Pocketful of Sand

A lot better.

I get the feeling that the number of people Cole trusts in his life are about as many as the ones I trust in mine–none. Well except Emmy.

But something tells me that I can trust him. And that I want to trust him. I want to be able to trust somebody. It’s been so long…

Cole makes his way straight to the bathroom. Surprisingly, my daughter is right on his heels, leaving me alone with Jordan, who doesn’t appear in any big hurry to leave. She has already made herself at home on the sofa, so I resign myself to spending time with her until she decides to leave.

I curl up in the big chair facing her, tucking my cold feet up under me. Jordan notices.

“Don’t you have heat in here?” she asks bluntly.

“Yes, it’s just not a particularly warm house.”

She shivers, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “You aren’t kidding. And I didn’t even bring anything to warm us up,” she adds with a knowing wink.

“That’s okay. I’m getting used to it.”

“So, don’t you work?”

I should’ve known that this woman was the type not to pull any punches, but wow! She just dives right in.

“Ummm, not outside the home. I homeschool Emmy, so…” I trail off, hoping she’ll let this thread die.

“Well that doesn’t make you money, does it?”

I laugh uneasily. “No, but we have a little in savings.” And that’s true. She doesn’t have to know all the sordid details about how I came by that money or that what’s left of it is hidden beneath the false bottom that I tore out and sewed back up in the floor of my suitcase.

Jordan eyes me as she nods. Not really suspiciously, but more…curiously. “Where’s the princess’s papa?”

Oh, God! Is this what the whole morning’s going to be like?

“I, uh, I don’t really talk about it in front of Emmy,” I reply in a low voice. That’s also true. In some ways, Emmy is an extremely perceptive child and she’s never really pushed me on the details of her father. I think in some strange way, she knows that she’s better off not knowing.

“Got it,” she concedes amicably. “Well then let’s whisper about your hot plumber. So is there something going on between you two or what?”

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

Jordan gives me a withering look. “I might be a lush, but I’m not stupid. I pay attention to things that interest me. And, honey, that boy interests me.” Her smile is genuine. She doesn’t seem the least bit put out that he might be interested in me.

According to her, that is.

I don’t really see it, although I can’t say that the idea doesn’t give me a little thrill. I can only imagine what it might be like to be the object of something other than his frowns and his quiet, brooding ways.

“Why have you two never, um, dated then?”

I’m remembering Jason’s comment about her being the town “bicycle.”

She sighs loudly. “No matter how much I might try to drag him out of his shell…and his clothes…” she adds with an impish wrinkle of her nose, “he keeps to himself. I know the guy’s broken and all, but I was beginning to think he was gay.”

I think of what I know of Cole so far. Nothing, not one single thing, makes me think he’s anything other than 100% darkly delectable, manly-man straight.

“But you don’t think so now?”

She waves me off with her hand. “Nah, I don’t think I ever really did. I think it was just easier to understand than his rejection.” Her comment, unexpectedly insightful, takes me by surprise.

“Oh,” I say flatly, not knowing what else to say.

Jordan’s face takes on an uncharacteristic seriousness. “I’ve got more baggage than I can handle. I wouldn’t blame anyone else for keeping their distance. Still hurts, though.”

“Why would you say that?”

She stares hard at her fingers where they pull and tug and twist a loose string along the sofa cushion. It’s the first time I’ve seen her anything less than comfortable, confident and slightly inebriated, I think.

“My husband left me three years ago. But not before he screwed half the town and told everybody about the problems I had trying to get pregnant. He was a real son-of-a-bitch. I’ll be the first to admit that he hurt me and that I haven’t been the same since. It’s just…it’s just…so humiliating,” she confesses a bit tearfully. I’m so shocked by her story and by her softer side that I just sit here staring at her. Thankfully she hasn’t looked up at me. After a loud sniff and a shake of her head, as if ridding her mind of bad memories, Jordan finally raises her glistening brown eyes to mine and smiles. “That’s when I started drinking. Haven’t looked back since.”

I’ve never seen someone wear alcoholism more proudly, but in a way, I guess she’s earned her weakness. Besides, who am I to judge? We all heal and cope (or avoid coping, in this case) in different ways. I have enough problems without chastising this wounded woman for the choices she’s made since her husband turned on her.

“So now you can see why it’s my mission to get in that man’s pants,” she says, nodding her head toward the bathroom.

“Ummm,” I hedge.

No, I don’t see the connection at all.

She shrugs. “You’d get it if you drank more,” she declares with a grin. “But I’m glad you don’t. That little girl needs you.”