“What are we gonna do today?”
I sit at the chair next to him, reaching over to comb his hair out of his face. “I don’t know, what sounds fun to you?”
“I was asking Jim,” he says with a smirk. Jim bellows at the stove.
“What am I? Chopped liver? A squid sandwich!” I put a hand over my chest faking hurt.
Jackson thinks for a moment. “You can join us, too, if it’s okay with Jim.”
“What do you think, Jim?” I ask as he comes to the table with pancakes. He sets the plate next to a bowl with diced bananas, grapes, and strawberries.
He sits down, serves some to Jackson and to me, then to himself. Then he sits and ponders for a minute and lets out a sigh. “I just don’t know, that’s a tough call. What do you think about letting your mom hang out with us, maybe just this one time?”
I grab the can of whipped cream from the center of the table, shaking it and turning it upside down, finger ready to swirl over Jackson’s pancakes, but pausing to see if he will be tempted.
He rests his chin on his hand and taps it with his pointer. “I guess.”
“I’m so honored to be included.”
I spray a hearty amount of topping on his pancakes and then scoop a spoonful of fruit on his plate and Jim’s before settling in on my own.
I bite into my pancakes with a moan. They may not look like bears, or even a mouse really, but they are damn delicious and I tell Jim so.
“Glad you like them,” he says with a mouthful. “I was actually thinking, you mentioned you wanted a garden in the backyard. It’s still early enough in the summer we could probably find some small, raised beds. We could plant a few things that grow quickly, or transplant your tomato plants from their cartons and give them a little more space to grow.”
I nearly drop my fork. “You’d want to do that? And more importantly, you know how to do that? How to make raised beds? I was just going to find a sunny spot and dig a hole, plant my sad plants and hope for the best.”
“I don’t know about making them, but I’ll ask my dad where they’ve gotten theirs in the past. My mom always swore by raised beds, less weeds that way I guess. I’m sure we can buy them somewhere around the city.”
“Well if it was good enough for your mom, it is good enough for me.” I reach under the table and squeeze his knee. “Thank you.”
“That sounds boring,” Jackson adds.
Jim looks at him, a broad smile on his face. “Well, I’ll need a helper to plan, and to pick out really nice ones, so I hope you still hang out with us. We could probably convince your mom to let us go to the park, and maybe get ice cream, once all the boring stuff is done.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Iheard there is a performance ofLes Misérablesat the Auditorium Theater this weekend.”
“Oh?” Jim pulls the dinner plate from my hand as he begins drying it. “That reminds me of high school. Did you ever have to read that book? I took a French class in tenth grade and they made us read all of those classic French novels. I don’t think I could tell you what it was about, besides that there might have been a prostitute in it.”
Something like that I guess.
In the weeks following Marissa’s death, Jim has spent nearly every free day here with us. He comes over some evenings after his twenty-four hour shift, eyes heavy with fatigue. He’ll take a hot shower, scarf down some dinner and immediately start a game with Jackson.
By nine at night he’s spent, eyes drifting closed on the couch. He doesn’t ask to stay, but I’m more than happy to lead him by the hand to my bedroom. He crawls under the covers, and once I join, his body finds mine just like it did that night so many months ago. He wraps his arm around my stomach, pulling me in until my back melts to his chest, our feet tangled in one another. Every now and then, I wake at a miserable hour in thenight, and my mind goes to Marissa. My heart shatters all over again, and I try my best to stay silent, letting the pillow muffle my sobs.
Jim always finds me. He crawls to my side, keeps his body wrapped around mine as a buoy, holding tight. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t need to. His touch is enough to calm the worst of the storm and lull me back to sleep. I find myself wishing he’d stay every night, and missing him when he’s gone, his side of the bed too cold and empty for my liking.
“You speak French? Tell me something sexy.”
He thinks for a moment, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed before slurring, “Le poulet est sec.”
“Was that something about sex?”
“I told you—the chicken is dry.”
I bark out a laugh, having to bend over to catch my breath. “The chicken is dry? You learned one of the sexiest languages in the world and all you can tell me is that the chicken is dry? I think your French flirting is right on par with your crummy pick-up lines, Charlie-Boy.”
