“That’s not necessary—” I start.
“Are we going tocleantoday?” Parker asks in disbelief, apparently floored that the apartment doesn’t actually do that itself.
“You and I are, but Jack is going to relax and read his book,” I tell him, trying not to laugh when he tips his head back and groans.
“No, I’ll help!” Jack tells me, stepping into the bathroom and rubbing a hand over where his blush has crawled down his neck. “It’ll be fun, and we’ll get everything done quicker if we all work together.”
Parker’s jaw drops, and this time I don’t manage to bite back a laugh. He looks horrified. Before he can offer to join Jack, I point at him.
“Washing,” I instruct. “Put it all away in the right spots, and then you’re free.”
Grumbling, he leaves me and Jack alone in the bathroom. It suddenly feels a great deal smaller than it did before, with Jack’s wide shoulders and long legs taking up the space. It’s not lost on me that I’m also kneeling right now, which puts his waist directly in my line of sight.
“You really don’t have to join the cleaning party,” I tell him, looking resolutely at his eyes.
“I don’t mind helping out—I want to.” He shrugs, giving me a closed-mouth, somewhat shy, smile.
“Well, I’m in no position to turn down help. Have a crack at it. Supplies are in the hall closet—help yourself. I’ll finish up here and join you, okay?”
Thirty minutes later, with my bathroom rubbish clutched in one hand, I head down to Parker’s room to check the progress of washing and his own bathroom. I clean it twice a week, yet somehow it seems to resist staying that way.
“I’m doing it,” Parker says, the moment I walk through the door, shaking a pair of jeans at me and scowling. I cuff him on the head as I walk by.
“Thanks, little man.” The bathroom isn’t bad enough to warrant special attention, so I add his rubbish to mine and decide the rest of the apartment is in more need than this. I turn to Parker. “You want to vacuum in here, once you get that all hung up?”
He brightens. The kid loves to vacuum.
“Okay,” he agrees, haphazardly folding the jeans he’s holding and shoving them into the dresser. I watch them disappear, and am reminded of yet another thing I’ve forgotten to get done.
“We need to get you some new clothes,” I tell him. He shrugs, unconcerned that all of his pants are capris at this point.
Leaving him to the adolescent hell of being made to do chores, I head into the kitchen, bringing a waft of cleaning solution with me. Jack is seated on the floor, legs crossed, with the contents of the pantry spread around him. The clear bins I’d purchased in a fit of organizational madness are laid out in an orderly row. He’s even rustled up a roll of masking tape and Sharpie for labeling.
“Damn, Jacko, look at you,” I say, impressed. He tips his head back to look at me, looming above him, and grins. My fingers prickle with the awareness of how easy it would be to slide them into his hair. I pick up the nearest bin, labeled “cookies.”
“I figured you could put that one on the top shelf,” he jokes carefully, grinning when I laugh. Taking a seat next to him, I rub my hands together.
“All right. Let’s organize the shit out of this.”
Cracking open the container of Oreo cookies in case we need sustenance, we get to work. Seated together on the floor, knees bumping and arms brushing as we reach across one another, I find myself enjoying the task far more than I would have had I been forced to do it alone. We don’t talk much beyond the occasional joke about expiration dates, or a laugh about how stale is too stale for a bag of chips. Jack is so relaxed there’s not even a hint of a blush on his cheeks—nothing but pale skin and a party of freckles.
“I think these are still good,” he says, rolling down the top of a bag of potato chips. “They’re a little stale, but you could have them with dip and you wouldn’t even notice.”
“Or let the ten-year-old eat them.” Standing up, knees protesting after having been in that position for too long, I grab two of the bins and bring them to the pantry. “He ate a moldy piece of bread last week, before I noticed.”
Jack laughs, joining me and handing off the bins as I put them on the shelves. We stand back to admire our handiwork, shoulder to shoulder. When I glance at him, my stomach dives gracefully to my toes. He’s so sweet.
Ask him out, Victoria urges. I look away. Icouldask him out. I could do it right now and ensure the pleasure of hiscompany here on more days than just Saturday. I could spend time with him that didn’t involve washing.
“I’m going to tackle the refrigerator next,” he tells me, sounding unduly excited. Looks like I’m not the only one who was bit with the cleaning bug.
“You’ll need a rubbish bag,” I tell him dryly, thinking of the likely abysmal state of the expiration dates in there.
Eventually, Parker manages to slog his way through his washing and joins us in the kitchen. He ends up being a little more of a hindrance than a help, as his contribution is to dig into the recently organized snacks and eat them all.
“I forgot about these,” he exclaims happily, opening the bag of chips Jack and I had decided might be a little too stale. I catch his eye, and we share a smile.
Even with two adults and one begrudging pre-teen helping, it’s hours before we flop down on the couch in the now-clean family room. Parker, who did the least amount of work, groans dramatically and makes a production of having limp noodles for arms. Jack bursts out laughing, which makes both me and Parker smile, although I suspect for different reasons. There’s a big difference between the Jack I coached at hockey practice, and the one who uses my washing machine and plays Minecraft with my kid. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s perfectly relaxed, but a great deal of that stress has been released and it shows. He smiles easier, blushes less, and will occasionally let himself loosen up enough to laugh like this—unselfconscious and joyful. I want to be around him enough to enjoy it more often.
