It’s getting dark by the time I go back upstairs, though it’s not that late. I’m hungry and agitated, a new combination I put down to skipping lunch and missing Jax, but the moment I see my phone flashing with a new message I forget about food and leap on it like a man possessed.
Jax:I can hang…if you come with me to buy bed sheets. If I go on my own it’ll take me all night.
Interesting. For the life of me, I can’t figure why it’s a task that would take him so long, but when I meet him on the Church Street mall a half hour later, I get it. He wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn’t do well with choices, and the overloaded store—seriously, there’s a million and one types of crap I don’t care about—has enough variety to give him a headache.
I stand behind him and try not to obsess over how good he looks in my jeans—though they’re his jeans now, I guess. At least, I hope he sees it that way. “What size is your bed?”
“Dunno. This size?” Jax throws his hands out in a vague gesture.
“Erm…okay. Mine’s a queen. Is it as big as that?”
“I don’t know that either. Last time I was in it I wasn’t paying attention to how big your mattress was.”
He’s not trying to be funny—he seems genuinely annoyed that he’s finding this so difficult—but I smile all the same, and move closer to him, fitting my body to his from behind.
Jax leans back, tilting his head to frown at me. “I’m just gonna get the blue ones and hope for the best.”
“You like blue?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I like blue too, but it has nothing to do with sheets and everything to do with his wide eyes. Also, the way he’s looking at me has totally exposed his throat, and if he doesn’t move soon, I’m going to kiss him there with no fucking care for whoever might see us.
He does move, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or bereft, but by the time he’s paid for his sheets and we’re outside again, I’m good with the world. With his grand purchase out of the way, Jax is as chill as I’ve ever seen him. His easy smile is back, and damn, I love that smile.
We meander aimlessly along the sidewalk. I want to ask him what he wants to do tonight, but figure he needs a minute before I drop that on him. Then the conversation we had less than twenty-four hours ago comes back to me, and I ask him anyway.
Predictably, Jax shrugs, but I see him catch the first answer that comes to him and swallow it down. “I’m hungry,” he says instead. “Can we eat Vermont food somewhere and get drunk?”
Works for me. And if there’s one thing I know in life it’s, where to get good food in Burlington.
I take him to a family joint that serves breakfast all day long in diner-style booths. They light candles in the evening and serve Shipley cider with eggs, bacon, and waffles, and just about any other breakfast food you can think of. And I know Jax likes Shipley cider. Honestly, who doesn’t?
And I love watching him eat. Maybe it’s the shit ton of maple syrup I pour on my giant stack of pancakes, but it gets me feeling some type of way. When we’re done with dinner, we stay in our booth and drink cider. Jax is opposite me, his legs tangled with mine, but as the fruity liquor settles in my belly, he’s nowhere near close enough.
I lean back in my seat and tilt my head. “Come here?”
He smirks, slides out of his seat, and ducks around the table. His body feels good against mine. Too good. I want to take him home, but I settle for draping my arm across the back of the seat. “I keep meaning to tell you that you left your, uh, shark box behind my couch.”
“I know. I’m good at that.”
“At what?”
“At leaving it places. It’s weird, I can’t bring myself to get rid of it, but I don’t want it too close.”
“So you left it there on purpose?”
“Not consciously, but I’m not sad about it.”
I process that. It doesn’t make much in logical terms, but somehow I get it. “Well, it’s still there whenever you want it. I’ll keep it forever if you want.”
Jax knocks his head on my shoulder. “I like the sound of that.”
The server comes back with more cider before I can respond, and by the time she’s gone, the moment has passed. And it’s probably just as well. Jax makes my head spin just by existing. He doesn’t need to know that every sweet thing he says to me robs me of coherent thought.
We drink more cider. Conversation is easy. Leaning ever closer to each other is even easier. By the time I’m comfortably lit, we’re inches apart as we talk, and I’ve given up the pretense of not having my arm around him.
Jax is tracing the ink on my wrist.
