By Patrick M. Fitzgerald
Sherry held the letterman jacket’s collar to her cheek and inhaled deeply. Polo cologne, her first Christmas gift to him. The herbal overtones had always reminded her of spiced cider. Like him, it brought warmth on a cold winter’s night. A hint of aloe from his shaving cream to ease the roughness of life… Just a bit of sweat that always lingered from football practice.
After all these years, his scent remained.
She leaned back into the sofa with a sigh, caressing the jacket as though Brian himself were with her, his clothing and its scent bridging the thousands of miles that separated them. With part of him nestled in her heart, she was never truly alone.
She glanced at her phone. Eight thirty. Five more minutes.
Sherry laid the jacket on the cushion, where he would have lounged with his feet on the coffee table. How many times had she told him not to do that? If he were here now, she’d probably even join him.
Eight thirty-five. She tapped the call button twice.
He picked up on the first ring. They chatted as they always did, about the weather and their families, eventually turning to his work. He gushed over his latest architectural project, but she could barely focus on the details. He was building their future, but his company had sent him to San Diego… and away from her.
Sherry nodded off around ten, imagining herself nuzzled against his shoulder.
The next day, Sherry made a pot of coffee after work and curled up on the sofa with the jacket.
She turned on the TV, but her mind kept drifting back to Brian. She rehearsed the conversation she wasn’t brave enough to have with him—convincing him to return to Chicago to live with her.
She took a drink of coffee and sniffed, puzzled by an unexpected whiff of alcohol. That’s odd… I don’t usually spike it when I have to work in the morning. She sat the coffee down, glaring at it. Could I have mindlessly? My life’s been on autopilot since he left. Clinging to the jacket for reassurance, she realized it was actually the source of the intrusive smell.
But Brian never drank whiskey. It felt wrong for it to be mixed with his scent.
As usual, she called him at 8:35.
It rang three times. Her pulse pounded in her ears in the long silence between rings.
“Sherry…” Brian answered. “…’s good to hear from ya.” His voice had a distinct slur to it.
She paused for a moment, staring at the phone. “Brian, have you been drinking?”
“Hmm? Uh, yeah. Jus’ a little.” It didn’t sound like just a little.
He’s definitely not on his first glass. “You weren’t drinking on the way home, were you?”
“What?” He laughed. “I’m not crazy, Sherry. Got off a lil’ early. I was…”
She waited a moment, but he didn’t continue. “You were what?”
“I was…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Wishin’ you were here.”
“I know, babe.” She stroked the jacket’s smooth arm. “I wish we were together, too.” She hesitated. She wanted desperately to beg him to come back to her, but he was already upset, and she didn’t want him to fall apart on her.
His responses came slower and less frequent, until he finally dozed off. She listened to him snore for several minutes before ending the call.
The whiskey smell increased as the week progressed, as did Brian’s incoherence. Now, the stench was strong even at five-thirty. Strange as it seemed, she was convinced the jacket carried his scent to her. That meant he was already drunk.
She stared at the picture of the two of them in Honolulu just after graduation. He seemed so happy then, his dark-chocolate eyes glistening in the sunlight. His sturdy arm wrapped snugly around her as she rested her head against his shoulder. He was so strong and confident. So unlike the gibbering mess he had been this week.
Her throat clutched at the acrid smell of vomit. She threw the jacket onto the table and buried her face in her hands.
Maybe this whole thing is just my imagination. She took a deep breath. There was another scent, a metallic odor she almost didn’t recognize. Blood.
Her chest tightened in panic as she grabbed her phone to call 9-1-1. The dispatcher transferred her to the station in San Diego.
“What’s the nature of the emergency?” the operator asked calmly.
“He’s bleeding.” The bloody odor was getting stronger by the second, blotting out the world around her. “Please, send someone to…” The phone nearly slipped from her shaking hand as she fumbled for his address. “3197 Brookshire, Apartment 2B.”
“An ambulance is on the way.”
Aching from twenty-four hours without sleep, Sherry arrived at the hospital in San Diego Saturday morning.
“Sherry, you didn’t have to come all this way.” Brian flushed and turned away. “It was just a knock on the head. Stood up too quickly and passed out.”
“Because you were drunk?” Sherry grimaced and shook her head. “You never drank that much.”
“It started when I lost my job.” He winced, and his deep brown eyes turned back to her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Getting wasted seemed easier than admitting I was a failure.”
“You’re not a failure. There’ll be other jobs.” She squeezed his arm. “Babe, let me buy you a ticket. Come home.”
A smirk slowly tilted his lips, and he chuckled. “Don’t bother.”
“What?” Sherry’s heart sank. This is it. This is the end of everything we’ve built together. Her hand slipped from his arm. “Why not?”
He brushed her hair aside as he gently pulled her close, his lips grazing her cheek. “I’ve already bought a ticket home.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I’m happy it worked out for Sherry.
Amazing jacket.
I am too! It was a nail-biter there for a second.
It is quite a jacket! I’m glad you liked it.
Good story. Sherry used her “sight” to rescue Brian. The strong emotional connection appears to run both ways since Brian had already booked his trip home.
Thank you! I’m glad you liked it!
I’m glad you caught that it flowed both ways, as does their love.
I don’t think Brian’s quite as aware of it though.
I’m glad Sherry trusted her gut instinct and the connection they have. What a sweet story. The power of love
Thank you so much!
Love is indeed a powerful force when we listen to it.
Subtle. I liked this story. Very satisfying.