And then like not a day has even passed, we slip into easy conversation.
It’s the strangest thing, watching Jarrett Locke work in my kitchen like it’s his own. He strips out of his leather jacket and takes the beanie off his head, and I try to ignore the way it makes my stomach tighten to see his biceps practically bulging out of the white thermal he’s wearing as he slices and mixes and cooks. But he seems so relaxed and comfortable that before I know it, I feel the same way.
I ask him about his new tattoos, the ones lining his arms that weren’t there the last time we were together, and smile when he tells me how he got the one of the American-style fish to remind him to go with the flow. He asks me how the job hunt is going, and I fill him in on my latest embarrassment, making him laugh so hard he has to pause his work in the kitchen to brace his hands on his knees.
Back and forth, question after question, we catch up like two old friends. We talk about school and work, I catch him up on the girls while he fills me in on his work at the Miami branch of the nonprofit so far. We even talk about me and Kade, and he tells me about his short stint dating a girl in Manhattan who turned out to be on the run from a grand theft she’d committed in Nebraska. He’d been in her apartment when they found and arrested her.
The later it gets, the more the cold medicine swims through my system like a tall glass of whiskey. I feel my eyelids getting heavier, my words harder to get out.
“Mmm,” I say when we’re finally sitting on the couch with a bowl of soup in each of our hands. “Seriously, this is the best soup recipe in the world.”
“It’s about the only thing I know how to cook well, so thank you.”
I smile, sipping on the creamy potato broth. “It’s your mom’s recipe, right?”
Something passes over him, and he pauses where his spoon is lifted, taking a breath before he answers. “It is.”
“I remember the first time you made it for me, and you told me the story…” I frown, stirring my spoon in the soup. “Why didn’t you tell me back then that you had brothers?”
I can see it happening, as if in slow motion, all the warmth draining from him, the gates closing, walls going up. He shrugs. “Didn’t think it was pertinent information at the time.”
“Okay,” I concede, because at that point, we hadn’t even defined what we were. “But even after we were officially dating… you never told me… I always assumed you were an only child.”
“My family life is complicated,” he says, lifting his eyes to mine. “My dad is a piece of shit and an addict. My mom died when I was young. I don’t have a good relationship with either one of my brothers.” He sighs, staring down at the soup in his hands. “And if I’m being honest, I’ve tried my whole life to grow outside of who I was in that family, to leave that shit behind, and I didn’t want it to be part of my story when it came to you.”
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. I know enough to know I’m fortunate to have grown up the way I did, with money and parents who gave a shit. College was the first time I woke up to the fact that not everyone has those luxuries. Hell, I used to give Skyler shit for playing poker all the time instead of partying with us, until I found out her situation.
I reach over and squeeze Jarrett’s wrist, and when I do, a shiver rolls through me that I hope he can’t see. “I get it,” I say with an understanding smile. Then, I lean in to whisper, “You just wanted me to focus on the tattoos and general badassery, instead.”
“Damn straight,” he says, and I feel him lighten with the tease. “These tattoos are my armor.”
I chuckle, but as Jarrett takes another bite of soup, a yawn rips through me, so long and strong it makes my eyes water and sends another shutter through me.
Jarrett smirks. “I think someone’s ready for bed.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Tell me what else you’ve been up to.”
He chuckles, setting his soup aside and standing. He reaches his hand down for mine. “There will be plenty of time to catch up. Right now, you need rest.”
I just stare at his hand for the longest time, like it’s a wire that I’m not sure is safe to touch or will blow me to smithereens.
“Come on,” he ushers, wiggling his fingers.
So, I set my nearly empty bowl aside, slipping my hand into his, and do my best to fend off the blush that heats my cheeks as he pulls me to stand.