by Jordan Ford
I miss them.
They died less than a year apart. A heart attack took Grandpa and ten months later, cancer claimed his wife. They were the only adults who’d ever given me the time of day. But Grandma couldn’t live without her beau.
That’s what she used to call him.
Beau.
I never wanted to need someone like that. It’s why I don’t do repeats.
Keep it fun. Keep it simple.
The rock in my stomach feels heavier than it did before. It squishes the hunger right out of me.
“Mom always makes a big deal of Sunday lunch.” Jules uses a rolling pin to make cookie crumbs. “I think it’s a little reprieve. She hides away in the kitchen, cooking something Dad will love. It’s like a safe zone, you know? She waits on him hand and foot. I think she does it so he’ll never come into the kitchen.” She scoffs and shakes her head. “Every Sunday we sit down to eat and for like half an hour, we feel like a normal family.”
She pauses rolling, staring ahead like she’s looking at more than just a concrete wall.
“Were you scared of him?”
“Not all the time.” She spins the bag around and starts rolling again, a little more furiously than before. “But I never wanted to do anything wrong. I never wanted to give him a reason to blow up.” Her voice quakes. “I tried to be the best person I could be…”
I can’t see her face but the emotion in her voice makes me struggle off the bed. It hurts. I hold in my hissing and shuffle across the room to her.
She senses me coming and shakes her head with a sniff. “I’m okay.”
I ignore her and gently run my hand down her arm. She stiffens beneath my touch and whispers, “I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry he hurt you.”
She shrugs me off. I have to admit that it kind of stings. I want to pull her into a hug, not get shrugged off.
“I’m sorry you got hurt too.” Her voice is clipped and controlled as she swiftly changes the subject. “Do you know the guys who did this to you?”
I step back with a sigh. “No. It was just this dark-haired weasel and his buddies.” I ease onto the couch. “I pissed off his cousin.”
“How?” She empties the cookie crumbs into a bowl and then starts melting some butter.
I clench my jaw, struggling to answer her. I’m usually so proud of my manly exploits, but admitting them to sweet Julienne makes me feel like a dirty man-whore.
My silence makes her turn to look at me. One glimpse and her lips part, followed by a rising of her eyebrows. “Let me guess…the blonde.” She rolls her eyes.
I still can’t say anything. There should be a million justifications on my tongue right now, but I can’t form any of them.
“You looked pretty into her the night you met. What happened?” The mock way she’s asking makes me snicker.
“I don’t do…” Damn, I can’t finish that sentence.
How am I supposed to admit to this sweet girl that I don’t do repeats and not come off like a complete scumbag?
I focus on her hands as she presses the cookie/butter concoction into a pie shell. She works quickly, like she’s done it a million times before…and refuses to glance at me the whole time. Placing it in the fridge, she then gets started on the filling. The electric hand mixer is loud as she whips the cream but once that’s done, the only sound in the room is that of cooking—a spatula banging against the metal bowl, the tear of plastic as she opens the marshmallows, the soft grind as she grates the chocolate. And still she won’t look at me.
Eventually I can’t stand it and mutter, “You probably think I got what I deserve.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Although…” She bites her lips together.
“Although what?”
With a sigh, she finally looks across at me. “Maybe you should think twice before jumping in the backseat of a car again.” Her eyes dart to the floor as she squeezes her hand and whispers, “Maybe everyone should.”
The way her voice breaks over the last word has me guessing she’s been hurt before…and not just by her dad. I wonder who wooed her into the backseat of a car.
Shit. If I wasn’t feeling like the world’s scum before, I am now. Because I bet it was a guy just like me.
#15:
Ambrosia Pie and Gin
Julienne
He stays pretty quiet after I tell him off. Sits on the couch looking miserable while I finish up the pie.
I feel bad for saying anything. What right do I have to judge him for reckless sex? I did exactly the same thing and now I’m pregnant! Kade probably had the sense to use protection. I’d like to think he did anyway.
There’s something about him.
Yeah, he’s a man-whore but there’s a sweetness there. I can’t imagine Antonio ever feeling bad for jumping my bones and knocking me up. If anything he’ll be livid that I refused the abortion and stole his money.
I’m sick just thinking about it.
I pray he never finds me.
I pray I can do the right thing for this baby and then return Antonio’s cash without ever having to see him again.
Tears come out of nowhere, blindsiding me like they always do. I quickly spin for the oven, hoping to blink the tears away before Kade notices.
This pregnancy is my secret…for as long as I can possibly keep it. I brush my hand across my thickening waist and feel a touch faint. I need time to slow down. As if my massive boobs aren’t bad enough. Not being able to do up my pants is going to be a nightmare. It’s not far away now. The last time I wore my jeans, I actually left the top button undone.
I swallow, hoping to calm the bile roiling in my stomach, and concentrate on finishing off lunch. The chicken casserole smells delicious. All I need to do now is mash the potatoes and steam the broccoli.
It doesn’t take long and soon we’re sitting at my little table sharing a meal. I can’t help a small smile as I watch him wolf down the food. Even with a banged-up lip, he’s managing to eat like he hasn’t had a decent meal in months.
“So good,” he keeps mumbling between mouthfuls. “So, so good.”
Talk about the warm fuzzies. Watching people enjoy my food is the biggest compliment in the world. After clearing the table, I practically float to the fridge to get the pie ready. Desserts have always been my favorite and this creation is kind of like my signature dish—graham cracker base, with a creamy yogurt filling stuffed with berries, marshmallows and chocolate. It somehow percolates in the fridge to create this sweet, gooey awesomeness. The marshmallows soften, the cream soaks into the base. It’s all kinds of delicious.
“What’s this?” Kade’s eyes light up as I place the pie between us.
“Julienne’s ambrosia pie.”
“Ambrosia pie,” he murmurs with a hungry smile.
I laugh and pass him a spoon. “The best way to eat it is right out of the dish.”
And we do just that.
It only takes two mouthfuls for Kade to start moaning. His pleasure makes me smile. I swallow down my creamy mouthful, trying not to choke on my pride.
“Hot damn, woman! This is the best pie I have ever tasted.” He licks the back of his spoon and dives in for more. “And if you’d ever had Grandma Ellen’s cherry pie, you’d understand what a huge compliment that is.”
I study his face as he shovels in another mouthful. He wiggles his banged-up eyebrows at me, making me laugh again.
“She must have loved feeding you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so happy.” I tip my head. “Except for when you scored that winning goal. Nice triple deke, by the way.”
He licks the small blob of cream from the corner of his mouth and grins. “Hockey and good food. It doesn’t take much to keep me happy. Seriously, Jules, this pie should be on Keith’s menu. You have to let him taste it. People will be lining up around the corner.”
My giggle is high and girly, making my blush even hotter. “You need to get out more. It’s just a pie.”
“N
o.” He reaches across the table and touches my hand. “It’s the world’s best pie.”
It’s hard to breathe all of a sudden. I’m not sure if it’s his touch or the look on his face, but I’m immobilized by him.
Why do I have to be so weak?
I don’t want to be sucked in again. Kade might be sweet but he’s not a shining knight. As soon as he finds out I’m pregnant he’ll be heading for the door.
I slide my hand away and move to the sink. My heart is racing and I need to get the dishes done. That will calm me. My spoon clatters into the metal sink and I start the water running.
“Let me do that.” Kade’s voice is like a soft caress, but it makes me stiffen.
I ignore him, grabbing the dish scrubber and getting to work.
“Hey,” Kade snaps. It’s not a mean, scary sound but it’s sharp enough to make me jolt. I glance over my shoulder. “Put the scrubber down, little lady.” He points at me, his smile playful.
“You’re hurt.” I shake my head, fighting a grin and turning back to my job.
His chair scrapes against the floor and I tense as footsteps approach me from behind. Kade gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “Put. The scrubber. Down.”
“It’s my kitchen,” I retort softly. “Don’t boss me.”
“It’s my duty as a satisfied diner to clean the dishes.”
It’s impossible not to giggle. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“Well, you never met my grandpa.” Kade wrestles the scrubber out of my hand and gently pushes me aside. “He always told me that the best way to thank the chef is to do the dishes for her.”
I grin. “I think I’d like your grandpa.”
“You would have loved him,” Kade murmurs quietly. “They were the best people in the world.”
My heart squeezes painfully and I don’t know what to say. Who knew the use of past tense could be so brutal?
Fighting tears, I move to the table and pack away what’s left of the pie. Kade finished nearly half of it. He must be on a sugar high right now…and it doesn’t take him long to crash.
By the time the dishes are draining in the stand, he’s pale with exhaustion.
“Let them drip dry.” I stop him from grabbing a towel and lead him to the bed.
“I don’t want to sleep.” He veers to the couch and eases onto it.
I wince when he hisses. “Do you want some painkillers or something? What can I do to help?”
“Distract me.” His smile is soft, and I can’t help giving in to that beat-up face.
“Okay.” I shuffle to the couch and take a seat beside him, tucking a leg beneath me. “What do you like to do for fun? Other than eating, hockey and making out with girls.” I wink.
He groans and tips his head back. “You’re gonna get a lot of mileage out of that one, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I deserve it.” He sighs. “My brothers would give me so much shit if they found out.”
The way he says brothers stands out to me. I can’t really figure out why but it makes me sit forward and ask, “You have brothers?”
He tenses instantly, clenching his jaw and looking away.
“Why’d you run away from them?” My voice is quiet and hesitant. It’s not really my business but…
“I just…had to get away for a while.” The words dribble out of his mouth, soft and unconvincing.
It brings home the fact that I basically know nothing about him. We’re in this small space together and we’re playing hide and seek…in plain sight of one another but not showing each other anything.
I shift away from him, letting him have his secrets. I don’t want to get caught in the trap of owing him any of mine.
“Let’s play cards.” I lurch off the couch and walk to my nightstand. I used to distract my little brothers with cards on the weekends when they were bored to tears and Dad wouldn’t let anyone touch the TV. Sports reigned supreme in our house and no one had any say in the matter.
I walk back to the couch, shuffling the cards and asking, “Do you know Gin Rummy?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “I’m pretty sure I can kick your ass at Gin.”
“Ha!” I plonk onto the couch. “Just you wait, buddy. I’m a pro at this game.”
I do some fancy shuffling, then deal the cards. He snickers, picks up his hand, and I promptly win the first round.
*****
We’ve been playing for nearly two hours.
I’ve lost track of the score and have no idea who’s winning. In some ways, the cards are just a vehicle to make conversation easier. We don’t have to make eye contact while we chat about movies, books and school. I quickly figure out that movies are an escape for him. He’s seen so many…just like me. It’s nice to share that common ground, and most of our time is taken up discussing different films and laughing over our favorite movie quotes.
I finally admit to quitting school at the end of my junior year so that I could earn some money and leave town. He admits to leaving school earlier than he thought he would, but wishes he could still go to college one day.
“Me too,” I murmur, laying down my set of queens. “I can’t imagine it ever happening though, and I’m okay with that. As long as I can still keep cooking. What do you want to be?”
“I’m not sure.” Kade shrugs. “I was hoping college could help me figure it out. When I was a kid, I used to dream of becoming an actor or something…you know, because I love movies so much.”
His blush is adorable.
“And then I dreamed of playing pro hockey, but…”
“Dreams don’t come true,” I finish for him.
Kade glances up and we make that fatal eye contact for a moment. It’s deep and intense, nearly impossible to pull out of.
“I hope you’re wrong,” he croaks. He opens his mouth to say more but then shakes his head and swallows. He looks gutted.
Without thinking, I reach forward and take his hand.
Our eyes are still locked in this thing I don’t understand. The cards in his hand flutter onto the couch and before I know it, he’s touching me, brushing his thumb along my jaw and leaning in.
He’s going to kiss me.
He’s going to press those bruised lips against mine…and I’ll never recover.
With a soft gasp, I jerk back and turn my head away.
His hand drops from my face, snapping back to his side of the couch. I can’t look at him. I’ve just killed the moment. Our happy hour is officially over.
Without saying a word, Kade struggles off the couch and heads to the bathroom.
I wish I knew what he was thinking.
Packing up the cards with trembling fingers, I put them away and then pace by the bed until the bathroom door clicks open again.
He stands in the doorway, tall and alluring. Even with those bruises, I’m still drawn to him. It’d be so easy to close the distance and kiss him. Instinct is urging me across the room, telling me it’s safe enough. But my mind can’t believe that.
Kade’s staring at me, his face finally puckering into a frown.
“I’m gonna get going.” His voice is deep and firm.
“What?” Mine’s high and uncertain.
“I should go back to my own room tonight. I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“No, you haven’t. You’re still hurt. You need to recover.”
“I’m fine,” he clips, his eyes darting to the floor.
I hurt him…and it makes me want to cry. “You…you can stay another night.”
His scoffing laughter is soft as he shakes his head. “I don’t think I should.”
“But…”
Walking to the door, he yanks it open.
“Wait!” I scramble for my wallet, pulling out all the cash. It’s only thirty bucks.
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Please.” I hold it out to him. “This will get you to your motel. You can pay me back later.”
“Thanks.” His voice is flat, his smile nonexistent.
The door shuts behind him—loud and final.
With a sniff, I slump onto my bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest. It smells like him, a musty, manly scent that makes me wish he could have stayed.
So I didn’t kiss him! Was that really a reason to just take off?
Why do guys always want more?
I throw the pillow down with a huff, then kick it across the room. My eyes travel to the couch and I picture us there again, laughing over movie quotes. I glance at the bathroom door and see his sad face. The poor rejected soul. It makes me wonder how many others have pushed him away in the past.
I can’t imagine why anyone would want to. He’s sweet, funny, charming.
But when he left just now, he looked like one of Peter Pan’s lost boys.
It makes me curious.
It makes me sad.
It makes me want to chase him down the street and beg him to come back.
#16:
Rejection Circumvention
Kade
I shuffle back to the rink and grab my motorcycle. The idiots who stole my bag obviously didn’t go through it before they took off because my bike is still parked where I left it.
I quickly hotwire it and head back to the motel.
My body hurts.
My brain is tired.
My ego is flattened like a frickin’ pancake.
I’ve spent most of my life being rejected…but never by a girl.
The way Jules gasped and pulled back, turned her face away so we couldn’t kiss. It was like a slap in the face.
My looks and charm are the only things I have going for me…and she doesn’t want them.
Memories I like to forget scrape the back of my spine, reminding me I’m nothing more than a mistake.
That’s what Mom called me once, right to my face.
She was busy working at her desk.
I was eight, bored out of my brain and trying to get her attention. I started with a simple “Hey, Mom!” When that was ignored a couple of times, I progressed into prank calls to her cell phone, a fake knock at the front door, and then honey on her keyboard while she clipped over the polished wooden floor to answer it. She sat back down with a huff, muttering about stupid kids, and then placed her hands on the keyboard and let out this disgusted wail. My laughter from the hiding spot beneath her desk gave me away.