There was something about the sight of him, standing there shucking corn, with “watch me whip” across his chest, that made her whole day melt away in an instant. Like a comfortable shoe she couldn’t wait to sink into. She dropped her backpack to the floor, and walked toward him. She’d only seen him a half dozen times throughout that week, and already she had twenty stories to tell him.
The funny things, like when Mark Sadoski brought a cat to school in his backpack. Or the sad things, like the poor lost souls of the Planaria. But all she could do was look at him. At his hair that was sticking out all over the place, telling her he had absolutely no clue how to style his new cut, and his smile, which made her feel at home, no matter where in the world she saw it.
“Hey,” he said, pointing to the table with an ear of corn. “Sit down. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
Her stomach growled with the mention of food, but she locked eyes on his hair and walked toward the catastrophe. She grinned as she pushed her fingers through his hair, even though the annoyance on his face made her want to giggle. “You have no idea how to style this, do you?” she said, proceeding to push her hands through it, resisting the urge to lick her fingers and add some moisture.
He grinned, but held completely still so she could finish. “You’re as bad as my mama, you know that?”
She shrugged, trying not to let his hushed tone affect her. She stepped away from him, leaned against the counter, and edged toward the plate on the side of the stove. “What’cha making?” she asked in a sing song voice.
“Fried Chicken.”
“And?” She lifted the lid of a pot, not waiting for his response.
“Mashed potatoes, corn on the cob.” He slapped her hand away. “I also got those movies you told me about.” He lifted his chin toward the living room, where a stack of DVD’s waited on the coffee table. “I thought maybe we could do more work on the plan?” But he cleaned his throat, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to call it.
Following his line of vision, she nodded. “You’ve really never seen a John Wayne movie before?”
He flipped a leg of chicken with his tongs and glanced up. “I told you, I’ve seen bits and pieces, but never anything from beginning to end.”
“And here I thought you were a southern boy. Raised on gravy and biscuits, and watching John Wayne films like they were gospel.”
He laughed. “You also thought I had a horse.”
“Yeah, well,” Her nose wrinkled with the memory. “That was a long time ago.” Hiding the blush that had spread like rose colored ink over her face, she plucked a piece of crispy goodness from the plate and popped it into her mouth. The morsel melted on her tongue, a mixture of savory and spices too simple, yet complex to explain.
“I told you, it’ll be ready in a minute.” He swatted her hand again. “Why don’t you set the table?”
Deciding to do his bidding, she took the two plates and silverware from the counter and carried them to the dining room. It was a simple task, but it was more than welcomed after the day she had. Standing at the side of the table, she proceeded to fold the cloth napkins neatly, smoothing each fold with her palm before folding it again.
“How was your day?” he called over to her.
She set each napkin in their respective spots and frowned. Susie Baker’s tear streaked face entered her mind for the hundredth time. “Don’t ask.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, it wasn’t good.” She plopped down on a chair and began setting out the silverware. “Remind me never to plan an experiment with a living creature again. Especially cute ones.”
He made a face. “What happened?”
She shrugged. “Let’s just say, I think I may have scared half a dozen sixth graders for life.”
“Tragic,” he drawled.
“It was.”
He turned off the range, and carried two steaming plates to the table. One piled high with fried chicken, and the other with steaming hot mashed potatoes. Her mouth began to salivate, and she sat up straighter in her seat. “Is this your grandmother’s recipe?” But she didn’t wait for an answer before reaching across the table and grabbing a piece. “Mmmm…” she moaned. Because as far as she was concerned, Elliot’s chicken was the culinary version on a multiple orgasm.
All of her senses were igniting like fireworks on the fourth of July. The taste, the smell, the sound it made when it crunched. This was exactly what she needed. A warm, made with love, southern meal that only Elliot was capable of. But when she opened her eyes, finally conscious enough to realize what she was doing, Elliot was staring at her.
He cleared his throat as he reached across the table for a leg of chicken. “That good, huh?”
Wiping over her face with a napkin, she nodded and set the half-eaten piece back on her plate. She felt slightly embarrassed, but who could blame her? Elliot’s chicken was juicy, liberally seasoned, yet so crunchy she could barely hear herself think while eating it. Which was perfect, because she didn’t want to think anymore. About Mrs. King, or how Susie’s tear streaked face would forever haunt her dreams, or the classroom that would never be. She took another bite and sighed, knowing without a doubt that fried chicken was her ultimate comfort food.
They ate in silence for a good ten minutes before she stopped long enough to take a breath, and reach for her glass of tea. It had been years since she discovered Elliot’s cooking, but to this day, every time he made this, she swore it was better than the last. “This was so good, thank you.”
He was staring at her, so she wiped over her mouth again, and cleared her throat. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He shook his head, a relaxed grin crawling up the side of his mouth. “I just like watching you, I guess.”
She made a face, setting her napkin on the table. But her stomach turned in terrible knots. He liked watching her? What the hell did that mean? “How’s your tattoo?” she asked, clearing her throat again. “Is it healing okay?”
He cupped his left shoulder, shrugged, then reached across the table for a helping of mashed potatoes. “A little tender, I guess. But that’s to be expected after being stuck with a needle a couple million times.”
With her fork halfway to her mouth, she stopped, because in an instant her mind was filled with tattoo horror stories. When she said she’d done her research, she wasn’t joking. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes— “Do you think it’s infected?” She set the fork down and rose to her feet. “Maybe you’re allergic to the ink.”
He laughed, grabbed a couple pieces of chicken and shook his head. “Eat your dinner, Fe. My shoulder is fine.”
But she came closer anyway, because what did he know? He could be dying, poisoned, in septic shock. “Guys are notorious for ignoring infections. I got mine at the same time as you, and it doesn’t bother me at all.”
“Because yours is the size of a peanut.”
She shook off his insult and planted her hands on her hips. “Why won’t you let me see it?”
He lifted a brow. “Because I’m eating.”
She rolled her eyes. “This is exactly what always happens. Everything’s fine, everything’s great. Until one day, the infection is so angry, it require a toothbrush and iodine.”
He held up his hand. “Come near me with a toothbrush, and I’ll tickle you.”
She frowned. “Why won’t you let me see it?”
He heaved out a breath and shoved away from the table. “If I let you look at it, will you leave me alone?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And you’ll let me eat my dinner in peace?”
Her lip twitch with amusement. “Yes,” she promised, crossing her heart with her finger. “I promise.”
With a heavy sigh, he tossed his fork to his plate, peeled the pink apron over his neck, then pulled his shirt over his head. He placed it on his lap, then gently peeled the film of Cling wrap away from his skin.
Her mouth fell open, just as the waf
t of baby ointment hit her nose. She plopped down on the seat and stared. Not because it was infected, nor that it was much larger than she remembered, but because it was beautiful.
Resisting the urge to touch it, she sat a little closer and took in the minute detail. She’d seen the drawing in the shop the night he’d gotten it, but it was nothing compared to the bright colors that cupped his shoulder in this moment. It was a tall tree, or at least the tribal interpretation of one, branching out around his shoulder, expanding around his bicep, it’s roots stopping just an inch above his elbow.
“I had no idea you were getting something so…big,” she whispered.
He craned his neck to the side to look at it, as though he himself was still in awe. “I figured if I was going to do it, I may as well do it right.”
Pulling her gaze way from the artwork, she met his eyes. “What is it?” she whispered. Because for some reason, the moment required silence. Because it felt delicate, like if she spoke too loud, it would break.
His frown surprised her, his brows growing closer together with concern. “What do you mean? It’s a tree. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Well yes.” She bit her lip, hiding her amusement. “But why did you get a tree?”
He inhaled a deep breath, as though realizing he wouldn’t get back to his meal anytime soon. “Because—it was my favorite place in the whole world, that’s why.”
“In Texas?” she asked softly.
He nodded, but his frown deepened somehow. “On my granddaddy’s farm.”
His voice held emotion. Distant, faded, but it was still there, in the very hallows of it.
“Tell me about it?” she asked, her heart aching. Because he hardly ever spoke of home, about the life he had before them, and right now, she was desperate for it. As a college freshman, she thought it was just part of his personality. That he was quiet, not having much at all to say, but the longer they’d been friends, she realized I was only his past he didn’t speak of.
He took the crumpled-up shirt from his lap, smoothed it out on his thighs, then dragged it back over his head.
“It’s where I kissed my first girlfriend, where I broke my first bone.” His voice quieted. “And where we buried the best man I’ve ever known.”
Her throat went dry, and she took another sip of her tea. “Your Grandfather?”
He glanced out to the window, where the last bits of daylight were fading into the horizon, but said nothing. She’d never heard him speak of his grandfather before, other than the mention of him passing a few years back, but they’d only just moved into the dorm. She hadn’t known him long enough to press for more then. “What happened?” she asked.
He lifted one shoulder, as though indicating it hardly mattered. “Heart attack. Like every other man in my family.”
She nodded, but her heart hurt at the painful look on his face. “What was his name?”
“Barnaby.” He smiled then. “Barnaby, E, Prescott.”
“E? As in Elliot?” Getting him to talk was like pulling teeth, but damn it all if she wasn’t determined to do so.
He nodded once. “Yes.”
This was the most he’d ever told her about his upbringing, and she didn’t want him to stop. She sat up straighter. “Tell me about him.”
It wasn’t a request, or a suggestion. It was edging close to an order. He sat back, as though not missing that fact. “He was a lawyer.” Elliot began. “Six foot-four, scary as the devil, but with the bluest eyes you’d ever seen in your life.”
Fe smiled. “Like yours?”
“Different.” He cleared his throat. “Better.” He scooted in toward the table, seeming uncomfortable, and picked up a piece of chicken.
She thought he was finished talking, that she’d gotten as much as she was going to get out of him tonight, but then he let out a sigh, and met her eyes again. “There was this little old man who lived around town where I grew up. All us kids were spooked by him, because he was always talking to himself. Crazy things. Yelling, laughing, arguing. He often went through everyone’s trash looking for his next meal, making a complete mess of it. Tearing open trash bags, going through every square inch. No one liked him because of that, said he was a pest…
“But I remember catching him myself one day, hollering and yelling for my granddaddy to scare him off. But when he finally got there to see what I was screaming over, he just called me back into the house, telling me to leave him be. Later I asked why he’d done that. Why he didn’t seem to care that this man was making a mess in the ally like everyone else? My grandfather only shrugged and said he was a braver man than most. That everyone had a story, and it wasn’t our job to judge where it led them.
“Well, the man carried on, always getting in trouble with the neighbors, and one day, old Dr. Murphy accused him of poisoning his dog. Everyone in town believed it, even me, but my grandfather came to his defense, said that old man wouldn’t hurt a fly. Because my granddaddy had such a good reputation, everyone believed him.
“I later asked my grandfather why he said that, because as far as I knew he’d never met the man. He said he’d fought with him in the war years ago. That they’d both seen things that they’d liked to forget, but never would. That he knew first hand that man was good, but that people liked to cast blame on the ugly, just because it was easy, and he made me promise never to do that again.”
“Did you?”
“I try not to.” He looked up. “But like I said, I’ve never met another man like him.”
Fe glanced up to Elliot’s profile, taking in his flexed jaw, and stoic eyes, and realized she knew someone like his grandfather. Someone kind, and protective to a fault. He was sitting right in front of her. But he didn’t even know it.
Chapter 9
By the time Elliot had finished the dishes, Fe was already dressed in her pajamas, and standing in the middle of the living room looking at the DVD’s. All the talk about his granddaddy had him thinking about home…and about his mama. He wiped his hands on a kitchen rag, promising to call her before more time slipped away, and walked into the living room to stand by Fe. She was deep in thought when he got there, reading the back covers of the movies, without looking up. She wore her old thread bare gray t-shirt and shorts that read “Still in Beta” across the butt.
“What do you want to watch first?” she asked when she noticed him. “The Quiet man, or…”
He plopped down on a chair across from her, then proceeded to cross his feet on the coffee table. “I don’t care. You choose.”
She glanced down, her brow creased with concentration as she met his eyes. “You sure?”
He nodded. “You know best. It’s your plan after all.”
This morning, he’d woken up feeling off. At first, he thought he’d slept through his alarm, but a quick glance at the clock told him he still had fifteen minutes left of sleep. Sitting here now, however, he finally realized what it was. He’d missed Fe something fierce. He’d missed her smile, the way she always pressed him to tell her more, the little noises she made when she was enjoying his cooking.
She’d been working long hours all week. Leaving early, before they could have their morning coffee, coming home late, after he’d already gone to bed… But sitting here now, watching her read the back covers of the DVD’s, it was the best part of his whole week.
She glanced up at him then, narrowing her eyes. “How in the world did you make it to twenty-four years without watching a John Wayne film?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “How did a city girl end up lusting after cowboys?”
She cocked a brow, but picked up a DVD and walked over to the player. “They’re not all cowboy movies, Elliot. Besides, I have three brothers, remember?”
“You say that like it’s a logical answer.”
She laughed. “It is.”
“How so?”
She tilted her head to the side. “There are three things that are a given when you grow up with brothers.”
&nbs
p; “Lay it on me” He sat forward in his seat.
“One”—she held up a finger—“you know more about morning wood than you ever cared to.”
“TMI.”
“Two,”—she added another finger—“you can play football better than most of the high school team.”
“Nice.”
“And three, you watch John Wayne movies.”
He raised his brows, more curious about her upbringing than ever before. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “That’s so.” She threw all the DVD’s back on the coffee table but one, and headed for the TV.
He watched as she slid the DVD into the player, then ran back to the couch where she burrowed herself under a mound of blankets. It was hardly seventy degrees, so the fact she used a blanket at all baffled the hell out of him, but he gave up trying to figure her out and settled in to watch the movie. The opening credits of the Quiet Man rolled across the screen, and he sat back in his seat.
The tumbling hills of Ireland, followed by green meadows, a flock of sheep in the distance, and John Wayne, being driven in a carriage by someone Elliot had never seen before. “And what am I supposed to be watching for exactly?” he asked, leaning forward to be sure not to miss anything.
Fe barely glanced up when answering. “John Wayne. He’s the ultimate man’s man,” she whispered.
“And…this is supposed to help how?”
“Because…” She sighed. “He has swagger. Just watch.”
“Ahh… the infamous swagger.” He frowned.
Her lip turned in a lopsided grin, and she threw her pillow at his chest. “Just watch the movie, Elliot.”
This time, when she un-paused it, he could sense she was serious. Deciding not to poke the bear, he settled back into his seat and did his best to pay attention. He was more of an action and adventure kind of guy. Star Wars? He could watch all day. Indiana Jones? He knew all the lines by heart, but an old black and white? He had a hard time not falling asleep.
Eight Steps to Alpha: A Nerdy by Nature Novel Page 7