by B. K. Rivers
“Um, Jordan?”
He grunts in reply.
“I’d like to wash your clothes for you…” There’s a stretch of painful silence. “I’m going to need your underwear.”
He moves in the tub and soon his hand pops through the shower curtain and he’s holding his boxer briefs.
“I’ll be right back,” I say as I leave him to shower in the steam and hot water.
The washer and dryer are next to the kitchen and on my way I pass Gran, who is knitting some kind of scarf or something in her blue chair. She looks up at me over her glasses and raises a brow.
“I don’t want that man naked in my house, Jemma,” she warns as she knits one and purls two.
“Sorry, but his clothes smell awful and they’re the only ones he has. I’m going to wash them.”
“What’s he going to wear in the meantime?”
“Maybe we could see if something of Grandpa’s would fit him?” A part of me nearly cowers at the mere mention of going through his things, but Jordan needs something to wear, even if it’s temporary.
A muscle near one of Gran’s eyes twitches and she pulls off her glasses. I’m afraid she’s going to yell at me for my suggestion, but instead she bites down on one of the earpieces and closes her eyes.
“I suppose those clothes would do more good on someone rather than sitting in a closet,” she says after her moment of silence. “But don’t go expecting me to let him keep them, they belong to your grandfather.”
“I understand, Gran. Thank you.”
The shower finally turns off after almost an hour. He must have run out of hot water. I’ve found a couple pairs of golf shorts and some of Grandpa’s old work polos that will hopefully fit Jordan, all of which I’ve laid out for him on the sink counter. Sitting in my room allows me to hear him rustling around in the bathroom, and then, as though he knew I was sitting right next door, he calls for me.
I spring from my bed and rush to the bathroom, only to catch Jordan once again in only a towel. I swear under my breath and turn around quickly, hoping to avoid the stirring in my belly and rising temperature. Nope, too late.
“Stop smiling at me.” I can feel his slightly crooked smile and knowing stare.
Jordan laughs through his nose and says, “Thank you for the clothes. I usually have a personal shopper buy my clothes, so maybe I can give you some money to buy me some?” He clears his throat and then studies his wet cast. “Not that I mind wearing your grandpa’s clothes. I’m sure they’ll work for a couple days.”
“You really shouldn’t get your cast wet,” I tell him, switching the subject. “I’ll bring some plastic bags up here for you to put over it when you shower next time. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit, I’ll be honest.” He rubs his hands over his face, dragging them through his hair, revealing some smaller tattoos on the underside of his biceps. How did I not notice them before? “What I wouldn’t give to be rid of this headache.”
My lips press into a thin line and I wonder how bad it would be to give him some Tylenol or something. But then I decide when he’s sleeping tonight I will do some research on drug rehab. There has to be some information on the Internet that will help him.
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea to take anything right now,” I say without knowing if it is or not. “I’m sorry.”
Jordan sorts through Grandpa’s clothes and pulls out a pair of tighty-whities. “You have got to be joking. I haven’t worn these since I was four.”
My cheeks puff out as I hold my breath and slowly release it. I watch as he slips his legs in the briefs and pulls them up under his towel. It’s only when he removes the towel do I realize I’ve been practically staring at him. But I find I can’t take my eyes off of him—he’s built like a Roman sculpture chiseled from stone, and the tattoos along his shoulders only add to his appeal. I want to explore the tattoos, find out what they are and what they mean to him. My fingers itch to touch his skin and get tangled in his hair. When Jordan shrugs on one of Grandpa’s old shirts my cheeks brighten as my stomach swirls; I wasn’t finished with my visual inspection.
“You know you might go blind if you keep looking at me like that,” Jordan says playfully.
I close my eyes and walk out of the bathroom to my room, closing the door behind me. Oh my God. I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life. To be caught staring and practically drooling over Jordan Capshaw, by Jordan Capshaw, is utterly humiliating.
Chapter 15
Jordan
I hate mornings. Today is no exception. I pick at my food while Jemma and her grandma scrape their plates clean, every noise like a dagger in my ears. I clench my fists and drag them over my eyes before shoving my plate of food as far away from me as possible.
“I can’t eat this shit,” I say, folding my arms across my chest and leaning back in the chair. Gran’s fork stops midway to her mouth and Jemma’s fork slips from her hand and clatters on her plate.
“Jordan!” they exclaim. And then Gran says, “Young man, you will hold your tongue in the presence of ladies. Excuse yourself this instant and return to your room.”
I sit upright in my chair, run my hands through my hair, and scoot back from the table and storm out of the room. Good God, these women are awful with their politeness and rules and…and whatever the hell else they are. I haven’t been sent to my room since I was living at home with my parents. I can’t handle this any longer, especially the way my head carries around its own vise, and with each heartbeat the vise squeezes tighter and tighter. Soon, my head will be nothing more than a flattened piece of skin and bone, of that I’m sure. There has to be something in this horrid house to dull the aches and twitches.
God, I never thought I’d be that guy, the one who’s so hooked he can’t go a day without a fix. The shakes are enough to make me turn this place upside down in order to find anything to take them away. I pause at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve been here for three days and they have been hell, not one positive thing has occurred, and as far as I can tell, nothing positive will result in my stay here. Which is why, if I can’t find something in this house to take the edge away, I plan on clearing out as soon as possible. I guess staying clean and sober is not in the cards for me. I’m too much of a dick to stick with it and a pussy when it comes to giving it a real shot.
Jemma and Gran are finishing their breakfast so now’s as good a time as any to search the bathroom down here. Inside, there is a small tub and toilet and a sink, but the best news of the day is the doublewide medicine cabinet that hangs above the sink. My fingers twitch in anticipation for what treasures I may find inside. My fingers trace alongside the mirrored glass, which reflects a nasty image of myself I don’t want to see. I guess over the years I’ve mastered the “avoiding myself in the mirror” thing, which is why my hair always looks like I don’t care. Because I don’t. I don’t want to see the reflection of someone I don’t recognize staring back at me. The scariest part of all of this is me and how much I’ve changed. Jemma was right; I’m nothing like the Jordan from six years ago.
In a rush, I use both hands to open both sides of the medicine cabinet and want to scream at the sight of the empty white shelves. The shaking is growing worse and my stomach feels like it’s being sucked through a vacuum. I’m not as quiet now leaving the bathroom, and for shits and giggles I try the door at the end of the hallway. Inside I find towels and sheets and a brown cardboard box without a lid. My fingers grip the edge and I tilt it forward so I can see the contents inside.
Bottles and bottles and bottles of pills dance in front of my eyes and I could burst into song at my discovery. I pull one of the top bottles off the pile and silently curse when I read the label: stool softener. Nope, don’t need that, the plumbing works fine. Shit, all these bottles are useless. Acid Relief, Tums, anti-diarrheal, none of this will help me at all. I shove the box back into place and close the door, not caring at this point if the two crotchety ladies know I’m snooping thro
ugh their house.
“I need a goddamn Tylenol,” I growl as I walk out of the small hallway. I slide on the flip-flops Jemma bought me—stupid girl—and storm out of the house. I don’t care how long it takes me, but I’m going to walk to that shitty grocery store and buy myself the largest bottle of vodka I can find.
“What are you doing?” Jemma jogs up beside me, her hair tumbling over her shoulders like a cascading blonde waterfall.
“Leave me the hell alone.”
“Jordan.” She tugs at the sleeve of this ridiculous shirt, but I shrug her off.
“I’m going to go get a drink, or whatever. I’m done with this clean and sober shit.”
“It’s seven miles into town,” she says, and hands her phone to me. “Do you remember the code?”
I stop walking and stare at her like she’s lost her mind.
“Um, right. Well, it’s one-zero-one-four, can you remember that?
“I’m not two years old,” I say as I snatch the phone from her small fingers.
“The number to the house is listed under ‘Gran,’ so when you’ve walked as far as you want and need me to come get you, just call and I’ll be there.”
She turns and walks back to the house, leaving me standing on the dirt driveway with my bare toes dusted with dry dirt. My mouth gapes as I watch how her hips sway side to side and how her hair hangs in loose waves down her back. A part of me wonders what a girl like her is doing in a place like this. The other part of me wonders what I’m doing in a place like this and what’s going to happen when I disappoint her. Some people under promise and over deliver, Jordan Capshaw over promises and always under delivers.
Chapter 16
Jemma
It’s been four long and torturous hours since I handed Jordan my phone and walked away from him. Despite finishing my morning routine, preparing the food for dinner, and showering, my mind hasn’t stopped thinking about him. Not for one second. I’ve walked that stretch of road before. Seven miles is nothing to sneeze at, but he’s had more than enough time to make it to the grocery store. Enough time really to make it there and back.
I’ve chewed my nails down to nothing, checked that the phone was still plugged into the wall, and even walked the length of the driveway a couple times. But still he hasn’t called.
By the time Gran and I are seated at the table, ready to eat dinner, the phone rings. It takes all the restraint I have to not leap across the table like a lioness about to attack her prey. I casually but quickly leave my seat and answer the phone.
“Hello?” My heart is beating about a hundred miles a minute.
“Jemma?”
“Jordan? Where are you?”
The line is silent for a second, then two, and then five. “I couldn’t do it,” he finally says softly.
“Couldn’t do what? Jordan, where are you?” He’s been gone for almost eight hours. He could be anywhere.
“God, I don’t know. I found the store and stood outside, arguing with myself. I’m sure anyone who saw me thought I was a drunken idiot.” He laughs, not as though what he said was funny, but a laugh plagued with hurt and disappointment. “Isn’t that ironic? I am a drunken fool and a goddamn drug addict.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes and something in my chest tightens. I need to find him, bring him back, and help him through this.
“Jordan, open up the maps app on my phone and push the little arrow thingy. That will tell you where you are.” At least I hope it will. Cell reception can be kind of tricky outside of Torrance.
“I’m near a cemetery, off of Highway 15,” he says dryly. “The view from this hill is breathtaking. I had no idea the Earth could look like this.”
I know right where he is, it’s the cemetery that Grandpa is buried in. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t move.”
The call ends and I excuse myself from dinner. It’s late February, and even though we’ve had a very mild winter, it can be bitterly cold as the sun goes down. I grab my coat and a heavy blanket for Jordan and drive like hell to the cemetery.
It’s funny how when you’re trying to get somewhere it feels like it takes twice as long as it really does to arrive. I told Jordan twenty minutes, and even though the clock on my dash says it’s only been eighteen, I feel like I’ve been driving for almost an hour. If he’s sitting somewhere overlooking the town of Torrance, then he won’t be near the road that lines the cemetery. I stop my car at the furthest edge of the cemetery and get out, hoping he’s not on the other side. The cemetery sits on the top of a very large hill, helping to make the valley Torrance is nestled in. It’s times like this I wish Gran would let me buy her a cell phone. I could really use a spare to call Jordan right now.
It’s funny how a cemetery feels like a library in that you have an overwhelming sense to whisper and take reverence to a whole new level. But I don’t have time for that now. Especially with the sun beginning to set, I don’t want to get caught out here alone trying to find Jordan. I don’t believe in ghosts necessarily, but why take the chance, right?
“Jordan?” I call loudly. There’s no response so I walk deeper into the older parts of the cemetery, past the hundred-year-old statues of angels and gargoyles that look dry to the point of crumbling, yet are covered in furry, green moss. I pass a row of tiny markers and stop to see what they say. My heart stops briefly in my chest and I gasp. They are markers of infants who died at birth in the year 1915. My hands begin to shake and tears spring from my eyes. I wrap my arms around my midsection and force myself to move forward.
“Jordan?” I call again and still receive no reply. I’m at the edge of the cemetery now and I think I can see an outline of a person in the grass about a hundred yards away. I wipe away the tears that have stained my face, take a deep, cleansing breath, and walk up to him.
“I wasn’t sure you’d really come,” he says as I sit down next to him.
“I said I would.” I wrap the blanket around his shoulders, tuck my knees to my chest, and look out over the valley. Torrance is a very small town, but when you look at it from way up here, it’s amazing how spread out it is among the hills. Jordan and I sit in silence as the sun dips over the hills and the sky turns from a wintery blue to nearly black. It’s not until my stomach starts to grumble that I remember I left Gran at home with dinner on the table and a mess of dishes scattered around the kitchen.
“We should go,” I say, and begin to stand. Jordan’s hand reaches out from under the heavy blanket and grabs for mine. He pulls me down next to him and stares up at the starry sky.
“I think I should check myself into a rehab program.” He sighs heavily and his shoulders sag. I know I’m not qualified to help him through this, but disappointment still settles in my chest. I nod slowly and listen as he continues. “I thought addiction wasn’t something that would ever catch up to me. It’s stupid to think that. I know that now.”
I rest my palm on his broken hand in a small gesture of comfort. His eyes look to my hand and a narrow smile forms on his lips. He places his good hand on top of mine, and even though it’s cold to the touch, tingles of heat shoot up my arm and sink down to my stomach. I should pull my hand away; this breaks my rules on so many levels.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole,” he says quietly.
“I don’t think it’s all your fault. In a way I did force you into staying with Gran and me. I was only trying to help and I think I went too far.”
Jordan laughs, well, it’s more like a chuckle, and then he stands, helping me to my feet. “Let’s go, blondie. I’m starving.”
My cheeks flush at the nickname and the fact that his hand is still holding mine. Inside I’m freaking out a little bit—Jordan Capshaw is holding my hand!
Chapter 17
Jordan
Jemma and I work together to clean up the kitchen after we’ve both filled our stomachs. It’s a mundane task, but one I haven’t done in years so it’s not surprising I get sidelong glances every now and then from
Jemma when I try to put a dirty plate in the dishwasher.
“You have to scrub the plate first,” she says, handing me the dish scrubby thing. “The dishes won’t come clean if you don’t scrub them.”
“It’s a dishwasher,” I argue. “That’s its job.”
“Fine, I’ll scrub and you load.” She bumps me out of the way with her hip and we trade places. When all the dishes are loaded she fills the sink with water and dish soap to wash a couple of large pots. The bubbles call to me, like they’re telling me they need to be scooped up and placed on Jemma’s nose and cheeks.
“Hey, what’s that?” I ask, pointing out the window. When she glances out the window, I dip my fingers in the bubbles, submerge my hand, and pull out a good palmful. When she turns around I fling the bubbles in her direction. They fly and land in her hair, on her cheeks and forehead, and, of course, on her nose. Her eyes widen in shock and I can’t hold back the laughter. I bend at the waist and laugh until I hear her turn on the faucet. When I look up, the sprayer is pointed at my face, and before I have time to turn and run she sprays me. Water is getting everywhere, and when I wrestle the sprayer from her hands and point it at her, I aim for her shirt. Wet t-shirts are the best.
We collapse to the floor in a heap of laughter. Jemma’s shirt is soaking wet, my face and hair dripping.
“What is going on in here?” Gran exclaims from the doorway. “Get up, both of you.” She stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a facial expression one can only describe as a scowl threatening to turn into a smile. And I have to do it. I can’t hold back. My hand reaches for the sprayer and I point it in her direction.
“Jordan, don’t you dare,” Jemma says as she starts to stand.
“Young man, you had better—” Gran starts, but doesn’t get a chance to finish. The water streams from the nozzle, soaking her shoulders to knees. Her face brightens, her mouth is stuck open, and I drop the sprayer. Jemma stares at Gran and then turns to me, her lips pulled between her teeth and her cheeks reddening.