed fifty pounds and ate more than the two of them combined. He was also looking to expand his business, having spotted a second parking lot, just a couple of blocks away. It seemed that my breakdown had arrived at an opportune moment â I could keep an eye on the original lot whilst he was away at the new one.
As he spoke, I anxiously watched the chaos of the city commute. After two years of isolation, in a place where time is stalled by the unchanging seasons, the city was overwhelming. Especially this city, where no matter who you were, you were always anonymous. I felt as though everyone passing by knew exactly where they were going and what they were doing â my antipode again.
“I can't wait to introduce you to Miranda,” Fred suddenly announced.
“How long have you been together now?”
“Eight months,” he replied, satisfied. “Quite an achievement I'd say.”
“Going to get married again?” I asked, with a shade of sarcasm.
“Maybe.”
The idea of love was strong in him. In spite of everything, he still believed in marriage, family, and the happily ever after. Two failed marriages had left him with scarcely enough money to feed himself, let alone his eternal train wreck of a sister.
“Mom is expecting us for lunch tomorrow. I told her you were coming back in the morning. You should try to get some rest and perk yourself up â I can already see the look on her face when you arrive.”
I forced a smile. The thought of my mother's reaction had been bothering me all day.
“I think she's used to my dramatic fluctuations by now. Besides, she'll have prepared enough food for the five thousand,” I muttered.
“It'll be the staple homemade lasagna.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, not looking forward to the indigestion.
Forty minutes later, we arrived at Lether's Parking. It was just as I remembered â dismal and permeated by the smell of oil and grease. In the interest of economy, my brother had recently decided to invest ten thousand dollars in an automated access system, which simultaneously granted him more free time and fewer employees. This left Gustav, a Puerto Rican man. He was as wide as he was tall, but his knowledge of engines was encyclopedic. I was pretty sure he didn't even need tools; my brother called him the âengine MacGyver'. There was also James â he only worked two days a week but he lived nearby so it was convenient for him. James was a little slow, but he was a good worker and did a meticulous job of cleaning the cars.
As I entered Fred's office, Dad's eyes pierced through me. It was a picture that my brother had taken of him a few years ago. He was standing in front of the workshop, still looking healthy. I looked away, uncomfortable.
“Come on, I'll show you how I've fixed up the storeroom,” he said, dumping the laundry bag onto a heap of filing.
I followed him into the back of the office, feeling a familiar sense of self-pity. I had been in this room only twice in my life. The first was when he initially took over the place, and the second was when it flooded. In both instances it had been a catastrophe. I could vaguely remember the size of the place and its huge circular window. I had images of sleeping amongst detergents, oil cans, wipers, mats, sponges and other indefinite cleaning substances. However, when he opened the door I was amazed to find an impeccably furnished bedroom â there wasn't even a lingering scent.
“I moved everything into the workshop,” said Fred, inviting me to follow him. “I installed some more shelves there, so there shouldn't be any need for Gustav or James to even come as far as the office.”
Nobody would imagine that this door concealed a bedroom.
“You really shouldn't have,” I said, examining the finer details.
On the window ledge, there was a small pot containing a purple cyclamen. A ray of sunshine bathed the petals and illuminated the colorful shades. The furniture was typical Ikea, but it gave the place a modern elegance.
“You like it?” asked Fred, standing proudly with his hands on his hips.
“I really do.”
On the shelf above a small desk, I found all my old college books, plus a few extra. I ran my fingers across them one by one, remembering better times.
“I rescued this stuff from Mum's basement and Miranda helped me with the rest. In fact, she chose everything. If it'd been left to me you'd have had a camp bed⦠and maybe a chair.”
“Fred, this is perfect,” I said and instinctively threw myself into his arms. “I feel like such a burden.”
“Come on, stop it. You've just been down a rough path â but you were built for those.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Faulty.”
He slowly pulled himself away and looked me in the eyes. “Don't be stupid â you're related to me so there has to be some valuable material in there somewhere.”
Good luck finding it, I thought.
“Come on, I'll show you the bathroom,” he said, pulling me into the hallway.
There was a brand new mirror, a birch-wood cabinet, a shower curtain with a green and yellow fish print, a mat and a pile of green towels.
“I'm afraid you'll have to share the bathroom with the guys,” he said. “I'd generally avoid it after lunch though, especially if MacGyver has been in there.”
“Noted,” I said, shuddering at the thought.
“Alright then, grab your stuff and make yourself at home.”
I retrieved the bag from his office and returned to my new room, where Fred was testing the mattress.
“It's pretty comfortable. Personally I like it a bit softer but Miranda wanted to get one with more support.”
I wasn't sure what to say. I felt like a scrounger, ceaselessly incapable of providing for myself. I managed a smile. “It'll be fine,” I muttered.
Fred sensed my darkening thoughts and gave me instant reassurance.
“Sophie, it's really not a problem,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “You hear me? The important thing was to get you out of there as soon as possible â don't ever feel like you owe me anything.”