“How do you take it?” she asks over her shoulder.
I clear my throat. “Um . . . black is fine.”
She turns with the mug in her hand and gestures for me to sit at the small table. I set the sack down in front of me and she places the mug in front of that. I stare at her gloves, as they seem to be the safest place to train my gaze. Why in God’s name does she always have those blasted things on?
“So.” She slides into the seat across from me. “Dolores Claiborne.”
“Dolores Claiborne,” I echo. The table is small—a two-foot-wide circle. A sweetheart table, I think they call them, and now I know why. Because you’re sitting so close to the person you’re with. So close that if you reach out, just a few inches, you could be touching.
“What’d your daughter think of it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “She liked this one line.”
“Let me guess—the one about how being a bitch is sometimes the only thing a woman has to hold on to?”
“No,” I say, reaching in my back pocket for the notebook that I folded over and stuck there, and flip to the right entry. “I understood something else, too—that one kiss didn’t change a thing. Anyone can give a kiss, after all.”
“Hmm,” Jubilee says, sitting back.
“Yeah, that was my reaction, too. I mean, do you think she’s already kissing people? Boys?”
“Well, she’s fourteen.”
“Only fourteen,” I say. “Were you kissing people at fourteen?”
“No,” she says quietly, looking down at the table. She’s blushing so fiercely, I immediately feel bad for asking the question.
After a few seconds of silence, I grab the paper sack. “I brought hoagies,” I say.
She stands up and retrieves plates and napkins from the cabinet. I take a sandwich out to Aja and put it on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t even look up.
When I return to the kitchen, Jubilee says: “That quote’s pretty derisive. Doesn’t sound like you need to be so worried about her romanticizing love.”
Her words hit me in the gut and I realize Jubilee was right—I would rather Ellie be an idealist when it comes to love than a cynic. And I’m worried that if she already is a cynic, that it’s my fault. How can a kid believe in love when her own parents ran out of it?
“So which one are you reading next?” Jubilee asks while we eat. “Carrie or Misery?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should ask her. See what she thinks.”
I let out a small, sad chuckle. “Yeah. I don’t think that—I’m not sure that will work.” Jubilee cocks her head beside me. I know I need to tell her the truth.
“Ellie’s not talking to me. She hasn’t, for, oh”—I do the math in my head and cringe—“six months now. Except for one text, essentially telling me to leave her alone.”
“Oh,” she says, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Or rather, I know what she’s thinking, what she has to be thinking, and I hate it. “Why?”
The million-dollar question. I don’t know how I’m going to answer it until my mouth opens and the words fall out.
“I called her a slut.” As painful as it is to admit, it’s such a relief to say it, to unburden myself of the terrible secret. To confess. I have a sudden and unexpected flash of insight into Stephanie’s weekly visits to her priest for her own admissions of guilt.
“You what?” Jubilee’s eyes go wide. “Your daughter?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t my finest moment.” I take another bite of my sandwich and chew, carefully, as if I’m counting the bites until I get the requisite thirty before swallowing. Jubilee just stares at me, waiting.
I turn my ear toward the den, but all I hear is Aja’s faint tapping on the screen. I let out a puff of breath. “About a year ago, Ellie started hanging out with this girl, Darcy. She was just one of those kids, a troublemaker, broken home, the whole bit—the kind you hope your child never aligns themselves with.” Although saying it out loud, I now see the irony—Ellie’s from a broken home, too. “Anyway, in our small town, the rumor mill was rife with accusations about Darcy—she hit on male teachers, was into drugs—not just weed, but harder stuff, like oxy and Ritalin. I mean, I know that kids can be cruel and that rumors are just that . . . rumors. But there were so many—there had to be some truth behind them. So on my weekends with Ellie, I wouldn’t let her hang out with Darcy. It’s something Stephanie and I didn’t see eye to eye on—she took this whole ‘kids will be kids’ approach, ‘you have to give them room to experiment.’ I think it was a backlash to Stephanie’s own strict upbringing. It infuriated me. We’d have these massive fights about it.
“One weekend when Ellie was with me, I thought she was in her room, listening to her headphones—she always had them on. And I was fighting with Stephanie about not letting Ellie go to Darcy’s birthday party. She had apparently already said yes without discussing it with me, which pissed me off. Then she asked me why I had to be so controlling all the time. I got carried away and yelled: Because our only daughter is becoming a drug-addled slut just like Darcy, and you don’t seem to care about it.”
Jubilee sucks in her breath. “Ouch.”
“And when I turned around—”
“Ellie was there.”
I nod. “She heard the entire thing. Well, enough, anyway.” I shake my head. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. It was pain, not the familiar flare of anger I was used to seeing. Anger I could handle, but hurt—and knowing I was responsible for it—was gut-wrenching. “I apologized immediately, of course, but she wouldn’t listen. Told me she was going to pack her things and wanted to go back to her mother’s. I wouldn’t drive her, I couldn’t let her go without her understanding, or at least forgiving me. But finally, on Saturday, when I realized it was hopeless and keeping her there was making her even more angry at me, I drove her back to Stephanie’s. She hasn’t talked to me since.”
“But don’t you have some kind of custody agreement?”
I sit back in my seat and swipe my hand down my face before answering. “Every other weekend. I gave Stephanie full custody, because I didn’t want Ellie to be shuffled around. I knew stability was more important for her. But after I said . . . what I said, she didn’t want to come anymore, and I felt like forcing her would only make it worse. And honestly, I thought she’d come around. I know what I said was horrible, but she’s a kid. I’m her dad.” I shrug. “I guess too much damage was done. She already hated me for the divorce.”
I pick up the hoagie again, and Jubilee does the same. We sit there, listening to each other chew, until the silence becomes unbearable. Part of me wants to know what she’s thinking, but part of me is terrified to hear the truth.
“That really sucks,” she says, finally. “But if it makes you feel any better, you’ve still got my father beat.”
I try to recall if I’d seen any pictures of a man that could possibly be him on the walls or among her stacks of books. I can’t. “Where is your dad?”
She shrugs. “I don’t even know who he was. My mom never told me.”
I take this in. “Oh, good,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “So I’m not the worst father in the world, just the second worst.”
“Exactly. See? Chin up.”
I chuckle and pick up my mug. While I take a sip of coffee, I watch Jubilee out of the corner of my eye, my gaze traveling to her lips. I follow the curve of them, my eyes the wheeled cart on a roller coaster, rising in the peaks, dipping in the valley between. They’re beautiful. Her lips. And I wonder at the thought that she gets to see them every day, every time she looks in a mirror, a car window reflection. How does she tear her eyes away?
It’s then that I notice the mayonnaise—a little glob clinging to the corner of her mouth.
I reach my hand out, thumb extended to wipe it for her, puerilely excited at this unexpected opportunity to touch her. Jubilee freezes, eyeing me.
“You’ve got a—”
&n
bsp; At the last second, she jerks her head back just out of my reach and puts her own hand up to her mouth, leaving my thumb hanging in midair, dejected. “A little mayo,” I say, bringing my hand back to my own lip, mirroring for her where she should wipe.
Her cheeks turn pink, flushed, making my breath catch in my throat, as she dabs at the greasy glob with a napkin.
“Did I get it?” she asks.
I nod.
We sit there for a minute, staring at each other.
And then, because I can’t stop myself—or because I don’t want to anymore—I reach out again, overcome with the need to close the distance between us, to connect with her somehow. She freezes again, the muscles in her shoulders tensing, but this time, I don’t care. My hand finds a lock of her hair. I gently wind my fingers around it, in it, swaddling them in the soft hammock of curls, my gaze now lost in the endless auburn currents.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, and it brings me back to myself. I’m invading her space, being too bold. Suddenly embarrassed by my lack of control, my ragged breath, I drop her hair like it’s on fire and straighten my spine. But before I can apologize, before I can find the words in my muddled brain to explain my bizarre actions, she catches my wrist with her hand. Her grip is strong and I swear I can feel the heat of her fingers through the material of her gloves. I meet her gaze again. And out of my peripheral vision, I see her chest heaving, inhales and exhales as ragged as my own.
And then her lips part. And it’s the only invitation I need.
My left hand captive, I lean toward her, bringing my free hand up to palm her cheek, already imagining the sweet relief of my mouth on—
“Stop!” The high screech does just that. Stops me cold. I turn—my hand inches from her face, my head a jumble of confused desire—and I see Aja standing in the door frame, eyes wide, his mouth forming words I’m trying to follow.
“You can’t touch her! Move your hand, move your hand!” He’s pulling at my arm now, shrieking. Is he having some kind of episode? I stand up, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to get him to look at me, to calm down. But he doesn’t. He just keeps screaming, his panic mounting on itself, until he finally reaches what appears to be the chilling climax of his confusing, delusional rant: “You’ll kill her!”
eighteen
JUBILEE
I SIT THERE, TOO stunned to move. He was going to kiss me. At least I think he was, the way he was reaching for me like that. Admittedly, I’m lacking experience in these matters. But his hand was halfway to my face and he was leaning toward me, just like they do in the movies—even though I grabbed his hand, was trying to stop him from touching me. And then Aja screaming . . . I try to focus on what’s happening in front of me.
“I’m not making it up! I swear! Ask her,” Aja says.
They both turn to me. I realize I’ve missed most of the conversation, but I can fill in the spaces. Aja’s eyes drop when I look at him. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”
Eric looks from him back to me, a quizzical expression on his face. “Jubilee—what is he talking about?”
I feel hot all over and I suddenly wish I could disappear. Or that they would. What was I thinking? Letting them into my life like this. My house. Letting Eric nearly kiss me? Like I’m just some normal person.
My face burns with humiliation and it’s like I’ve been transported back to the high school courtyard where Donovan kissed me and all I can hear is the laughter of what feels like a hundred gleeful teens shrieking in my ear.
I can’t believe you kissed her!
You earned this fifty bucks, dude.
What a total freak show.
Ugh. What’s happening to her face?
“Jubilee?” Eric’s face comes back into view and I hate how he’s looking at me. With a mixture of confusion and pity and . . . I don’t know—like he doesn’t know me at all. And my humiliation from then and now is getting all mixed up and my face is on fire and my heart is thumping in my ears and I just want it all to be over.
I stand up, my knees knocking into the chair behind me, sending it crashing to the ground.
“You should leave.”
“What?” Eric’s eyebrows knit together, and then his face morphs from concern to absolute bewilderment. “Why?”
“I want you to go!” I yell it this time, hoping the volume will conceal any other emotion coming through. I cross my arms, trying to swallow past a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat.
He stands there for a second more, eyes burning into me, questioning.
“Jubilee,” he says, his voice quiet but insistent.
I don’t respond. I don’t waver.
“OK,” he says, finally. “OK. We’ll go. Come on, Aja.” He tries to put a hand on Aja’s shoulder, to guide him out of the kitchen, but Aja jerks him off. They shuffle out single file, and when I finally hear the door open and then close with a thudding click, I bend over the table, grasping the edge of it, my chest heaving, hot tears rimming my eyes.
I stand there like that—relieved that they’re gone, yet hoping they’ll come back—until my knuckles start to ache and my knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Then I slowly right the chair that tipped over and sit in it, shoulders slumped, surveying the scene in front of me. The two plates. Two coffee mugs. Two crumpled napkins. To anyone else, it would be a normal sight—the aftermath of two people having lunch at a kitchen table. But for me, it’s a peculiar and painful reminder that for the first time in nine years, someone was here—and now he’s gone.
SOMETIME WHILE THE afternoon morphed into evening, my humiliation morphed into a vague sense of anger. But I can’t pinpoint just what it is that I’m angry at. Donovan? Those heartless kids? Eric for leaving, even though that’s exactly what I told him to do? Me for telling him to leave?
Lying in bed, I picture Eric’s face as it leaned toward me and focus on another question: was he really going to kiss me? I keep rolling the moment over in my mind, replaying the look on his face, the leaning, Aja’s scream, until the realization of what’s bothering me about it materializes. I sit straight up. I wanted him to kiss me—in the split second where I thought that’s what he was trying to do. And what does that say about me? That I have some kind of bizarre death wish?
I turn toward the nightstand, where Eric’s coffee mug sits. When I was cleaning up earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to wash it. Or put it down. So I brought it into my room, like a souvenir from an airport gift shop. Now I stare at the rim where Eric’s mouth was touching it just hours before and resist the urge to bring it to my lips. What is wrong with me? I tear my eyes from it, turn off the lamp, and lie down in the dark. But as sleep overtakes me, the truth slips into my brain. That maybe some things are bigger than a fear of death. Like the fear of never again being looked at the way Eric was looking at me. Like for that entire second in time, I was the only person who mattered.
“WHY AREN’T YOU dressed?” It’s Sunday evening and Madison is on my front porch. Though I figured she’d give up if I let her knock long enough, she didn’t and I reluctantly opened the door.
“I’m not going,” I say, my mortification from the day before still so fresh, I’m positive she’ll be able to see it on my face.
She doesn’t.
“Back up, I’m coming in,” she says. With no other choice, I jump out of the way, and Madison charges into the den. Then she looks around, taking it in. I expect her to make some smart-alecky comment about all the books but instead she says, “When did you guys move here again?”
“About twelve years ago.”
“And how much did your mom pay for this place?”
“I don’t know—like two thirty, I think. Why?”
“Because it’s probably worth like three times that now.”
“Oh,” I say, because I don’t care about this house right now, or her real estate interests; all I care about is getting back in my bed and pretending the day before didn’t happen.
“So, what’s your problem?” she says, dropping her bag on the ground. “And don’t tell me it’s a long story. You know I’ll get it out of you.”
“Come on in,” I mutter, shutting the door behind her. I follow her into the living room and, not wanting to slip my gloves on, I perch myself as far away from her as I can on the armchair while she gets situated on the couch.
“Go on. Spill it,” she says.
So I do. I tell her about Eric and the mayo on my lip and the almost-kiss and Aja screaming and—
“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, holding up a hand. “He was going to kiss you? And you were going to let him?”
“That doesn’t— It’s all beside the point. What matters is that Aja was totally freaking out. And then I kind of freaked out—and I basically kicked them out of my house. I guess.”
“Um, it’s not ‘beside the point.’ It kind of seems like the whole point, actually. Are you into this guy?”
“What? No!” I say. “Why would you— That’s ridiculous.”
She narrows her eyes and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
“OK—I think he’s . . .” What do I think about Eric? That he’s sometimes solemn and earnest, but then surprisingly funny when you least expect it. He’s smart, in a terribly logical way. And he’s also caring, endearingly so, especially when it comes to his kids. I just like being around him. Maybe more than I’ll even admit to myself. “I think he’s . . . neat,” I say, finally.
“ ‘Neat’?” she shrieks. “What—is he a tailored suit? A reorganized closet? Are you eleven?” She dissolves into laughter.
“Stop it,” I say, although I can’t help but chuckle along with her. “OK, fine, I like him. I don’t know—he makes me feel . . . warm.”
Close Enough to Touch Page 20