July
Jo
I think Jamie took me literally, but I can’t say I’m complaining. Even if I just stop by for a half hour of coffee before the archives—and, let’s face it, a half hour isn’t actually enough—I see him every day. If I’m not helping out with the food truck on the weekends, I’m at lunch after. Fridays are game nights but Sunday brunch is just for us, as is Thursday dinner. Helen’s apparently just as much a person of habit as Mom, because Tuesdays are now dinner for the three of us. Those are, let’s face it, the blandest meals, which probably means they’re the healthiest, but it’s not the kind of stuff Jamie makes on Thursdays.
I’ve offered to cook, but he doesn’t accept. “You’re my guinea pig,” he told me, kissing the tip of my nose.
He hasn’t kissed me on the lips yet, but the rest of my face is fair game. There’ve been a couple times when I see him hesitating, thinking about it too much, but I don’t push it. He’s also had to get used to me being in his personal space and actually wanting to touch him—seriously, how did Helen take in a toddler if she’s always so primly at a distance?—and honestly I’ve had to adjust my own thinking there.
The last guy I kept wanting to reach out toward was cheating on me for a year or more at the end. Was I a fool, or was Jake that good of an actor?
It’s probably good that we’re both dealing with things, with weirdness and second-guessing and moments when we forget and just mesh together, because then it’s not framed as just a Jamie issue. It goes both ways, but once we’ve established where the boundary is—Jamie’s not comfortable with me, say, putting my hand in his back pocket when we’re around other people, but touching his hand or his arm or his back or his face is fine—then either one of us can be the first to reach out.
Okay and he’s not the only one surprised that someone keeps showing up and reaching out. It doesn’t even really matter that nobody’s connected any dots to me as far as Davis is concerned. At this point, I’m just basically convinced I’m going to wear out anyone’s interest. Sure, it took me over a decade to run Jake off, but it still happened. The only people who have consistently chosen me throughout my life, all my versions of myself, have been my parents. Considering what they first brought into their home, a lot of things have just gotten easier.
They’ve seen me at my worst. Jake never did. He didn’t want to, and I didn’t want him to. Thanks to Amanda and her key, Jamie’s seen me at my most recent worst.
And I’m still here in his kitchen, drinking a glass of water and peering over his shoulder because he won’t tell me what he’s making tonight. That way, if it doesn’t turn out like he imagined, he’s the only one who’s disappointed.
He’s such a dork. I might be falling in love with him.
“Deconstructed something,” I guess, backing up so he won’t step on my toes. He’s in his socks, but I’m in bare feet.
Jamie sighs. “I’m not done making it.”
“Future constructed something,” I correct, allowing him to shoo me to the far side of the kitchen island. “With vegetables.”
“You’re so brilliant, and yet.” He holds up a head of something I’m pretty sure is green cabbage and not just lettuce. “It’s even whole. You can see all of it.”
I can, but he’s also far enough away that I can’t steal a leaf to get an idea of texture or taste. “Cabbage,” I tell him with full confidence, like lying to your boyfriend is okay if you’re only five percent unsure.
He clucks his tongue and tries not to grin at me. “Fifty-fifty shot.”
I’m about to protest that it’s not like he gave me much of a chance to tell for sure when the front door opens and someone announces, “Your night is now complete, little bro!”
There’s only one person in the world who’d call Jamie that, but nobody said anything about Allan showing up. Jamie blinks and carefully sets down his knife, grabbing a towel to wipe off his hands as he turns toward the doorway.
“And I have brought—” Allan cuts himself off mid-sentence, even though he’s holding up a six pack of beer that finishes it for him. He blinks, then blinks again. “Jo. Shit.” When he moves again it’s all a flurry, setting down the cans and wiping his hand on the side of his fashionably faded jeans and holding it out. “Allan. Mom didn’t say you’d be here.”
“Mom told you to come over?” Jamie’s skeptical, because Allan’s the one who’s still the furthest away, in Green Bay.
“What, she didn’t …?” Allan shrugs, lingering on our shake before stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I booked a weekend in Munising with Marissa, but, uh …”
Jamie nods once, and Allan doesn’t need to finish this sentence, either. Marissa is the latest ex-girlfriend, and she’s only recently taken on that title.
“So Mom said she’d come. Do the boat tours. Take the other twin bed.” His grin seems a bit forced, and I can’t tell if his beard is calculated scruff or post-break-up neglect. Allan’s hair is also blonde, so it’s harder to see if said scruff is really graying or just lighter than Jamie’s. “She said drive up, spend the night, and we’ll take off tomorrow and do the tourist thing.” This shrug, in a faded Radiohead T-shirt, emphasizes the firefighters’ physique that means he’s had a lock on August in the charity calendar for ages. It creeps me out that Helen and a bunch of her friends all buy them, but it’s on the wall in this very kitchen.
Munising isn’t written on the next couple days, though. Helen’s very precise about recording everything, so either this was a recent occurrence or …
That’s paranoid, Jo. Helen didn’t set you up for Allan to interrupt date night.
“I really don’t have to crash your dinner,” he tells Jamie in a low voice I take to be sincere. “I’ll go park it somewhere until Mom’s home.”
Jamie looks at me, which means they’re both willing to send Allan right on back out that door if I say so.
I shrug. “Jamie won’t tell me what he’s making, but if he’s got an entire cabbage, I bet there’s enough for three.”
Chapter Thirty – coming October 30
