THE BEST I NEVER HAD

A Short Story By Virginia Jewell

We came down with it practically within a minute of each other. At breakfast we were fine. By noon I could see the fever in her eyes and feel the body aches as my own temperature began to climb. Our day that was to include a mother- daughter outing to the park quickly became one of cool washcloths and warm blankets.

It was nearly three when we finally snuggled into bed together for a nap. In the hour-and-a-half since, I have read so many books aloud, a number of them more than twice, that my already weakened voice is nearly gone. Ponderous clouds have snuffed out the sun with seeming permanence, casting the room in a dusky half light. She is finally sleeping as are, of course, Sleepy Doggy, Unicorn, and a host of horsies.

I should sleep, too, but knowing my husband will be home in an hour makes it impossible. My first instinct is to reach for a book, but the only story I am interested in is one that has never been written down. I have not wanted to remember, but today I do. Especially now.

I was just twenty-two years old at the time. I worked as a secretary, had my own apartment, a bicycle, and a beater VW every bit as temperamental as its owner: In good weather I biked to work; in bad I took the bus. On weekends I hung with friends drinking beer, playing cards and dancing. Minigolf and bowling provided the occasional change of pace. I didn't have a boyfriend, and I wasn't into dating. At least not until I was introduced to Dave, who seemed to fall in love with me instantly and swept me off my feet in short order.

We had been dating for eight months. It was a Friday in early spring. A brisk wind carried indecisive clouds overhead. It had already hailed twice that afternoon between sun breaks, and the temperature had dropped to chilly. I stepped out of the office in my entirely inadequate raincoat just as Dave pulled up in his Mustang. He kissed me quickly before he threw it back into gear. I ran a hand through my windblown frizzies and turned up my collar as a chill rippled through me despite the warmth of the car.

He begged another kiss as we came up to the light at the corner. "You look good. How was work?" he asked.

"It was okay, " I told him without meaning it. The happy-hour attitude in the office had annoyed me.

"I have it all planned," he began excitedly. "Tonight is going to be so great! I know a fabulous place where the steak is melt-in-your-mouth. After that we can meet everybody at the Esprita, maybe hit the disco. How's that sound?" His hand, strangely cool, squeezed my nylon'd knee as the light changed. The thought of dinner and the movement of the car made me queasy. I suddenly realized I had not felt right all day. "It sounds nice," I said, "but I don't feel well. I think I might be coming down with something."

"Nah," he drawled, "You look great. You're just tired from work. You'll perk up and then we'll have some fun." Dave indulged his habit of looking at me instead of watching the road.

"Sure." I concentrated on the stretch ahead mostly for fear of throwing up but also because he wasn't. We were silent the remaining three miles to my place while hard rock spewed from his tape deck.

By the time we reached my apartment on the third floor, I was out of breath. I hung my coat and purse on their hooks in the tiny entry hall and headed straight for the bathroom. My reflection frightened me. I found the long-unused thermometer and bee-lined it to the couch in the living room.

"Come on," Dave called from my bedroom. "Aren't you going to change?" When I didn't answer, he appeared in the doorway. "Jamie? What are you doing?"

I pointed to the thermometer. He stepped quickly to the couch, placed a hand on my forehead and announced authoritatively, "You're fine. You don't need that thing."

I shook my head.

He left the room, this time for the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open and close. He reappeared with a half-empty bottle of beer just as I was reading the temperature.

"Well?" His tone held an angry undercurrent I had not noticed before.

"It's 102. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, now that's just fine. Grand." He painted a wide arc in the air with his free hand. "I have a big evening planned, and you're not even going to try."

I could only look at him.

"Pull yourself together," he ordered. "Are you going to get up and get changed, or not?"

"I can't." Why was he angry?

"Great. Fan-friggin-tastic. Well," he hesitated, obviously simmering, "I'm not going to let you ruin my evening." He emphasized "you" with a menacing index finger. "I'm going out."

He slammed the rest of his beer and then the door before I could get to it. I locked it behind him and went to bed feeling hurt and confused.

The phone jangled me out of a hot half-sleep around nine-thirty.

"Jamie! Whatcha doin' home?" I heard music and familiar laughter in the background.

"Rondo, hi." I rolled onto my side and switched the phone to my upside ear. "I'm sick."

"Sick? I'm sorry to hear that." There was an audible rush of air as he blew a lung-full of smoke away from the receiver. "You don't sound good. What's wrong?"

"I've got a fever. Probably flu." I shivered and yanked the comforter back up over my shoulder.

"Dave's there, right?" In the background our friends were hollering hello Jamie.

His question placed a neat little knot in my throat. "Huh-uh." "No? Did he have to work?"

"No." I swallowed hard. "No. He went out somewhere." I hugged the receiver tighter. "To dinner, I think. I don't know." I started to cry, but ashamed, I disguised it with a cough.

After a short pause he said, "I'll be over in a few minutes."

I didn't even have time to protest before he hung up. I picked up my clothes and underthings that I had dropped on the way to the bed, stashed them in the laundry basket, and dug out something to cover myself. I didn't even own any nightclothes. I pulled on a pair of ratty sweats as the doorbell buzzed two short notes. I pressed the intercom, Rondo confirmed his identity with a quick "yo," and I let him in. The main door clacked loudly as he pushed it open, then his steady quick footsteps echoed up the staircase.

He arrived with a bulging plastic grocery bag in one hand, a cigarette in the other. My apartment began to fill with the scent of smoldering tobacco. He headed for my kitchen, scolded me teasingly for being sick and told me to go back to bed. Instead I padded after him dizzily. I found the kitchen doorframe infinitely supportive.

"What are you doing here?" The cigarette in the corner of his mouth distorted his words while the sparkle in his eyes expressed his trademark no- nonsense mischief.

"Watching you. What's in the bag?" The peach-fuzzy attempt at a moustache on his upper lip made me want to giggle.

He slipped off his heavy parka and placed it over the back of a chair. Without a word he began to empty the contents onto the counter: Flu medicine, aspirin, crackers, herbal tea, honey, lemon. Grinning at me he added, "And this for when you feel better." He produced my favorite Ritter Sport nougat bar with the same flourish as a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. "Why are you standing there? Go back to bed!"

I did.

I listened to the sounds of activity in my kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and closed in a search pattern. Water pelted the bottom of the empty teakettle. The solid clank of ceramic mugs and the musical tinkle of silverware played a short melody to the rising hum of water heating.

The next thing I knew Rondo was setting a full tray on my bedside table: a mug of tea with lemon and honey, saltines, the bottle of flu stuff and a teaspoon. I was speechless.

"Is there anything else I can get you while I'm here?"

"No, thank you." His face told me I hadn't convinced him. "Really, this is wonderful. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure, then."

"I am."

He wished me "get well soon" and left.

It was eleven the next morning before the phone rang. Dave graveled a "hello, honey," and immediately began to explain. I listened politely. He had had his heart set on that steak and just could not bear going without. He would make it up to me. He would.

"You yelled at me." The shock of his anger felt fresh again.

"No, I did not. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you." He paused. "You know I love you."

"You did yell," I persisted, "and you left me here sick. You owe me an apology."

"I already told you, I really wanted to go eat. It was a long week. But I didn't yell at you. You're too sensitive, anyway, sweetie. I outta know if I yelled. And the last thing I need is the flu. I can't afford to get sick. There's no way." I hesitated. If he didn't remember yelling, maybe I had it wrong. Maybe it was just me.

"It's okay," I said. "Rondo came over and brought me some medicine." I could hear Dave breathing. Finally he said, "Can I see you Wednesday evening? I have to go out of town Thursday morning until Sunday. The rest of this weekend is full up, butter-buns." I flinched at the nickname, but Dave always insisted he meant it lovingly.

"Full up? With what?"

"Just stuff going on. I'm busy," he replied with frustration in his tone. "You know how it is."

I didn't really, but I let it go. He didn't like to talk about his job. By Monday I was well enough for work. In other words, I got no day off out of the deal. Dave joined me for dinner at my place on Wednesday. He was too concerned about his road trip to go out. One easy chicken dinner, a few cigarettes and a bottle of Gewürztraminer. I talked, he listened. After a quick session in my queen-size bed, he dressed, kissed me goodbye and was gone well before midnight.

The rest of the work week was busy, and by Friday evening I couldn't find the energy to go out. Rondo called. Others called. I needed an evening in. I knew the Esprita would be humming; the discos would be packed. Part of me wanted desperately to be there. I resisted – just barely.

I listened to music for awhile, strummed the guitar, and then went to bed at nine-thirty to read myself to sleep.

On Saturday I was up early. By noon my apartment was as tidy as I had ever managed, and I was fidgety. No amount of reading or listening to music was going to fix it. I could not find the patience to play the guitar. It was three-thirty when the phone rang. I dove for it like a wide receiver in the end zone.

"Jamie! Whatcha doin'?" Rondo. He was always the first to call.

"Nothin'," I said. "Tea? Cards?" "Yer place?"

"Yeah."

"On my way. It'll take me a few," he added. "No wheels." Rondo had gone off to college without a car knowing he could borrow his parents' car for weekends in town – the only time that he really needed one. This particular weekend his sister had beaten him to it.

For ten minutes I bustled about. I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror. My mascara was black and clumpy. Too late to start over. My hair was frizzy, but barrettes brought it under control. I straightened things that didn't need it and sifted through my albums. Then I looked out the living room window. From the third story I had a panoramic view of the street below and the corner half a block away.

Heavy gray clouds lumbered eastward. The naked branches of the flowering plums across the way moved in the steady breeze. I watched Rondo round the corner and jaywalk to my side of the street. Intermittent puffs of cigarette smoke trailed behind him like steam from a locomotive.

As his long strides brought him closer to my building, he looked up with his head cocked sideways and peered into the window. He spotted me. I saw him grin. Before he disappeared from view, I noticed how the smile lingered on his face as he put the cigarette to his lips.

That is when it happened. It felt like a blow to the stomach. A cruelly aimed kickball had knocked the wind out of me once as a child. This was the same sensation. Moments passed without a breath until my brain demanded oxygen and took action. I gasped.

At first I didn't understand. I stood agape at the window rolling the feeling around in my mind like an android analyzing an emotion. It took only seconds, though they felt like minutes. My stomach dropped into my knees as it became clear. In that instant I had fallen in love with my best friend -- with my boyfriend's best friend. I loved him. Rondo. Ronald Doan, who would be at my door any second.

The door buzzer made me jump. My heart seemed to beat faster with each step he took up the staircase. I greeted him with flushed cheeks and shied from his direct gaze. It was awkward to suddenly feel self-conscious around him, and I was determined he would not notice. It was so new, so intense. I needed to sort it out. I sorted for weeks. Dave came and went. We hung with Rondo and the others, played pinball and danced until all hours of the night. Through it all I could only think of Rondo.

Ronald Doan. I couldn't bear to look at him and couldn't take my eyes off him. We had known each other long enough that I didn't need to be anyone but myself. He knew me at my best and worst. My best could be pretty awful. Even dressed up for special occasions, my mother always reminded me that I wasn't perfect. I knew she was right, of course. I could see in the mirror.

It had made so much sense to me when Rondo had introduced me to Dave. What Dave lacked in good looks, he made up for with charm and a lust for living. The perfect not-so-perfect guy for me. And I had to think of Dave's feelings. I could not hurt a spider let alone someone who loved me.

I was miserable.

Nearly a month passed. Dave was away on business, again. The Saturday night siren song lured us all into the Esprita, where the low light hid the marked-up walls, the dirty carpeting and the graffiti scratched into low tables.

My love for Rondo had become a numbing pain. My confusion was so complete, the ache so deep, that any attempts to reason through it were futile. Even worse, Rondo began to distance himself possibly having detected my infatuation.

Maybe it was the pint of Pilsener. Maybe it was the music, the dim twilight of the room or the heady smoke. Maybe I just had to know. I found him at the pinball machine. I watched him curse his fate and deliver a sharp slap to the side of the machine as the ball slipped neatly between the flippers. I was standing behind him with my heart in my throat when he turned into me.

"Yo, Jamie!" he teased. His mock surprise faded when he caught my expression. "What up?"

At first I couldn't find my voice. I had to know he would hear me over the din of the arcade. What to say?

"What is it?" he asked. I felt the warmth of his face on mine as he bent his head down to listen.

"I love you." Those three little words had never been so easy. They spilled out of me, unstoppable: a cleansing torrent that carried away my agony. In the space of a split second my relief was followed by a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was sure he would laugh.

"I love you, too." His answer came without hesitation, so matter-of-fact. Our eyes locked and my legs nearly melted: I could see it in his eyes. Love. In the same instant his arms were around me.

We stood there just holding each other. When we finally kissed, the world dropped away under my feet, and the arcade, the Esprita and all within its walls disappeared.

We spent the remainder of the evening holding hands and loving without words. I glowed with the knowledge that I belonged to him. To look into his admiring eyes warmed me with a happiness I had never felt before. Our friends were there, too, laughing, talking, comfortable with us as though they, too, knew that it was meant to be.

We both knew I had to deal with Dave.

Since neither one of us was in any shape to drive, we called a taxi. We sat close together in the back seat holding hands. Sleeping with him wasn't important. There would be plenty of time for that. It would happen when it happened, and it would be beautiful. I didn't want to say goodnight. I didn't want the evening to end. The five miles through the empty midnight streets passed all too quickly. We kissed one last time. Just before I jumped out, Rondo promised to call me when he woke up. I waved as the cab drove away with him in it.

I slept a deep and profoundly satisfying sleep and awoke to the ring of the telephone at nine-thirty Sunday morning. My joy was dampened by Dave's voice.

"You still in bed?"

"Oh, yeah. But I was awake," I lied.

"Would you like to go out for breakfast? I should be there in an hour."

My sense of fairness would not allow me to tell him on the phone. If my voice was different, if I hesitated, I will never know. But he knew instantly that something was wrong and began to grill me. After pounding me repeatedly with

"what is it?" it was suddenly quiet on the other end. After a moment he said, "it's Rondo, isn't it?"

I denied it.

"It is. What? Did something happen between you two? Did you sleep with him?"

"No. No."

"You love him."

What could I say? "Yes, I do. And he loves me."

"Did he say that?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"I'll be there in an hour and then we can talk. Okay? We can't do this over the phone. Will you stay there and wait for me? Please? Please?"

"Fine."

An hour passed. Another hour passed. No Dave. No call from Rondo. I paced the floor. Finally, Dave arrived breathless, red-faced. He professed his love and pleaded with me to reconsider. He was relieved I hadn't slept with Rondo. I shook him off and backed away when he tried to hug me. A look of sheer terror flashed in his eyes before he spoke again.

"I've been too busy to spend enough time with you," he said. "We can work this out. We just need to try together."

I tried to tell him we were through. The harder I tried, the more he panicked.

I eventually sat in silence as he reasoned, whined, begged.

Then he hit a nerve.

"Rondo doesn't love you. He was drunk!"

"That's not true." The suggestion that Rondo's love wasn't genuine cut me to the bone. Had I imagined his affection? In my joy to discover that he loved me, had I been too eager to believe?

"Then why didn't he stay the night?" Dave didn't wait for an answer. "He's my friend. We've been best friends for years. I know he wouldn't do this to me."

"This has nothing to do with you." I countered.

"It has everything to do with me. I'm the one who loves you! You're not satisfied. You're weak, lonely. He has no girlfriend. He's lonely. You both took advantage of an opportunity. It means nothing. At least give me another chance."

Tears began to stream down his cheeks. "You can't just throw away nine months together."

I felt sick inside. I had betrayed him. Maybe he didn't deserve to be dumped. Had I ever expressed any discontent? Could he really not have known?

"Do you even know how much he had to drink?" he asked between sobs. I didn't. That troubled me.

"Please, honey. Please. Call him. Tell him you've decided to give me another chance. Please. You'll see. He'll understand. He'll probably be relieved."

"Yes, I will call him." I fully intended to prove him wrong, yet I stood on wobbling knees and keyed the number with quivering fingers. Rondo answered on the first ring. The sound of his voice magnified the pain in my chest. My throat tightened suddenly as if trying to strangle me.

"It's me," I croaked.

"Mmm." It was an I know sound.

"Dave's here." I hesitated. In what became a pregnant pause I heard Rondo exhale the exhaust from a very deep drag. Dave paced in the kitchen, wringing his hands, weeping.

"Yeah. He was here. And?"

"He was there? He talked to you?" Now I knew why I had had to wait. I was so numb with confusion and pain that I completely missed the implications.

"Yes." Rondo sounded defeated. "What have you decided?" He asked as if he already knew the answer.

"He wants me to give him another chance."

"Then maybe you should." I felt the twisting of an imagined knife.

Suppressed sobs made my throat ache, and my face went hot.

"Maybe I should," I squeaked. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

Those words echo in my mind like a soul screaming down a bottomless pit.

Over time the sound, like the ache, has grown faint, but it is still there. I'm sorry.

Me, too.

The pain is fresh again. I relish it.

I keep one of his letters in my sidetable drawer. It's not the letter I want: it's the photo he enclosed. The edges bear the fingerprints and smudges of many clandestine peeks.

Rondo (now he calls himself Ron), his wife, Karin, and their two little boys smile at me from their living room couch. I study his face and note the crows eyes, the slightly receding hairline, the mustache that is no longer just peach fuzz. And I remember.

I am yanked back to the present by the click of the lock in the front door. The bundle of keys hits the shelf in the entry hall as the door pounds back into its frame. It's dark downstairs, which my husband will not appreciate. For awhile I hear nothing but the whisper of raindrops and my daughter's soft snoring. Then his loafered feet thud up the stairs. He stops in the laundry room.

"What the…," his voice fades into angry mutterings as sounds of destruction reach my ears. I recognize some of them: the wicker wastebasket receiving a swift kick with a men's size eleven, the diaper pail bouncing off the linoleum. I hastily slip the photo back into its envelope and return it to safekeeping. I close my eyes.

I open them again as he enters the bedroom, shoulders up, elbows out. Looming at the foot of our king-size, he glowers at me.

"What's wrong?" I think I know his answer: the unwashed pile of clothes, the dishes in the kitchen, the garbage that hasn't been taken out. "Nothing," he snarls.

I sink back into my pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. Next to me, my three- year-old mews, and in the next instant I realize she is awake. Her eyes are focused on her father. His icy gaze switches to her for only a second. With furrowed brow she glances at me, then rolls onto her side. I have seen her do that before: always when she is having a bad dream.

"I'm going out. Do you need anything?" His tone of voice dares me to.

Our eyes meet. The memory of Rondo's loving gaze is as fresh as yesterday. In chilling contrast, my husband's stare gleams with hatred. A tidal wave of shock rushes through me leaving steaming outrage in its wake. Whatever I may have or have not done, my daughter does not deserve this.

I answer him with equal chill in my tone.

"Just that you leave, Dave. Just that you leave.