21
Gavin
Jamie’s at the stove,stirring the pot of split pea soup. The ham bone makes the soup smell savory and salty. My stomach growls when I step into the kitchen, and Jamie turns and grins at me.
“Hungry?”
I stare at her lips. “You could say that.”
She flushes and turns back to the soup, giving the wooden spoon a bang on the edge of the pot.
My mouth kicks up in a half-smile and I go to the cupboard to take down bowls, so I can help set the table. “How was your day?”
Jamie sets down the wooden spoon and reaches for salt to sprinkle in the pot. When she’s done she wipes her hands off on the kitchen towel. It’s a light blue and yellow checked towel, and something about it niggles at me.
I’ve been getting that sometimes, twinges at the edge of my mind, like a finger poking me when I’m asleep, trying to wake me up from a dream. “Did we…did we ever fight about kitchen towels? It seems like I remember something…”
Jamie drops the towel to the counter and turns, a strange look on her face. I would almost call it fear, or sharp anxiety, but that can’t be right. Her face pales, her freckles standing out. “You remember…towels?”
I frown and stare at the blue and yellow towel crumpled on the counter. It’s surrounded by the clutter of the kitchen—pots, dirty dishes, cut-up vegetables, the dish-drying rack. For a moment the towel seemed to stand out from everything, like one of those picture searches where you finally find the object and you’re surprised you didn’t see it before, but now, it’s back to normal. Just an old rag towel.
“Never mind. I can’t place it.”
Jamie’s shoulders sag, and it seems almost as if she’s relieved.
“What?” I smile, and step closer, reaching out to smooth a stray strand of hair on her brow. “You don’t want me to remember the great kitchen towel incident? Was it that bad?”
“No. Gosh.” She waves it off and smiles. “I don’t know what you’re remembering.”
“Huh.” I step back and shrug. “Me either.”
Jamie glances at the soup pot. “I think it needs taters. Can you go in the tater hole and grab me some?”
I was thinking about kitchen towels and formless memories, but all that evaporates at the mention of tater hole. Jamie looks at me expectantly, so apparently this isn’t a joke.
“Did you just say ‘tater hole’?” I hold back a horrified smile.
She puts her hands on her hips and nods her head.
I grin. “What kind of dirty talk is that?”
She fights a smile, the left edge of her lip twitching.
I lift an eyebrow. “Hey darling. Bend over, so I can access your tater hole.”
She picks up the spoon and shakes it at me.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Can you point me in the direction of your tater hole, I’ve got a sausage I need to store in it.”
She snorts.
“Whatever happens in the tater hole, stays in the tater hole.”
Finally she grins. “Awww, are you trying to sweet talk me?”
I nod. “Is it working? Because I wouldn’t mind seeing your tater hole.” I give her my best, charming smile. I’m certain Jamie likes how I look, I’ve seen her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. I use that to my advantage, showing her my dimple.
“Nope.” She thrusts her spoon toward the side door. “The tater hole is the cold cellar. Where we store the taters.”