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WALKING AWAY FROM HER in this moment is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. She’s hurt and vulnerable. Even though she’s taken pains to cover it up, I can see that she’s been crying, and it doesn’t sit well with me. I’m the cause. For a moment, for just a moment, I’d been about to bite my pride and ask Jillian if she’d like a job at the ranch. Even though my gut is twisted in my mid-section, and my heart aches at the thought of seeing her every day, of being within arm’s reach of her and not being able to hold her, I’d almost gotten past all those feelings and asked her. When I’d seen her smug little face, like she knew I was desperate to play the hero, and she was waiting for the offer, it pissed me off.
It was one thing to know she didn’t have feelings for me anymore, to understand that she chose a career over a quiet family life, and I was okay with that, but it was quite another to have her thinking I was miserable without her. Everyone needs to find their place in this world, Jillian is no exception. But sitting across from her at the table, her thoughts clear that I wasn’t over her yet, she’d infuriated me. Next thing you know, I’m telling her off like it isn’t anyone’s business, and I’ve no idea why the hurtful words came out.
What I wanted to do was slam back my chair, walk right around that table, take her in my arms and bend her over as I kissed her until she changed her mind. I should've kissed her until she loved me again. Instead, as I find my way out of the Turner’s house, a place I’d practically grown up in and know like the back of my own hand, I have no idea how to make this right.
My feet hit the porch and travel onward with new determination. I always work better when I’m angry. Not that I’m angry, really, I’d say I’m bothered. I’d wager I can unpack more than half of that truck by the time Gibson finishes his shower and makes it outside. Boy can take some long showers. One after another, I grab boxes out of her blue pick-up and set them on the gravel drive-way. Trying to group them as either home or personal, to make unpacking easier on her, I read her scrawling handwriting on the boxes. Dishes. Toiletries. Towels. Decorations.
Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down the side of my face, and the warmth of the May afternoon holds me in its embrace. Decorations? Taking a break from the work, I stand up and look between the house and the shed to the woods behind, my eyes focusing on nothing but the warm breeze that tickles the green tree leaves. It makes me wonder how she decorates her Christmas tree. Does she have those fancy glass ornaments all in one color with a theme? Or, does she decorate more traditionally with all the festive colors of the season and with candy canes and tinsel? I remember our first Christmas together as a couple. Her feelings had taken her by surprise, but I had always known I loved her. After all, why does a boy of twelve bother to chase his best friend’s sister around with frogs?
Shaking my head to clear it, I take my sweat-soaked shirt off, laying it across the tailgate of the truck, and get back to work. The truck won’t unload itself. Another three boxes in, and the sound of the door opening makes me look up. Gibson lopes down the steps, taking them two at a time, and saunters over to me with a cocky grin on his face. I fix him with a pointed stare, wondering what he’s so glib about.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing,” he says as he swings his hands around, cracks his knuckles, and does a fake stretch.
Oh, it’s definitely something, but I know his weakness. If I ignore him like I don’t care, he’ll come off it faster than if I plague him with questions. Turning towards the truck, I grab another box and read it’s marking. Lingerie and sweats. Really? I look up at the sky. I’m a man, not a saint. Before I can set the box down in the personal group, I turn to face Gibson who has managed to walk around my pile of boxes to the truck.
Nodding in his direction I ask, “You gonna help?”
“I don’t know,” he says and shrugs playfully, “looks like you’ve got it about wrapped up.” He nods at the back of the nearly empty truck.
“They still have to go inside, Gibson.” I remind him.
“Or we could leave them out here for her.” Gibson laughs, putting his hands in his pockets. I know he just got a face full of wine, but still...
“In which case your dad would end up doing all the work. You know her as well as I do.” I joke and laugh with him.
“Nice.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but underneath there’s a ringing sound of hurt. “I’m not lazy, Jax, and I’m not spoiled,” she yells at me. “I can move this shit by myself. I don’t need your help. Go home.”
The door slams, and she stomps down the stairs. I can’t even swallow the lump in my throat. I give Gibson an I’ll-get-you-later-for-not-warning-me look and find myself speechless. She angrily grabs at the box in my hands, and when she turns, her hair flings into my face, the smell of her shampoo mixing with her all too familiar scent of coconut and lime, and I want to die. The warmth that builds in my groin is tramped out by the pang in my heart and this unexpected need I suddenly feel to throw up my supper. I literally drove somewhere in the neighborhood of 1700 miles to fix things with her, and instead, I’ve botched everything up. The only thing I’ve done a great job of is alienating us. I’m sure she feels like I hate her. Not knowing what to do, I grab another box out of the truck. How am I ever going to fix this?