I rolled my eyes and shoved my phone into the pocket of my denim shorts. What did he think this was? His very own episode of Charlie’s Angels? I slipped into the bathroom and gave myself a good once-over, deciding to ditch the hoodie and switch my shirt. I opted for my favorite pastel tie dyed t-shirt, the same denim shorts with lace on the ends, and my white flats. I used my fingers to tame my wild blonde waves, quickly throwing together a French braid from one side to the other, and secured the ends in a messy side bun.
I took one last look at myself in the mirror before dashing out of the bathroom. I grabbed my purse, slung it over my shoulder and across my chest, then headed out the door. The pink bike caught my eye, and a guilty feeling crept into my chest. Jhett told me to ride it, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I checked my phone again, looked at the directions, and decided I to push it there instead. I mean, he did it, so why couldn’t I?
Following his directions, I walked down the sidewalk with my bike in tow. I was two blocks in from the beach, but people still meandered around with surfboards and swimsuits, something I would never get used to seeing. I crossed the street and came upon the light where I was instructed to wait. Without missing a beat, my phone buzzed. Seriously, how did he expect me to read a text and ride a bike at the same time? He didn’t know that I decided to push it instead. He was reckless.
Once you get to the light, make a right. Find the house with the white fence.
I sighed, only slightly freaked out by the perfect timing of his texts. I turned the corner anyway, but couldn’t keep going. Before me was an entire street of tiny houses, all with yards and white fences. I tired to give Jhett the benefit of the doubt, but irritation set in quick. This had to be a joke, and it wasn’t funny.
Immediately I called Jhett. No answer. I was done playing his games. Maybe I was wrong about him. I turned my bike around and began to walk back to the corner to go home.
“I thought I told you to ride your bike? I don’t remember saying to push it.” Jhett’s voice came from behind me. I whipped around to face him and sure enough, there he was, standing outside of the very first house with a white fence.
“Apparently it’s not like riding a horse. I think I’ll just stick to things with four legs or four wheels,” I said crossly, my nerves still on edge.
“That’s a shame.” He smirked again as he opened the gate of the front yard behind him. “After you.” He guided me past him with a sweep of his arm.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were my neighbor. You live what, like five minutes away? That’s really not creepy at all.” I walked past him and rolled my bike with me into the front yard. My eyes widened in awe.
Jhett’s house looked as if it was out of the movies. It was definitely not someplace I imagined he would live. The front yard was simple, surrounded by the same white fence as everyone else on his street, with a few trees framing the yellow one story bungalow. There was a concrete walkway lined with beautiful tropical-looking flowers in riotous shades, all leading up to the front stops of a small porch. I noticed Jhett’s blue bike sitting at the end of it. I carried mine up the steps and left it to stand next to his. When I got to the front door, painted a deep maroon, I paused, not sure if I should open it and walk in, or wait for Jhett, who still lingered at the gate.
“So just go in?” I asked, motioning to the door.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He leapt forward down the walkway and met me at the door. He turned the handle and with one big push, the door flung wide open. He gently placed his hand on the middle of my back, ushering me forward and into what felt like Alice’s rabbit hole.
The inside of his house was even more magnificent than the outside. The kitchen and living room were completely open to each other; in fact, the whole house seemed to flow right into one big room. The walls were full of color; some painted a bright blue and others painted teal, with wall-to-wall wood floors. There was an island in the center of the kitchen painted a bright orange with four bar stools lined around it, each a different funky color.
I blinked, hunting for something that looked like it belonged to Jhett. I just knew were in the wrong house. As if reading my mind, Jhett began to explain. “Is it that bad? An old hippie lady owned it before me, but I fell in love with it the second I saw it and knew that I had to buy it.” He walked past the grey couches in the living room - about the only normal colored thing in the house - and over to the fridge.
“You own this place? Seriously, where do you hide your stuff? You’ve got to have some skulls or zombies or pin-up girls or something in here!” I said, as I followed him to the kitchen and perched myself on a pink barstool. Taking off my purse, I set it on the counter and leaned in on my elbows, watching him travel from the fridge to the stove and back again.
“I didn’t take you as a girl to judge a book by its cover.” He banged around in the cabinets as he spoke, pulling out pots and pans.
I thought about his comment while I watched him prep what was obviously going to be dinner. I enjoyed the fact that there were no awkward silences with him, no pauses as he figured out what to say next. I was envious of the ease in which he carried himself, because when I was around him my stomach did flip-flops.
He wore cuffed jeans like the ones I saw him in at The Pointe, and just a white tank top this time, giving me the opportunity to actually look at his tattoos. They started right at the spot a t-shirt would sit on his neck, and spread down his shoulders, across each arm, and down his back. There were still a few spots that lacked the colorful ink, but each one of them was beautiful. I wanted to run my hands over them, find out their story, and see them up close for myself.
“Is that okay, Charlie?” Jhett stared at me, holding a pack of steaks in his hand.
“I’m sorry, what?” I felt the pink creep into my cheeks, realizing that he just caught me checking him out.
“I asked if burritos were okay. I was going to make carne asada,” he replied. He placed the pack of meat on the island I sat at, along with a cutting board and some other items that looked to prove useful for cooking.
I bit my lip. “I’ve never heard of this ‘car-knee-a-saw-uh’, but if it’s meat, then uh…I’m a vegetarian.” I looked up into his eyes, trying not to give away my secret.
Instantly, he scrambled around the kitchen and to the fridge, his nerves obviously making him uneasy. He didn’t expect me to say that. “Well, um, I have lots of vegetables, too. I’ve got onions, carrots, bell peppers, and well, lots of different stuff. I just didn’t know…I should have thought about it…” He trailed off, his head stuck deep into the fridge.
I couldn’t hold myself together anymore. “Just kidding!” I shouted, as I moved to stand right behind him, my laughter giving me away. “So what can I do to help, Top Chef?” I asked, picking up a knife and grabbing an onion out of his hands as he closed the fridge with his foot.
“You think you have jokes, now? You know, that wasn’t very funny,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me and sliding a cutting board my way. “Chop that up and put it in the bowl.” He pointed to the onion in my hand and then to the bowls that were stacked in the center of the counter.
“Oh, it was plenty funny. You should’ve seen yourself running around like a chicken with its head cut off. ‘Oh no! What do I do now?’ I’m dying to know what you would have done if I was serious?” I asked, starting my task of chopping the onions.
“I probably would’ve prayed to the vegetarian gods to have mercy on me for not thinking that possibility through.” He paused, his eyes falling to the cutting board in front of me. “Have you ever prepped vegetables before?” He continued to stare at me, evaluating the spastic manner in which I wielded the knife around, causing chunks of onion to fly out in different directions.
Sighing with relief, I slammed the knife onto the counter. “No! I was wondering how long you were going to make me suffer through that before I actually had ask you for help. I didn’t expect you to make me chop things up like that right away
.”
His mouth fell open in disbelief. “You’re telling me you’re…twenty, right? And you’ve never chopped vegetables before?” he asked, trying to mask the humor in his voice as he shook his head. “Here, let me show you.” He slid behind me with ease; his chest pressed against my back as his arms reached around me, placing his hands on top of mine. He grabbed the onion with one hand and took the hand with the knife in the other. He began to lightly slice the onion in smooth, fluid movements.
I watched him do the work for me, praying that he truly knew what he was doing, because I lost all control and feeling in my limbs. Jhett’s chin rested just over my shoulder, sending a sudden rush of butterflies through my body as he took shallow breaths behind me.
Before I could relax against him, he moved back to his spot beside me and took the rest of the ingredients over to the stove with him; leaving me with an empty feeling where he had been.
“Could you bring those over to me when you’re done, please?” Jhett’s voice no longer held the playful tone to it from earlier. I was seriously beginning to wonder if it had something to do with me or if he really did have some type of schizophrenia. I collected the vegetables in the bowl and brought them over to Jhett, who was busy flipping the carne asada on a cast iron griddle. I decided that any question besides ‘Why did you just run away from my touch?’ would have been acceptable at the moment, in a heartfelt attempt to suck the awkwardness that lingered in the air.
I hopped up onto the counter next to the stove and watched him work his magic. “So - you know a lot about me, but I know next to nothing about you. How old are you?” I asked him, crossing my ankles in front of me.
“Is this like a game of twenty-one questions?” he retorted, never looking up from the stove.
“Yeah, except that I’m asking the questions and you just answer them. And no answering a question with a question. So, like I said, how old are you?” I leaned towards him, enthralled with his culinary skills.
“Old enough,” he snapped back.
I playfully punched him in the shoulder. He shot me a look that told me to just give it up. “Come on. This isn’t going to be any fun unless you play along. Lighten up and humor me.” Placing my hands on both sides of my legs, I swung by feet back and forth, waiting for his sour attitude to disappear.
He sighed, finally giving in to my game. “I just turned twenty-five a few weeks ago. Hand me that plate.”
I reached over and grabbed the plate. He started to warm up the tortillas in one pan while sautéing the vegetables in another. “So how do you even afford this place?” I blurted out, cringing when my mind caught up to what I just said. I meant to ask ‘What do you do for a living?’ but apparently I came down with a serious case of word vomit.
Jhett laughed - I mean really and truly, genuinely laughed. “I didn’t rob a bank or anything, so you can stop looking at me like I did. I was actually in a band for a few years. We got signed onto a record label when I was eighteen; we toured and put out albums up until a few years ago. After that, I only played music on the side and went to culinary school instead. That’s how I ended up here in San Diego. I learned how to invest wisely from a young age, and was able to buy this house from the sweet hippie I mentioned earlier. I’m also pursuing my options of being a chef at a little restaurant in town. You know, putting my schooling to good use,” he said, the conversation feeling natural and comfortable again.
“A musician-turned-chef. Interesting combination.” Amusement soaked my voice. “But I saw you playing guitar at The Pointe. So you still play, obviously?”
Jhett moved from the stove to the island, setting up our plates and the food in a buffet-style line. “So you did notice me? What was it about me that drew you in? My amazing hair? My killer guitar skills? Or was it love at first sight and you just couldn’t take your eyes off me?” he joked, handing me a plate. My body was frozen, making me nervous to think that my eyes might really bulge out of my head. “Relax, I was only kidding. What, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it back?” He shook his head and gathered up pieces of meat on his plate, taking a seat on one of the barstools at the counter.
I joined him back on my pink barstool. “Ha ha ha,” I pretended to laugh. “Keep dreaming, lover boy. This girl doesn’t believe in love at first sight. But I’ll throw you a bone. It was your tattoos. I’ve never seen so many on someone before.” I stopped and began to shovel the most delicious homemade Mexican food I ever tasted into my mouth. “Mmmm. This. Is. Amazing. I guess you weren’t lying about the chef part,” I said through very unladylike chewing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jhett stared at me with disbelief. “I’m beginning to wonder if you lived under a rock or in a convent or something. I’ve known you less than a week and already you’ve ridden your first bike, chopped your first vegetables, and you’re just now seeing someone with sleeves. What other ‘firsts’ can we make happen?” A new twinkle formed in his eyes.
His comment replayed in my head over and over as we finished our meal without talking. I tried to avoid having to respond to him, because it made me realize just how much of the ‘real world’ I had yet to see. I felt like a child in his presence, inexperienced and naïve. “That carne-whatever was seriously tasty. This was so much better than the take-out I’ve been living off of,” I said, getting up and dropping my plate in the sink.
Jhett followed behind me and started to rinse off the dishes that created a nice pile in the sink. “If you’re seriously going to stay, you’ve got to at least buy some groceries. Or you’re more than welcome to come over here and let me cook for you. It’s never any fun cooking just for one.” His voice wavered, only a little, making me wonder if it was sarcasm or sincerity.
“I’m sure you have plenty of girls lining up at your door for you to cook for and serenade them with your sweet, sweet, music. ‘Oh, Jhett! Please play me a song! Please cook for me!” I used the best southern accent I had, and then jumped back up onto the counter.
He spun around quickly, a towel rolled in his hands as he playfully snapped it at my feet. “Oh, yeah. That’s what they all sound like until they hear me sing. Then they’re running for the hills. Why don’t you hop down and meet me on the couch?” he told me before disappearing into one of the back rooms.
I sighed, not wanting to bounce right up and listen to him like a lost puppy dog, but there was no other option. I took my time making it to the oversized couches. Finding a spot in the corner, I pulled my feet up underneath me and enjoyed the feel of the cushions sucking me in. I felt relaxation wash over me as I closed my eyes and rested my head against a pillow behind me.
The couch shifted unexpectedly with the addition of its new occupant. Directly across from me sat Jhett with a guitar slung over his front, resting on his knees. He looked up at me with eyes that danced with enthusiasm. Only a dash of hesitation peeked through. “This is your last warning - your last chance to run out the door,” he said, and waited for my response.
All I could do was shake my head, eagerness keeping me silent where I sat.
He began to effortlessly strum the strings of his guitar, closing his eyes; fully immersing himself in the music. It was when he began to sing that I couldn’t catch my breath.
All of my dreams
Seem to fall by the side
Like a discarded thought
Or the day's fading light
But I know that if I could just
See you tonight
Forever
At times we may fall,
Like we all tend to do
But I'll reach out and find
That I've run into you
your strength is the power
That carried me through
Forever
Your kindness for weakness
I never mistook
I worried you often,
Yet you understood
That life is so fleeting,
These troubles won't last
Forever
Inspired me truly
You did from the start
To not be afraid
And to follow my heart
There's a piece of you with me
They can't tear apart
Forever
My chest tightened as the words enveloped me, forbidding any breath to escape as my heartbeat to pounded in my ears. I could feel it happening. I choked back the emotion that I buried deep inside my heart in that spot that was reserved for Cameron. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly as hot tears threatened to spill from them; pleading with myself to keep it together
“Charlie, are you okay? I warned you about my singing.” He set his guitar down and leaned it against the couch as he pushed himself forward, closer to me in my hole of self-pity, but only my silence answered him. “Hey, Charlie, look at me. Open your eyes. I’m sorry; I thought you would see the beauty in that song. Please, just open your eyes for me,” Jhett begged, his hand resting on my knee.
My emotions swirled with sorrow, confusion, hate, love, and so many other feelings that I couldn’t process. It was as if I’d been taken back to the day my mom told me that Cameron died. Finally, anger won.
“How dare you.” I spoke slowly, pronouncing every word as it came out. My eyes stung with the fresh tears that stained my face, as they finally met Jhett’s. He searched mine for answers I didn’t have. “You think you know what I’m feeling? You think you can waltz into my life and claim you knew my brother, and say that he was like family to you? I don’t know you, and you know nothing about me or my brother. You didn’t grow up with him. He wasn’t the one who made sure you were safe and okay when no one else was around. I don’t have him anymore. He’s gone - just like that. So no matter what you or anyone else says, he’s never coming back. He left me all alone when he promised he wouldn’t. He promised.” I screamed. I was a ticking time bomb ever since the day he left and I finally reached my breaking point. Somehow, I rose to my feet in the middle of my verbal attack.
Jhett looked up at me and tried to diffuse my emotion with his soft voice. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. I’ve lost people close to me too, and that song, it just-“
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