I glance at my mom for answers and she’s smiling so big I want to throw something at her.
“You wouldn’t answer and I haven’t seen you since—I just wanted to make sure you’re…”
He trails off and I lift a brow and look him over. He’s in jeans and the soft grey tee with the little tear on the sleeve that he seems to live in on the weekends. His hair is damp, and it curls around his ears, no sight of the stubble he usually sports after a day at work. Did he shave for this? I almost ask when I catch my mom looking between us like her neck is on a swivel setting. I clear my throat and tilt my head in a very unsubtle way toward the closest kitchen exit.
She lifts up her hands and submits.
“Lovely speaking to you, Jeff. I do hope you can join us for dinner. And dessert. And maybe break?—"
“Mom.”
“Alright. Alright. I’ll be upstairs. With my beats on, music blaring, not listening to whatever you two?—”
“Mom!”
She turns to leave and Jeff calls after her, “Goodnight, Mrs.—”
“Jeff, for the last time, if you don’t call me Kathy, I’ll make you clean the chicken shit off the deck,” Mom says as she ascends.
I wrinkle my nose and shudder. I had to use a window scraper last time.
I shift my focus back to Jeff, whose dimple is in full effect as he watches my mother slide out of the kitchen with Brutus following close behind.
“She has your sense of humor,” he says.
“I’m way funnier than her,” I tell him. He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, you didn’t need to come all the way over here. I’m fine. Really.”
He lifts a brow. Makes a patronizing noise in the back of his throat. “Fine doesn’t go into hiding for weeks at a time,” he says.
Who does this man think he is? Telling me I’m not fine. Pffft.
“Don’t tell me my business, Dr. Dick. I don’t go around telling you who and how to slice and dice.”
He slides his hands out of his pockets and leans back against the island.
“As fun as this is, I’m not here to fight with you.”
I let my face fall into a pretend pout. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m ‘showing up’,” he tells me, making air quotes. Like I’m supposed to know what that means.
“Stalking and ‘showing up’ are two different animals.” I air quote right back, but move to the opposite side of the kitchen island for safety reasons. I refold a dishtowel a few times, avoiding the intensity of his gaze.
Meredith told me earlier today that Jeff was worried—that I should call him. But I didn’t think he’d “show up” here like this. Looking all kind and concerned and hot AF. I know if I lift his shirt I’ll see my best friend's name scrawled across his chest because this has Meredith written all over it. I open the fridgeand grab two beers, talking over my shoulder like his presence is not sending my body into hyperdrive.
I slide the beer across the island toward where Jeff is standing, eyeing me like I’m not a sweaty, disheveled mess who played five classes worth of Unicorn Fraction Horn Toss—like my eyes aren’t bloodshot and red rimmed and lifeless from sleepless nights of sorrow.
“What’s that?” I take a sip of beer and point at the paper bag on the table next to a bunch of DVDs.
Jeff doesn’t look away from my face.
“I brought movies,” he says smoothly.
“I see that, but why did you go all Fred Flinstone and bring DVDs?”
He shrugs. “I noticed your mom had a DVD player last time I was here.”
“Another tally under the stalker column,” I murmur into my beer.
