by Lisa Gillis
Jack swooped in to the rescue changing the subject before the tiny boy could ask any more questions. “I was thinking you and I would go out today and look at guitars. Did you still want to learn to play?”
Tristan bobbed his head eagerly rattling off enthusiastic words, and Marissa skeptically entered the conversation. “A guitar? Isn’t he young yet?”
“What?” Jack teased, and she grew warm and fuzzy when those dark eyes held hers with something other than anger. “Old enough for drums and the karaoke machine but not guitar?”
It did sound silly, and she curved a relenting smile as she wondered, “How old were you when you got your first guitar?”
Tristan babbled continuously about what he wanted to wear to the ‘song store,’ and they quietly spoke between themselves as they traipsed behind him to his room.
Jack shrugged. “No idea. I was too young to have a memory of it. It was probably in my crib.” A short laugh and the dimple punctuated this remark. “My dad is a musician too. So, I guess that’s why.” Lingering in the doorway to the race car themed room, he turned in concern. “Do you think it is pushing him? I mean, I just wanted to show him some easy songs. Not force him into anything.”
A little surprised that they were having a normal conversation when her vow just yesterday was silence for the rest of his stay, she curiously inquired, “Did you feel pushed?”
“No. As far back as I do remember, I loved it.”
“There you go then. Get him a guitar.” Looking to Tristan, she found him dressed in his red guitar shirt. She was sure she had not done a load of laundry since grabbing the item in a dirty clothing sweep just yesterday.
While they went, she stayed at the house, unable to commit to a day with Jack– not that he had invited her. There was still an underlying tension between them despite the relaxed conversation. She cleaned the house and called work, making arrangements to take two weeks personal leave. Vacation time would end at the end of this week, and although Tristan was getting around better than ever, she did not want to miss seeing the progress he was making. The extra days would not be paid leave, but she had a feeling her money problems were over when it concerned Tristan.
Olivia came by, and abandoning the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the den, Marissa shared Tristan’s therapy milestone. In Olivia’s excitement, she asked a dozen questions while unpacking two chef salads from a takeout bag. An order of chicken strips and fries, Tristan’s favorite, was set aside. Tristan being away from the house, without either of them, was an oddity, and Olivia had not known he would be absent from the meal.
“So, he just showed up this morning, like nothing happened?” Squeezing a packet of ranch dressing, Olivia drizzled her salad as she spoke of Jack.
Picking up one of the packets, Marissa did the same. “No. It’s definitely like something happened. He barely looks at me, and when something does get us talking it’s awkward at first.”
“Here’s what I think. And I spent a long time thinking on it after you called last night.” Waving her plastic fork around, Olivia stared into space, and Marissa knew that she was such a good friend that she had been kept awake by this most recent turn of events. “I think there is a good possibility that you took everything he said wrong.”
Chewing a cherry tomato, Marissa looked longingly at the chicken strips. “How could any of that,” roughly she referred to the custody dispute, “be taken any other way?”
“From what you told me, it is open to interpretation.”
The smell of Tristan’s meal was getting to Olivia too. Or, maybe the carbohydrate lust in Marissa’s eyes was contagious. Her friend’s eyes also continually strayed to the chicken meal.
Hearing Olivia’s view of the fight with Jack shed some hope in her heart, and as she tried to remember the exact conversation, her eyes landed for the dozenth time on the chicken. “Jack and Tristan will eat somewhere, I know it. Jack can’t go two hours without eating.”
“Jack, Jack, Jack...,” Olivia teased.
“Shut up if you want some of these!” Losing the carb battle, Marissa broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into her salad and scooped a few fries into her mouth.
“So, what you need to do is write down what he said and read it to yourself.” Olivia tossed a strip onto the lettuce in her box and, with perfect etiquette, cut it into cubes using her plastic knife and fork.
Considering Olivia’s words, Marissa was always amazed that her friend could be so wise with advice these days when for years she had spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, Marissa pulled a pen from the plastic jar that Tristan had used stickers and glitter glue to make into a pencil holder. Letting her mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, she began to jot the conversation as recalled on the back of a junk mail envelope.
Just as she began to examine the words, Bally’s deafening barking spree signaled Jack and Tristan’s return. Guiltily, Marissa shoved the envelope beneath her purse on the bar, hid the empty chicken and fries container inside the microwave, and hastily rolled up the cord to the vacuum that was a tripping hazard to Tristan.
Tristan was glowing with happy excitement, and careful of his crutches, Marissa wrapped him in a hug of greeting. “Did you eat sweetheart?”
“Jack had two hamburgers, and I had chicken,” he announced. “Then we had ice cream, and I told him you didn’t eat ice cream, but he brought you some anyway.”
“I bet she eats ice cream today,” Olivia murmured beneath her breath. Marissa jerked around finding her friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.
“Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, Marissa ignored the sundae in question and shoo’d Bally outside. The dog knew enough not to knock Tristan down in welcome but was jumping all around Jack who was carrying in his other hand a kid sized red Fender. A shopping bag hung on the crook of his elbow.
“Why today, Mom?”
It was the first time her little boy had ever called her anything but Momma, and dismayed, she searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, she narrowed her eyes again at Olivia.
“Because ice cream is good. But, you are right. I don’t want any right now.” When Olivia quietly sniggered again, Marissa shot her a pointed look and crossed the room bending slightly to snatch the plastic container. “I will put it in the freezer for later.” Olivia made another sound and Marissa ignored it this time.
Jack paused to give Marissa an entirely different pointed look, one that seemed hot and hungry yet dispassionate at the same time– as if she were some random girl who caught his fancy for a few seconds. When Marissa came out of this strange reverie, Jack and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and she felt silly. Maybe a hint to a polite introduction was all that had been behind his look.
Olivia picked up her handbag in preparation to leave. Not wanting to be alone with Jack, Marissa strongly hinted for her to stay, and hearing this, Tristan added his pleas.
“Please stay, Aunt Liv. We got an Xbox and a race car game!”
Pivoting around, Marissa saw that he was hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and her accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An Xbox?”
“Mom, wait till you see! It’s so dope!”
Again, if her look could have slashed, a certain metal god would be bleeding. Jack seemed likewise startled at new slang from the four-year old. Olivia wisely backed away from the altercation, and, once out of proximity, turned on her heels to run out the door.
“You can play first, Mom,” Tristan offered while avidly watching Jack load the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in her face put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.
Pulling in a calming breath, she exclaimed with enough exhilaration to match Tristan’s mood as she viewed his new guitar. Reaching for it, she lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. Her father had an acoustic, and throughout her childhood, had taught her and her
siblings various chords and keys.
In stunned surprise, Jack eyed her ability to create a short riff. Laying the instrument aside and smiling at Tristan’s offer, she shook her head. “You and Jack play. I might later.”
Without a word to Jack, she sequestered herself in the bedroom for an uncharacteristic nap. Tristan was not in pain, and without Tylenol, she doubted he would nap. Until this surgery, he hadn’t napped in over a year.
Once, she heard the heavier footsteps of Jack advancing and then the click of the bedroom door easing completely closed. With the happy shrieks of Tristan and husky exclamations of Jack now muffled as they gamed, she dozed.
Dully, over supper, she watched father and son. She continued to produce stiff smiles in response to Jack’s stiff smiles as they both kept up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. The shopping trip today was her newest internal objection. Never had she been able to wow her son with much more than the Hot Wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had her wary and jealous.
Is this what joint custody, or God forbid, full custody would entail? Everything Tristan would ever want? Was that a bad thing after everything he had been through? He had such a good heart that it was hard to fathom the possibility of him becoming a spoiled brat.
Again, Jack left that night with barely a goodbye, and it was daunting to think of another four days and nights of this routine.
To make matters worse, her brother, who resided in Florida, inboxed her on Facebook to relate that their mother was not happy with the way Marissa had “cast her aside.” While on the social network, she clicked over to Jack’s private page. They had friended while sitting in the hospital room among empty blizzard cups.
Jack’s status read, ‘Chillin on the downlow,’ and there were several comments beneath it inquiring where he was vacationing, but he had yet to answer, at least not on his newsfeed.
Curiously, she clicked through his pictures, and halted, engrossed, on one of him wearing only swim trunks, posed on a beach with a female version of him. This picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and she scrutinized each person that Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv, or her parents, or even her distant siblings.
Stopping on an older version of Jack, she studied the man and the equally attractive woman his arm curved around; a couple that Tristan would soon call grandparents. Suddenly, she felt guilty for leaving her parents out of the loop and resolved to call her mother the next day.
She fell asleep on the couch and woke to the race game. Bally lay stretched out beside her. Only one of Tristan’s crutches lay in the floor area around him, and lifting her head, she looked, finding the other near the television. Every day he was getting stronger, less dependent on them. Carefully, she carried him to bed.
The next morning, Jack showed up with breakfast burritos, and she hungrily inhaled hers before going into the spare room to work it off.
Music pounding in her earbuds was keeping her immersed in an isolated world when the prickle began. Hitching her chin, she found Jack malingering in the doorway, his eyes hungrily attuned to her every movement.
CHAPTER 24
CLEARING ONE EAR of the music obstruction, Marissa inquiringly waited. After one of those heated looks that tickled her every nerve and flushed her insides, Jack spoke, “My lawyer guy just called back. The paternity test is canceled, and he’s drawing up the papers for monthly child support and temporary visitation–”
The jangle of his phone broke in, and after checking caller ID, he answered, “Yeah Doug?” Listening intently, he remained looking at her and then stepped out of sight. Curiously, she pulled the other earpiece out just in time to hear, “Yes, I’m still moving forward with that. Please get it done as quickly as possible. Yes, she is. I’m talking to her now about it. Thanks bro.”
He was right back with an apology, and this time he stepped fully into the room as he picked up the interrupted conversation. “I’m just going to tell you what I’m thinking, and you tell me what you are thinking.”
Warily, she gave him her silent attention and he went on.
“Tristan doesn’t begin school until next year. So staying with me for a week at a time, every five or six weeks, would not be hard on him in any way, you think? And about the holidays,” In her shock, his words lagged, and she gripped the handle of the exercise machine to stay upright. “My family has a huge Christmas, and I would really like him to have him come this year.”
The requests were not unreasonable. Jack had missed three Christmases already. And a week every month or so, rather than a weekend every other week, was sensible as two days would be travel days.
Thinking of her baby on a plane terrified her. Thinking of her baby gone for Christmas, even though it was almost a year away, ripped her insides out.
Through her entire childhood, a serenity prayer plaque had a place on the kitchen wall in their family home bearing words of wisdom that she saw every day. Now, a random phrase came to mind...’give me grace to accept...the things that cannot be changed...’
“When he flies, who will be with him?” Hearing the quake in her voice, she hastily cleared her throat and made a production of turning off the stair master.
“My father has a jet charter membership. An adult in the family will always fly with him.”
Marissa knew what he was speaking of, having once heard a VIP player at her craps table explaining the benefits of paying a yearly membership fee to access an extravagant jet fleet.
“A private plane? Is that safe? I would feel better if he flew, you know, on an airline...”
Understanding glimmered in his eyes; a shared concern for one little boy. “It’s safer than commercial. These planes are less than five years old, and we do a background check on the pilots. That’s when one of us doesn’t do the flying ourselves. We are paranoid freaks when it comes to plane safety.”
Thrown off track, she inquired, “You fly? As a pilot?”
“Not anything big. Just smaller planes.”
“Did you fly yourself here?”
“I hadn’t had enough sleep, so no. Seriously, I only fly on occasion when there is not a better option.”
In trying to convince her, he was only causing more misgivings. It seemed that private planes were always making headlines–and not in a good way.
Assessing her reaction, he added, “You could come with him if you wanted. The pilot could fly you right back, or you could stay a few days. Or whatever, until you are comfortable with it.”
Tristan’s visitation was inevitable, and she nodded in acceptance while at the same time considering a stipulation about the flight.
“Also, I was thinking, he should have my last name. If we do it now before he starts school next year–”
Her eyes whipped to his face, and his words wisely halted. She knew that, just as in some form of shared custody, Tristan would also end up with Jack’s name. He was a son carrying on a bloodline. It wasn’t so medieval that it wasn’t right.
However, it was too overwhelming to take in right now, and she descended from the electronic stairs needing out of this room that now reverberated with disturbing words. Jack stopped her just before the door.
His hands settled lightly on her waist, and he tilted his head to hers. Brown eyes melded deep into the mirrors of her soul, and although she could feel the breath of the kiss, it did not come.
Sweeping up his fingers up, he caressed, the touch pleasantly burning through the thin shirt that clung to sweaty skin. His palms stopped, and his breath paused then released with a sigh when he cupped the curves restrained by the sports bra. Dropping his eyes to this destination, he gave up one hold, using the fingers of that hand to brush from collarbone to cleavage.
“Reminds me of the day we met.” Softly, he recounted, and his dark regard came back to her face.
“How so?” She wasn’t flirting, but the look in his eyes made her inquiry breathless. Genuinely, she sought to understand how today’
s attire of boxers, a tank-top, and a bra that flattened her chest, could remind him of the day that she had dressed for the hang fest with such care, in hopes of ‘hooking up.’
“You were flushed and sweaty.”
“Gee. Thanks. I remember being embarrassed that I was hot and sweaty.”
“I liked it. Looked like you had already rolled out of my bed...”
“I wish you wouldn’t say this stuff...”
Truthfully, she loved it. With simple words, or simply a look, he could make her feel sexy and desired. However, that all changed when the relationship changed. Now, these types of comments made her feel toyed with.
“Why?”
“Just don’t, okay?”
“Okay.” He promptly dipped for that kiss that was so close.
In a room full of strength building exercise paraphernalia, she fell weakly against his chest, savoring the brushes of his lips and tongue on hers. The sound of a car race in the other room was a stark contrast to the quiet sounds of their kissing.
When he straightened to his full height and seemed about to leave things there, she protested again, “And that. Why do you do that?” A slight lift of his brows was his silent invitation to continue. “I wasn’t done. You don’t get to do that. Just because you are stronger and taller.”
A rippling movement of a smile touched over his freshly kissed lips, and catching a hold of her hand, he straddled the weight bench in two strides, his seat bringing him significantly to her level. “All yours...”
Tranced, she lifted an ankle over the bench then lowered onto it. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and she breathed him in but only leaned her forehead against his. Her gaze played in chocolate irises and she found there was a truer definition to eye-fuck than the one she and Olivia had jokingly tossed out all these years.
Finally, she kissed him with all her heart and every bit of her soul and with boundless...love.