19
Jamie
It’s only beenthree days since I implemented the no kisses rule and already I feel like a piece of glass glowing red hot, looping and bending in the heat, responding to every single thing Gavin does.
He smiles, I ache. He laughs, I shiver. He speaks, I go warm and flushed. He walks by me, not even touching me, but the air currents shifting feel like him stroking me and I…goodness. It’s torture.
When he reads to the kids at night, my heart melts and I can imagine a sculpture, a raspberry red heart blooming like honeysuckle, opening wide. I’d call it Gavin, you dog, why do you have to make me feel this way?
I slam the chess pie onto the counter and glare out the kitchen window. Gavin’s chasing the kids around the bases, in some strange version of baseball I’ve never seen before. His bright, happy laugh squeezes my insides and winds me so tight I think I might explode from wanting. His laugh pets me and covers me in need.
“I can’t take it anymore.” I blow my hair out of my eyes and turn to Gran and Diedre.
“Careful with that pie, you’ll ruin the custard.” Gran walks over and pokes at the sugary innards. She grunts in approval when she sees I didn’t destroy the glistening custard. I wouldn’t. Chess pie is a lot like glass. The eggs and sugar and butter melt together to form a glossy, smooth surface that melts and molds to form a beautiful piece of art. Mmm. Pie.
Diedre looks out the window. She frowns at Big Tom. He’s currently at the pitcher’s mound, winding up a throw for Elijah. Then Diedre fluffs her bottle-blonde hair, poofing up the big fat curls she ironed in and tugs down her crop top to show a little more cleavage. I narrow my eyes. Maybe she isn’t as indifferent to Tom as I thought.
“The pie’s fine.”
I jiggle it to make sure it’s done. Yup, cooked through. It’s Sunday dinner. We always have Sunday dinner at our place and invite Gran down.
This weekend Gavin said we should ask Big Tom over since he doesn’t have family, and then I suggested Diedre come along too. So, we’ve got pan fried chicken going, Gran’s minding it at the stove and the meaty, salty steam crackles and pops. I made cornbread this morning, and when Gavin gave me a sly smile and stole a chunk while it was on the cooling rack, I merely wagged my finger at him.
Then my stomach dipped, because he looked at my lips and I knew if I didn’t have that rule in place he’d be kissing me. Instead, he popped the cornbread in his mouth and winked.
Diedre finished up the turnip greens and tossed them in a bright yellow enamel bowl, and now she’s mashing the potatoes, stirring in enough butter to float a city. The iced tea is ready, flavored with fresh peaches, honey, and sugar.
We have a picnic table set up outside, with a red checkered cloth and flowers in the center that Shay and Gavin picked this morning and popped into an antique soda bottle. The laughter from outside, the Sunday dinner smells, the sun shining on the table and the food piling up in baskets and bowls, it looks like a dream life.
Except, none of it’s real.
I shake my head, staring at Gavin as he swoops Shay up and settles her on his shoulders. He grins up at her, his hair falling over his brow. I groan. “I can’t take it.”
“He still being nice?” Diedre frowns at the heap of potatoes then adds another half stick of butter.
I nod. “Too nice.”
Gran smacks her spoon against the side of the cast iron pan. “No such thing as too nice.”
I stare at Gavin, and somehow, he sees me looking at the window. He smiles at me and gives a cheerful wave. My stomach flips and I lift my hand and wave back. I turn back to Gran and Diedre. “He isn’t only going to his job with Big Tom though. He also fixes the kids breakfast. Then when he gets home at night, he helps them with their homework so they can play outside before bed. After dinner, he helps with the dishes. And”—I point at the sink—“he fixes. He putters.”
“Putters?” Diedre frowns. “What do you mean, putters?”
That first night, after I told Gavin we wouldn’t be kissing, I thought he’d sulk. But he didn’t. Instead, he found the toolbox and went around the house finding things to fix. All those things that I’ve wanted repaired for years but never could find the time to do, he’s getting to them, without me even letting him know they need done.
I point at the sink. “He fixed the faucet. It doesn’t spray you anymore when you turn it too far to the left.”
Diedre gives the faucet the stink eye. It’s hit her more than once. “Thank goodness for that.”
“He also tightened all the loose knobs on the kitchen cupboards. He mended the torn screens on the windows. He changed the lightbulb on the porch and patched up the chicken coop so Billy can’t escape and varmint can’t get in.”
“He’s still after the honey pot then.” Diedre nods knowingly, then she glances at Tom and sets to whipping the mashed potatoes with a whole lot of pent-up frustration.
I recognize that emotion for exactly what it is.
I pull a stack of eight plates from the cupboard, then grab silverware.
“I don’t know. I think…he said he doesn’t like to sit still. He likes taking care of us and he’s surprised he didn’t keep things up before.”