The other photo tells a slightly different story. Maybe the girls are high school age? Alexis has a smile plastered on her face with her hand on her dad’s shoulder. She also has her sister’s elbow propped on her shoulder, and the evil twin isn’t smiling. More like dripping with condescension, like she rules the roost.
The sound of Alexis banging something draws my attention to the kitchen, so I pull myself away from the photos and round the corner to find her pouring milk into a blue saucepan that has some of the decoration faded in spots. When she follows that up by pulling a rather large knife out of the block on the kitchen island, I hesitate by the cabinets and cross my arms over my chest. As she reaches onto an eye-level shelf and grabs a paper-wrapped hunk of chocolate, she catches me watching her.
“I don’t like the kind from a box,” she explains.
Part of me wonders if I should tell her that I wouldn’t know the difference. I can’t recollect ever having hot chocolate, from a box or otherwise. Except maybe once, but I wasn’t really paying attention to it.
Instead I just stand here leaning against the cabinets while she chops the chocolate with her knife.
“So, do you want to talk about your friends at the drug store?” she asks, low enough that I barely hear her over the rhythm of her knife hitting the cutting board.
The invite back inside was to get me to come clean about my dirt, I guess? She wants to make sure I won’t taint Bailey?
“I didn’t expect to see them,” I offer, hoping that will be enough to satisfy her curiosity.
“That doesn’t explain why you got uncomfortable.”
She’s relentless. Normally I would blow her off, but with me still feeling a little more regret than normal about the whole drunk episode, I’m having a hard time getting upset about it.
“Let’s just say I didn’t leave town on a high note.”
Scooping the chopped chocolate up in her hands, she drops it into the pot and grabs a metal whisk from a drawer. The only person I’ve ever watched cook before was my granny, and she wouldn’t have had chocolate. I think she did make me brownies once, but most of the time it was potatoes or eggs or fried spam. An occasional grilled cheese sandwich.
Alexis doesn’t remind me at all of my granny, just to be clear.
“You didn’t actually do anything, though.”
Her words come out like a statement tinged with a hint of a question. Like she wants to think that it’s true, but she’s not quite sure.
“Other than running my mouth, no.”
“So, is she your ex or something?”
I should have known better than to open this can of worms.
“Nope. She moved here last spring.”
“Did you guys fight over her?”
If I was lying on a couch, I’d swear I was talking to a shrink. Glancing into the living room, I ponder my options. Say I just walk away…is that rude? Will she follow me?
“Don’t answer that. I know I’m being nosy.”
Her focus never moves from the stove, so I resign myself to pulling a chair away from the kitchen table and straddling it, placing my arms on the back.
“No, we didn’t fight over her. She met him first, and that was that. Until it wasn’t, and I told him, and he asked me not to tell her. But I told her too, because I’m just that stupid. So there’s your whole idiotic story.” A raw, irrational laugh comes from somewhere inside, completely unintentional and surprising. “And what’s worse? The woman somehow threw me off. I’ve not been out seriously with anyone since I met her. It’s like I forgot how to be me.”
It dawns on me a little too late that I probably shouldn’t be talking to Alexis about my dates or lack thereof, but she just keeps stirring away like we’re talking about the weather.
“So you told Cole that you had feelings for his wife?” she finally clarifies. Since she glances my way, I nod rather than admitting it out loud. “Either he values your friendship, or he’s a really forgiving guy, because he didn’t seem angry with you.”
“That makes it worse, right?”
“For him or for you?” She turns to her right and grabs a couple mugs that swing on hooks by the coffeepot. “Are you still in love with her?”
Always with that word. Why do people naturally assume that you’re in love with someone? Love is what my dad has for my mom. It’s not attractive or particularly healthy.
“No, I’m not in love with her. She was intriguing when I met her, and then she and Parker were together and he was different somehow. I suppose I just wanted…” My words break off as a new thought burns its way into my head. Alexis pays it no heed as she holds the steaming mug out to me, then lifts herself onto the kitchen counter to sit in front of me. Something tells me she wouldn’t do that if her parents were home.
“You just wanted to be happy like him?”
Couch or none, I’m pretty sure she’s psychoanalyzing me.
“It’s sick, isn’t it? I wish I would have figured that out a couple months ago. Could have saved myself a lot of trouble.”
“You wouldn’t have followed us to Louisville.”
I squint as I look up at her, because staring openly at her while admitting to being a jerk isn’t appealing.
“Do I have to say that out loud?” I ask, and she shakes her head. Oddly relieved, I bring the mug up and take a sip of the brown liquid, searing every taste bud on the end of my tongue. An expletive flies out before I have a chance to drag it back in.
“Might be hot,” she manages a few seconds too late.
“Might be,” I agree as she smiles. She has an unbelievable smile—the kind that would make a man do almost anything to see it again. Since I’m usually not able to put that on her face, I should probably give up the idea.
“Listen, can I ask you a serious question?”
Just like that, the smile is gone and I’m a little wary of this conversation. Weren’t we just being serious?
“Shoot.”
“My mom thinks it’s weird that Bailey calls you by your name. What do you think about that?”
“She calls me J.”
“Because she has problems saying Jake.”
“Oh.” I pause to think about it while I bring the hot chocolate up again, carefully taking a tiny sample. “I thought we just had a nickname thing going, but it’s fine. I mean, what else would she call me?”
She takes a really long, exaggerated sip of her hot chocolate, and doesn’t even bother to bring the mug down. No way is she flat drinking that stuff. If so, she’d be scalding her throat. She just doesn’t want to say the “d” word, and I don’t either.
“Jake’s cool, so don’t worry about it. And tell your mom that I’m okay with it, too.”
“Thanks,” she whispers, finally pulling the mug down from her face. Drink faker. I’ve done it so many times with beer bottles, I know it when I see it.
A muffled sound comes from the living room, and then the sound of the door clicking. Alexis slides down from the countertop and stands in front of me with her hands wrapped around the mug.
“All clear?” Mr. Jennings asks as he pokes his head around the corner, Bailey asleep against his shoulder. I assume he’s talking about the present wrapping, but since Alexis deposited the wrapping paper on the couch when we got back, it’s pretty clear there was no wrapping happening here.
“Sure, Dad. Did she tucker out?” Alexis steps toward her father and pushes Bailey’s hair away from her face.
“Yep. The hymn singing put her out like a light.”
Yikes. That would put me out like a light, too.
Sensing a family moment, I begin moving in the direction of the living room, stopping short when Mrs. Jennings steps in front of me.
“It’s late, honey. Why don’t you just stay the night?”
Mrs. Jennings kind of weirds me out, if I’m being honest. She reminds me of that Ashley’s wife from Gone with the Wind, the quiet one who Scarlett was always walking over. My granny practically wore out that VHS
tape while I lived with her, and I can probably quote whole scenes from that movie. The fact that I can’t remember the wife’s name at the moment is a little strange.
“No, I can’t impose on you, especially not on Christmas.”
“It’s no imposition. You can sleep on the couch or in Heather’s old room.”
I force my attention away from her as I try to stall for a minute. Would it be preferable to stay in a real house instead of a hotel room for a change? For sure. I’ve been in a cramped hotel room for months. And Mrs. J will probably make an awesome breakfast in the morning. But there’s no way Alexis will be cool with the arrangement.
A hand takes my arm just above the elbow, and I look over to see Alexis standing beside me.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
So she’s going to tell me flat out to go home. Not that I didn’t expect it, but I didn’t think she’d have the nerve to do it in front of her parents.
I follow her down the hall until she steps into a bedroom and closes the door behind her. Awaiting the inevitable, I shove my hands into my pockets and rock back onto my heels slightly.
“Listen, we’re not friends, okay?”
Man, she’s brutal.
“Yeah, not friends. Got it.”
“I mean, the hot chocolate and the talking…it doesn’t change anything.”
“Okay.” Why she seems intent to emasculate me at the moment is beyond my understanding, so I just try not to smile as she continues to look perfectly serious.
“Thanks. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. Spending the night here, I mean. You shouldn’t be alone at Christmas, so I’m okay with it, but that doesn’t mean that you and I—”
“Definitely not,” I agree, nodding my head. “I’m screwed up, and you’re you.”
She tilts her head to the side as she gives me a half-hearted glare. If she wasn’t being rude in her passive-aggressive way, I might think it was cute.
Stepping past her, I grab the doorknob and move into the hall, turning around to give her a parting half-grin.
“Glad we got that straightened out, Alex.”
Chapter Seventeen
Alexis
There’s something disconcerting about being the last person awake on Christmas morning. To pry one dry eye open, blinking into the partial darkness because it’s just a wee bit too early, only to find the place beside me that Bailey occupied now vacant.
Of course that slight annoyance at finding her missing turns into a more searing grumble when I remember that Jake’s here. As if the universe isn’t stacked against me enough as it is, apparently it’s necessary to give Jake constant refreshers in the course of “Alexis isn’t a great mom.” First the incident at McDonald’s when Bailey wouldn’t listen to me, then the time she opened the door without my knowledge. Now she’s randomly strolling about the house while I’m in bed.
Yep, that’s me. Mother of the year.
Part of me wants to rush out into the living room to confirm my worst suspicions, but instead I calmly march myself to the bathroom and give the doorknob a tug, finding that it’s locked. Leaning against the wall, I calmly wait about thirty seconds until the guilty party steps through the door. The scent of his cologne seems to walk out in front of him, and immediately my eyes fly up to that face that I’ve studied more in the past day than in the sum of the past three years.
Jake nods when he sees me, and I brush past him as quickly as possible. Locking myself in the bathroom might seem safe, but not when I manage to trap the scent of the man inside the confined space with me. The warm, woodsy-spicy hints of his cologne make me feel flustered, sleazy, and desirable. I mean, makes Jake seem desirable.
Sweet sister Susie, I mean undesirable! Undesirable.
One glance in the mirror solidifies the whole undesirable thing with such an emphatic exclamation point that I can practically see it on my forehead. I really need to learn not to fall asleep with my hair in a makeshift bun. The right side is still in a haphazard updo, but the left is twisted and tangled above my eye like it’s an ivy vine that tried to sprout and make its way up the headboard during the night. Pathetic. And with some beautiful dark circles under my eyes to boot.
Completely unfair, because it’s hard to sleep when you know there’s a half-crazy man in your house. Sure, I feel slightly more comfortable with him now that I know a bit more about his past, but he’s still Jake. I’ll never be comfortable with Jake.
The man definitely knows how to put me in an uncomfortable position, though. I’d prefer to comb my hair and look a little more presentable, but he’s already seen me. There’s a fine line between looking normal and trying too hard. No way do I want him to think I’m prettying myself up for his benefit. But I really don’t want him to sit there thinking about how gross I am, either.
I doubt that I’ve ever had such a ridiculous conversation with myself.
Deciding on a less-is-more approach, I brush my teeth and smooth my hair into a new ponytail that looks purposeful rather than random.
Mom is the first person I see when I come around the corner, sitting on the loveseat alone. Dad is looking cozy on the recliner with Bailey on his lap, and Heather is looking a little too cozy sitting next to Jake on the couch. Well, her person is looking cozy anyway. Her outfit is more Friday night dance party, apart from the snow boots. Why is she wearing snow boots if there’s no snow outside?
No sign of the guy from yesterday, so either he’s toast or she didn’t invite him. Interesting turn of events either way.
“Bailey, did you wake Gump and Nan?” I ask, crossing the room to place a kiss on her forehead.
She opens her eyes wide as she stares up at me, her own hair looking a bit like mine did a moment ago. “Nope. Gump woke Bailey up and said sssshhhhhhh.”
“Told you to be quiet? Why would he do that?”
She holds her finger to her lips and makes the hissing noise again. “Don’t bother Mommy.”
“Dad! She’s my daughter, she’s not bothering me. Good grief.”
“You looked tired,” he says matter-of-factly.
Thanks, Dad. Next time just announce the fact that I look horrible and save us some trouble.
“And Heather was here,” Mom adds. “She was eager to get the show on the road.”
Eager to get herself pressed up next to Jake is more like it. Totally disgusting and weird. I know technically Jake and I have never really been together in a normal couple sense, but she should have a little class. I’d be satisfied with very little. I’m talking the end of her pinky finger, if nothing else. That would be enough to make her wear a real shirt for Christmas morning instead of a tight white sweater with the shoulders cut out and a plunging V-neck.
“Just wanted to be with the fam, that’s all.” Heather’s explanation might seem valid to anyone unfamiliar with her normal actions, but I see right through her charade.
Thinking about Heather’s actions is an exercise in futility, though, and I don’t have much chance to ponder it before Bailey insists that she be allowed to open some presents. In a flash, she has two Barbies unwrapped and is begging my dad to release them from their boxes. Jake speaks up and asks Bailey if he can open the boxes, so she carries them to him with a shrug and goes back to her other presents. He slides the pocketknife from his jeans so easily, it almost looks like a national extension of his arm movement. As he slices through the tape at the side of the box, I can’t help but notice that he moves further from Heather on the couch. It’s most likely an attempt to keep her away from the knife, but it makes me feel slightly better about the situation.
In fact, there’s a slow burn in the pit of my stomach that’s trying to force me to go over to the couch and sit between them. The only thing stopping me is the fact that I would look ridiculous and jealous. And the fact that I haven’t taken a shower yet today. Do I really want to put my faded blue plaid pajamas up against Heather’s Victoria’s Secret sweater and faux leather pants? It would feel almo
st like one of those before-and-after comparisons on a makeover show.
I don’t feel like being a “before” today.
Jake brings his eyes up from the box he’s working on to glance in my direction, catching me staring. This is when he would normally give me one of those cocky smiles and put his dimple to good use, but instead he looks back down at his hands.
I’ve broken Jake’s spirit. I’m a horrible person.
But it’s not my fault that we ran into his friends last night and he started acting so weird. And I’m certainly not to blame for the fact that he was so confrontational afterwards. How could we not have words with the way he was acting? Sure, I feel a little guilty about jumping to conclusions, but I tried to make up for it by inviting him to come back inside. Had I known my mother was going to convince him to spend the night, I might have made sure he was gone long before they got home.
Nothing excuses the way I acted after, though. “We’re not friends.” As though he thought we were, really. I mean, I might as well have placed a giant sign around my neck that said, “I’m a first-class snot.”
He focuses his blue eyes on me again, causing me to realize with a start that I haven’t taken my eyes off him. Wouldn’t that be a perfect way to spend Christmas morning? Making moony eyes at Jake while he sits next to Heather in her revealing top? What a depressing yuletide prospect.
Worrying about Jake could cause me to miss out on the joy of watching Bailey experience Christmas morning, so I force myself to focus on my little sweetheart. Her baby-fine curls swing while she dances around in front of my dad. They’ve given her some sort of fake guitar toy with a bunch of light-up buttons, and suddenly she’s Jimi Hendrix. Paler, shorter, and three years old, but she’s mastering that plastic instrument like a rock legend.
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