I’m waiting for the waitress to place the order when I overhear some women behind me whispering.
“I don’t understand why every man in this town drools over Jessie. They all know who her parents are.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised the hospital hasn’t busted her for stealing pills for her father to sell.”
The other woman laughs.
I grind my teeth.
“No kidding. I wonder how many times she’s pumped her mother’s stomach after an overdose.”
Are they serious? Her dad is a drug dealer, and her mom is an addict? It wouldn’t matter to me. Who Jessie is matters to me. But what did that mean for Jessie growing up? She said it was rough, but that seems like an understatement now.
That day I overheard a man at the door telling her not to be a bitch, I flew to my feet, prepared to punch the dude in the mouth. I pulled up short when the rest processed: “yourold man.” I quickly gathered the man was her father. When he pushed too far, I stepped in, somehow managing to stay calm until he made another crass comment.About his daughter. Who talks about their own daughter that way? I wanted to knock his teeth out—and worse—but it was clear Jessie didn’t want me to interfere further.
After he left and we fought, neither of us brought it up again. I’m a fixer. It bothers me when my friends or family have problems in their lives. Big or small, I always want to help make things right.
Our conversation upset her, so I didn’t push it, but I damn sure haven’t forgotten. The closest we got to discussing it again were her whispered words in the dark late that night. If what these women say is true, I understand her fear better now. I could see the violence in her father’s eyes and the fear in hers. But Jessie’s got it all wrong—that doesn’t make me want to stay away, it makes me want to pull her close.
“That will be $52.90.” The waitress pulls my attention from the women running their mouths.
“Thanks.” I hand her my card.
I don’t get time to wonder more about Jessie’s childhood before she comes up behind me and pinches me on the side. “Ouch!”
She scoffs. “Aren’t you supposed to be a rough-and-tough bull rider?”
“That depends.” I smirk at her. “Do you have a thing for rough-and-tough bull riders?”
She gives me an unimpressed look, but her cheeks flush. “You have to stop paying. I can buy my own food.”
“I know you can, but I want to. I also ordered Gran something. Figured we could drop it off.”
Her eyes soften, and she nods. “Thanks. She’ll love that.”
I don’t knock as I stride into Dot’s house, holding the door open for Jessie. I haven’t knocked since the second time I came over, and Dot threw a ball of yarn at me.
“I’m eighty years old,” she’d said. “You think I want to get up and answer a knock at the door? Mercy, you’re thick as molasses in January.”
“Dot!” I holler when I see she’s not in her chair in the living room.
“Laundry room,” she calls back.
Jessie skips ahead of me. “We brought you a burger and shake.”
“Oh, thank you, dears. I was just about to see what I could scrounge up for dinner.” She places the shirt she was folding on the top of her laundry pile and we all move to the table.
Jessie sets the milkshake in front of her and pulls out the burger and fries.
“Is that a strawberry milkshake? I haven’t had one of those in years.”
“Thank Trey; it was his idea. Careful, though—he’s going to try convincing you that dipping your fries in it actually tastes good.”
Dot scrunches her nose. “That’s just not right.” She turns to Jessie. “Do you think all the concussions affected his taste buds?”
“Haha, very funny. For your information, I’ve only gotten one concussion.” Since moving in with Jessie, Dot and I have struck up quite the friendship. It’s nice. My grandparents all passed before I was old enough to know them, so visiting Dotand helping around her house has felt a little bit like having a grandma. She’s quick as a whip, always making me laugh, and I never go hungry around here. Between the baked goods and her homemade, from-scratch meals, I think I’ve put on at least five pounds. “Y’all don’t know what you’re missing.”
Jessie and Dot chat while she eats. Before long, we’ve all shifted to the living room and Jessie is settled on the opposite end of the couch from me, legs stretched out, feet almost touching my thigh.
