Tony
I’ve always been a sound sleeper. Jake used to joke that it was my superpower. Unless I had a good reason to stay awake, if for example, there was a hot guy in bed with me, one with a really big…agenda…I would invariably be asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow. That hasn’t changed much over the years, other than the fact that there’s been no hot guy since…well, in a really long time.
Since I’m usually getting a good night’s sleep, I also tend to wake up every morning feeling rested, refreshed, ready to take on whatever the day is gonna throw at me. Not this morning, though.
Oh, no, today I wake up feeling like I’d gotten into an argument with a truck last night. And lost. It takes me a moment to recall the reason for the weight on my heart, the pain in my chest, the crushing sense of loss. Then I remember. Jake. I’m not sure which is more unsettling—the fact that he’s back, or the fact that he’s dead.
Okay, wait…let me rephrase that.
Of course, I don’t want him to be dead. My guts are twisted into knots with how much I don’t want that to be the case. If I had anything in my stomach right now, I’d probably be rushing to the bathroom to lose it. I’m still praying that it’s a bad dream, or that he’s going to tell me that it’s all been a mistake, or even a hoax.
And that’s really saying something because can you imagine how angry I’m gonna be if that it’s all been a lie, that he’s made it all up as some kind of sick joke? I’d be furious, heartsick, and so fucking relieved that I’d be on my knees, sobbing in gratitude.
That would be it for the two of us, however—we’d be one thousand percent over. We could never recover from something like that. I could never forgive that big a betrayal.
Fortunately…or unfortunately? Shit, I don’t even know which is which, anymore. I can’t imagine Jake doing something like that. He has his faults, and I’ve never been blind to them. There were reasons why I left, reasons why we’re no longer together. But he would never deceive me like that, I know he wouldn’t.
Which means he has to be dead. He has to be. But then why is he here? How is he here? That’s what I can’t understand. How is he dead and yet…still here?
Also, how in the hell am I supposed to accept that he’s gone when he’s not? When he’s standing in front of me, large as life. When I can see, and hear, and touch him?
Except, I can’t touch him, can I? At least I haven’t been able to so far. That moment when I first tried to push him away and my hands passed right through his chest was one of the worst, most horrifying moments of my life. And of course, contrary bastard that I am, not being able to touch him, only makes me want to do it more. Which is probably the reason that I’m aching to hold him right now, the reason why I’m craving his touch.
It’s not because I miss him, or that I regret walking away. Because I don’t—I can’t. I made the best of my situation. I did what I had to do. What’s the point in second-guessing any of that?
If I want him now, it’s because I know I can’t have him. I’m sure that’s all this is.
If you’d asked me last week, or even two days ago, I’d have said I was over him, that I’d moved on with my life. And I would have meant it. But that was before Tsunami Jake swept in, changing the very landscape of my life, washing all my hard-won serenity away; making me want him, as much as ever, while simultaneously shoving the impossibility of the situation in my face.
Which is just so typical, so classically Jake.
This is how he has always operated. He’ll offer you everything you’ve ever wanted to eat, for example, on a shiny silver platter. Only to reveal, just as you’re about to dig in, that the platter is plastic, or cardboard, or not a platter at all. It’s a snow dish, or a hubcap, or a garbage pail lid—something you’d never even consider eating from if you weren’t so hungry, and if the food didn’t look and smell and taste so good. Kind of like how he asked me to marry him…
We’d been living in New York for a couple of years when an otherwise routine checkup turned up troubling results. Eventually, after a night spent in the hospital under observation, and several thousands of dollars in medical expenses, it turned out he was fine. At least in the physical sense. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to the state of his mental health.
Pro tip: if you’re ever scheduled for a fasting blood test, maybe don’t go for a run immediately prior to your appointment? Also no, despite how logical a conclusion you might think it is, sugarless, colorless, fruit-flavored energy drinks are not the same as water.
“You know what I’m thinking,” he said the next day as he recovered at home. He was lying on our couch, and I was perched on one of the arms, running my fingers through his hair in between rounds of waiting on him hand and foot. Although why either of us thought that he was the one who needed to recover from having needlessly scared me half to death…well, we were young. What else can I say?
I shook my head. “No, Jake. I have no idea what you’re thinking.”
“We should get married.”
“We should what?” I stared at him in alarm. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” he asked, turning his head to frown at me. “What kind of question is that? Why does anyone get married?”
“I think that depends on the person.” For me, it could only be for love. For Jake, however, with his cynical outlook and ruthless practicality it could be anything at all. “Tax credits?”
“No. Medical proxies.”
“What?”
“Being in the hospital really shook me up. Do you realize how badly this could have turned out, how much could have gone wrong if I’d been unconscious and unable to make my own decisions?”
“Your decisions were what caused the problem in the first place,” I reminded him. “How much worse do you think it might have gone? Would they have amputated the wrong leg, perhaps?”
“Ampu— But there was nothing wrong with either of my legs.”
“Exactly.”
Jake frowned. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
“Of course, I’m not,” I replied, frowning back at him. “You’re not being serious, why should I?”
“I am, though,” he insisted. “I hate the idea that if something happened to either one of us, we couldn’t trust that the other would be there to make the important decisions because they might not be allowed to.”
“Same.” I was pretty sure my family would always try and make sure that Jake was included in any decisions that might have to be made on my behalf. Unfortunately, it didn’t sound like his parents were capable of listening to each other, never mind anything I might have to say. “Still, marriage…that’s a pretty big step.”
“I guess.”
No, Jake, I thought peevishly; There’s no guessing about it. Marriage was a huge step, and Jake was asking me to take it with him. Which was flattering, I guess? But I wanted a marriage like my parents had—with joint goals and similar values, and a reasonable chance of succeeding. Love was nonnegotiable, but it also wasn’t the only factor that I considered to be crucially important. Given the serious doubts I’d been harboring, my more-than-a-sneaking-suspicion that I was not cut out for city life, how could I even contemplate embarking on this journey with a man who so clearly was?
I heaved a sigh of frustration. I was so not enjoying this. The entire conversation was a spotlight illuminating issues I didn’t want to think about, never mind deal with. I was getting a little annoyed with Jake for having brought it up. Actually, I was getting more than a little annoyed. I was getting seriously ticked off. “I didn’t think you were a fan of marriage?”
“Oh, I’m not,” he quickly agreed. “It’s a total scam.”
“Then why…?”
“Not for us, obviously. For us there’s no downside. We’re already good together. Marriage isn’t gonna change that.”
“Okay but— No, listen,” I said as he tried to interrupt yet again. “If you think it’s a scam and it won’t change anything, then what’s the point? Why are we even talking about it?”
Jake frowned. “Medical proxies. Weren’t you listening?”
“That’s like using a sledgehammer to remove a splinter. There’s gotta be a better way, or an easier way, or…or something.”
“There really isn’t, though.”
“I don’t believe that. That can’t possibly be true.”
“No, it is. Seriously. I’ve looked into it.”
“Of course, you have.” I threw up my hands and glared at him in frustration until eventually…
“Okay, fine,” he grudgingly admitted. “I suppose there are a few other ways to do it, but this is by far the easiest.”
“Oh, it’s what’s easiest. Wow. That makes it even more romantic, doesn’t it?”
His brow furrowed, Jake looked at me searchingly. I don’t know what he saw in my expression, but something definitely changed in his. “Ohhh, you want romanced?” he asked, pulling me from my perch, with a suddenness that stole my breath away. He rolled me beneath him, pinned me to the cushions and said, “Why didn’t you just say so? I can do romance.”
A thrill of anticipation shot through me. My cheeks flushed with heat. Lifting my chin, I demanded, “Prove it.”
“Gladly,” he replied, eyes blazing. He was lying propped up on one arm, at that point, with his hand cradling my neck. Now, he tightened his grip and lowered his head and pressed his lips to mine. And just that little show of dominance made my heart pound. I looped my arms around his neck, pulling him close. I think I may have been whimpering as his other hand slid down the length of my body, pushed inside the waistband of my sweatpants and took hold of my cock. Within a very short time I was thrusting into his fist, panting and moaning…
“Just think how romantic it will be,” he teased. “When I can refer to you as my husband as I make you come.”
“More romantic than calling me by name?” I was surprised into asking. “Anyway, what’s wrong with boyfriend?”
Jake shook his head. “Boyfriend. That’s so…high school.”
“Partner?”
“Dull and pretentious”
“Hubby, hubs, the hubster,” I tried, then scrunched up my nose. “Nope, sorry. Not really feeling any of them.”
“You forgot DH,” Jake pointed out, dryly.
“I’m sorry.” I cupped a hand around my ear and feigned confusion. “All I heard was something about a D. The Big D, perhaps? That has possibilities. I guess you could call me that.”
“No, that’s what you’ll call me,” Jake said smiling down at me. He might have said more, but he also pinned my wrists above my head and started kissing me again, at about that same time, and I stopped listening…
I miss kissing. I swear we’ve got the whole hierarchy of intimacy completely ass backwards. I manage just fine without a man in my bed. In fact, it’s better, in some ways. I know what I like, there’s never any awkward fumbling, nothing to negotiate, no need to reciprocate. No one’s feelings to take into account. But kissing…that’s not just impossible on your own, it’s totally pointless. Nothing can compare to the soul-stealing sexiness of a really good kiss. And nothing else is half so seductive.
Rolling onto my back, I glance at my phone to make sure I have enough time. Then I slip my hand into my sleep shorts, take hold of my cock and squeeze, trying to approximate what I could remember of Jake’s techniques. The way he’d always rub his thumb across the tip, as though testing to see how much moisture pearled from the slit. How he’d so often just pause at that point, bringing his thumb to his mouth, swiping his tongue across the pad. I remember how his eyes would gleam as they locked with mine as his hand dipped back down to claim me once again. How his lips would curl at the needy sounds I’d make.
I set a steady rhythm with my hand as I let my mind drift back remembering everything, all Jake’s efforts that day to seduce me, to win me over…to propose? Well. I guess you could call it that.
“So, what would the plan be for this hypothetical wedding,” I recall asking him at some point. “Which way are you leaning? Over the top and gaudy? Or understated and chic?”
Jake squirmed uncomfortably—which should have been my first clue that not only were we not on the same page with this, but I don’t think we were even reading in the same genre. He should have been eager. This should have been joyful. It seemed anything but.
“We don’t really want to make big a deal of it, do we?”
“Don’t we?” I was shocked into replying because, hello? Yes! At least one of us did!
I mean, we’re already living together and…well, when you think about it, it’s just a formality.”
“A formality?” I stared at him open-mouthed. “Are you saying we’d be married in name only?”
“No! That’s…what does that even mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.”
“I think it means we wouldn’t be having sex. If that’s the case, you can count me out.”
“Well, count me out, too. I don’t want that either. Actually, I don’t even know why we’re discussing it at all. I didn’t think it was a good idea to start with, but if you’re not even going to try to make it work...”
“I never said that! Where’d that come from?”
“You literally just said that marriage is nothing more than a formality. That it will be no different from living together.”
“Okay. But why is that a problem? Are you not happy with our relationship?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
“So then what are we arguing about?”
I pushed away from him and sat up. “Here’s the thing. We’ve been living together since the day we met, right?”
“I…well, sure. Technically. I don’t know if rooming together in college really counts though.”
“Why not? What’s the difference?”
“I dunno. We got lucky in college? It’s not like that was planned, or anything.”
“We ‘got lucky’? That’s all you have to say about the first four years of our relationship?”
“Well…we did,” he said, lips curving in a slow, sexy smile. “Didn’t we? I mean, those first few years? We got lucky a lot.”
I rolled my eyes. “And so much for romance.”
“Oh, c’mon,” he said, trying to pull me close. “You know I’m joking, right? What I really meant was that we didn’t pick each other as roommates—which is not to say I wouldn’t have, if I’d known you ahead of time. But our ending up in the same dorm in college was a matter of luck. We didn’t choose to live together until later, until we knew each other and...”
“And that’s the difference,” I finished for him. “Marriage is a statement. It’s the public acknowledgement of that choice. Why would we not celebrate that?”
“Okay,” Jake said, sounding more than a little wary. “So, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend I agree with you. What kind of ‘celebration’ did you have in mind?”
I swear to God, the expression on his face! It was almost as though he was expecting me to start pulling fabric swatches out of my ass or reciting menu options off the top of my head.
And, while I obviously didn’t do anything like that, I did kind of have a plan in mind. So why wouldn’t I share it?
“Okay, so I think Spring would be nice, don’t you? Early, though, while the weather’s still good. The bluebonnets would be in bloom, which means we could use them as boutonnières, maybe pair them with tiny white rose buds, or something. If it’s nice, we could hold the ceremony outside; the pictures would be gorgeous.
“And that’s also right in the middle of crawfish season—which would make planning the menu dead easy. We could probably clear out one of the barns for the reception—you know, so we’d have a floor, and space for dancing. Or if it got too cold to be outside, after the sun went down, everyone could move in there.”
“Huh,” Jake said, looking pensive. “Interesting.”
“I mean, we could rent a hall and hire a caterer and a wedding planner, and all the rest, if that’s what you want. I just thought that if we held it at the farm and did a lot of the work ourselves, it wouldn’t cost as much. That way we might even be able to save enough money for a short honeymoon. Maybe a spa weekend somewhere, or a trip to South Padre.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot, then.”
I tilted one hand in a see-saw motion. “A moderate amount. So, what do you think? Is that anything like what you had in mind?”
Jake scrunched up his face. “Not exactly. I mean, I do like some of the outdoors stuff.”
“But not the rest?”
“Well…to be honest, I had a slightly different idea.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, you know. Maybe…later this week at the City Clerk’s Office just the two of us right here in New York?”
He rattled the sentence off so quickly, his words so rushed, that it took a moment for my ears to sort out the sounds, then another moment for my brain to process it. I blinked at him; once, twice, three times, before his meaning finally hit. “You’re joking.”
“Could you at least consider it before turning it down? We could go for a carriage ride in the park—either before or after, I don’t care which. And maybe, later in the evening, we could take one of those dinner cruises.”
“In November?” Just the thought made me shiver.
“Too cold?”
“Just a little, yeah.”
“Ice-skating, then?”
“Ice skating?” His arm was around my shoulders. I pushed it off and moved away. “How is that better?” I demanded, glaring at him from the corner of the couch. “That’s not warm.”
“I know, but it’s romantic.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Sure. It has to be. They do it in all the books and movies. And after, we could share one of those frozen hot chocolates. That’s also romantic.”
“And also cold!” I glared at him in exasperation. “Jake, do you even know how to ice skate?”
“That’s not the point!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is.” I mean, nothing says romance like losing your footing and falling on your ass every five minutes. Especially if you bring your partner down with you. And let’s not even mention the risk of concussion.
“Look, I don’t want to wait for Spring. I want to do it now. I’m not gonna lie to you, babe. This hospital thing scared me.”
I glanced at him in surprise. Was that what this was all about?
“I felt helpless. I didn’t like it.”
“No, I know. I didn’t either. But…”
“We could still have a party in the Spring, if you wanted to, and do all those other things you mentioned then. Would that work?”
“Maybe,” I said, unfolding my arms, relaxing a little, letting the anger subside. “We’ll see.”
Jake pulled me back into his arms then, and I let him. He maneuvered us back down onto the couch. I let him do that, too. Within moments he was kissing me again, nibbling along my jawline, teasing me into a state of absolute distraction.
And then he began to sing. God fucking damn him. Who knew that was my Achille’s Heel?
Within minutes he had me groaning with the way he absolutely mangled the words to Marry Me. I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity. It was corny, and goofy, and horrible—he never could carry a tune—and…yes, improbable as it sounds, even a little romantic.
“Okay,” I said at last, gasping a little because I was so out of breath from laughing. “Okay. You win. I’ll do it.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah? You mean it?”
“Maybe. But only if you stop singing.”
He sat up immediately. He lifted one hand to shoulder height, as though he were making a pledge. With the other, he mimed zipping his lips closed, looking so comical that I started laughing all over again. But when he followed that with pretending to lock his lips and throw away the key, I knew I had to stop him.
“Whoa there, cowboy. Slow your roll. There’re still a few things I might want you to use that mouth for, you know.”
“Oh, thank God,” he said, as he settled back on top of me. “I was starting to worry.” But as his eyes searched my face, his expression grew serious. I felt it too; the moment felt oddly weighted. Which made sense, really. Because, all joking aside, what we were talking about, planning, agreeing to…well, it was very serious, wasn’t it?
Forcing a little smile, I framed his face with my hands and gazed deeply into his eyes. “Let’s make this official,” I said. “Is that all right?”
“I…think so?”
“Yes, Jake. I will marry you.”
“Thank you,” he murmured in response, sounding humble and relieved…and happy. As happy as I’d ever seen him, actually. Which gave me hope that maybe I’d been wrong in my initial assessment. Maybe we could make this work after all.
I should have gone with my first impression.
Except that now, alone in my bed, it’s not the way things fell apart that I’m remembering. It’s the way we came together later that night. My hand speeds up as the cracks in my heart split open and all the memories spill out. I remember everything. That hot breathy whisper, his words in my ear, the press of his lips on mine, the hard length of his body, our hands intertwined, the tortured look he wore on his face as he shattered within me. It’s the heat, I remember, the need, the climb, that glorious rush. The two of us straining together. And the love—that most of all, always that.
Eventually my heart slows. My breathing returns to normal. I grab for a tissue, from the box beside my bed, and clean myself off. Then I turn my head to check the time again and gasp in dismay. Damn it to hell; I’m late for work.
My emotions are all over the place when I walk into the kitchen and find that most of the family are there ahead of me, everybody gathered around the table, eating breakfast—including my father, who rarely leaves his recliner anymore. It’s great seeing him up and about, don’t get me wrong, but I sure hope Jake’s right about the improvement being permanent. Because he doesn’t need another disappointment in that area. None of us do.
Maggie and Dennis are also here—unusual, but not unheard of—along with Josie, their youngest. When I don’t see their two older kids, or Tim either, I assume they’re all at school and breathe a small prayer of relief.
It would have been an even bigger relief if Jake wasn’t here but he is, of course. Sat right next to my dad, laughing and smiling, not a care in the world. Just like the clock’s not ticking. Just like he won’t be leaving soon—one way or another.
Just like it’s not the last time, the last Christmas, we’ll all be together…
I white knuckle the counter, swaying on my feet, hoping no one will notice. I’m so close to spewing that when my mom, busy at the stove, nods toward the table and urges me to, “Sit down, Tony! Have some breakfast.” It’s all I can do not to retch. And that’s before my gaze follows hers. I glance at the table and blink in surprise. What fresh hell is this?
The table is already fully loaded. I see eggs, toast, bacon, potatoes, ham—enough of each to feed a small city. And she’s still not done?
I glance back toward the stove, that six-burner monster she’s so proud of, to verify what I already know. Yes, indeed every one of those burners is currently in use. She’s cooking migas from the looks of it. And pancakes. And more eggs. And, unless I miss my guess, those two pots in the back are filled with sausage gravy and grits.
Now d’you see what I meant the other night about the fatted calf? The excess actually helps me, in a weird way. It swings my emotions from devastated to irritated—which is always so much easier to deal with.
“Tony,” my mom urges again. “Breakfast!”
“No time, Mama,” I tell her. “I’m running late.” I take a couple of kolache from the freezer, load ’em on a plate, and shove them in the microwave, ignoring the way my mother clucks her tongue and shakes her head as she returns her attention to her pots and pans.
You might think kolache is an odd choice given my intestinal distress, but I know for a fact they work magic on hangovers. With any luck, they’ll do the same now.
My sister, meanwhile, has popped up from the table to check on something in the oven. She arches an eyebrow at me and asks, “Seriously? You’d choose something frozen reheated, and mass-produced—and that you could have any day, I might add—over all of this?”
“No time,” I repeat as I take my favorite stainless steel travel mug from the cabinet and reach for the coffee pot. No time to sit, no time to chat, no time to explain the unexplainable, the fucking mystery in our midst. No time to laugh along at Jake’s lame jokes like everyone else is doing. Definitely no time to eat my freaking heart out with want for a man who… Nope. Not going there.
No. Freaking. Time. That’s my story and I’m damn well sticking to it.
Maggie rolls her eyes at the incomprehensibility of brothers then turns to her husband to say, “Hey, babe. Why don’t you pass Josie over to her Uncle Jake and come here and give me a hand with these trays.”
Uncle. Jake. Sweet Mother of Pearl. I know I should have been expecting that. And yet, somehow, I wasn’t. The name lands on my nerves, firing them up like a rash of Texas bull nettles. Which, if you don’t know, is one of the top three most painful encounters you can have in Texas, the others being scorpions and fire ants.
It’s funny, when you think about it. I used to love how comfortable Jake was with my family, how easily he fit in, how much they all loved him. Now, I hate it. All I can think of is the hurt and confusion he’s gonna leave in his wake, the impossible questions that I’ll be stuck trying to answer. The tears in my mom’s eyes. The quiet suffering in my dad’s. Not to mention my own unending pain.
I watch him cradle the baby in his big hands, laughing when she reaches out and grabs his hairy face. An ache lodges in my heart, tightening my chest until I can barely breathe.
And the fact that my niece can also touch him, while I still can’t? That tips my rollercoaster emotions even further into rage. From pain to anger to seething frustration. To futile, desperate desire, the naked need to reclaim what I had, what I can’t get back. What I chose to walk away from.
The fact that I made the right choice, that I’d do it again now, that I have never…or at least, not too often…regretted it matters not one little bit.
I want him. I can’t have him. It’s my own fault—but it’s his fault, too.
As though he’s aware of my brooding gaze fixed on his face, Jake raises his eyes to mine. “You’re looking awfully flushed there, Tony. Perhaps you ought to come over here and sit down?”
I shake my head. I could point out that there aren’t enough chairs, but that’ll just come out sounding churlish, or will lead to everyone jockeying around to try and make room. And that—I just know it—will inevitably end with me being forced to sit right next to Jake. Which I. Just. Cannot.Take.
“That’s okay,” I say, waving away his concern. “I’m just waiting for my breakfast to finish heating. I won’t be here long.”
“If you’re sure. But you know what they say: if you can’t stand the heat, it’s probably best to get out of the kitchen.”
He thinks my face is flushed because I’m standing too close to the stove? How fucking adorable—not. But then a quick glance at his face disabuses me of the notion. He thinks no such thing, damn him. That hint of mischief in his gaze, the knowing smile that curves his lips. Mother lover. I think he knows—or guesses—exactly where my thoughts were trending. I think he knows—or guesses—exactly what I was getting up to in my bedroom, the reason why I’m late. Well, fuck you, too.
“If you think this is hot, Jake, you must have forgotten what the summers here are like.” I rub an open palm over my face and add, “Ya know, if my face is looking redder than usual, it’s probably because I just got finished shaving.”
As I’d hoped, that shuts him up in a hurry. His grin disappears, he gets a vaguely haunted look on his face, and before he has a chance to recover, my dad smacks his arm and says, “That’s good advice, you know. You should follow your husband’s lead and shave that hair off your face.”
This time, when Jake’s gaze meets mine, I know we’re both remembering the conversation we had on the subject just last night after I’d walked him back out to his cabin after dinner…
“What’s with the beard?” I’d asked. I’d begun noticing unsettling details in his appearance. Like, how unexpectedly gaunt he looked, or the lines of tension in his face, or, yes, the beard. It had me worried. Not because it’s a terrible beard, although it kind of is; or because he looks terrible with it. That’s not the point. But, knowing Jake as I do, I’d have expected it to be better groomed—if it was intentional, that is. And that’s the problem. Jake’s beard doesn’t look like he grew it on purpose.
“I don’t know,” Jake had replied reluctantly, tentatively patting his cheeks and chin in an exploratory way. “I wasn’t expecting it either. This is just how I showed up. I have no idea why.”
“Did you have one,” I inquire, still unable to say the words. “You know, before?”
“That’s the thing,” he said, still rubbing a hand over his chin. “I can’t remember that either. I wouldn’t have thought so. As you know, it wasn’t ever my thing. But I’m wondering…what if I were sick for a while, too sick to shave?”
The thought causes me to shiver with an all-body chill. “So, if it bothers you, why not shave it off? If you need a razor, I’m sure I can supply you with one.”
“No, I can’t do that.” Jake shakes his head. He sounds insistent. “I don’t want to risk it. I’m too afraid.”
I arch an eyebrow in surprise. “Of shaving? I think my dad still has his old, electric safety razor, if you’re worried that you’ll cut yourself, but—”
“No, that’s not— I’m not afraid of shaving. I’m afraid of it growing back.”
That gets both eyebrows up. “But that’s what beards do, Jake. It’s what hair does, in general. Nails, too.”
“Thanks, smart ass. That’s not what I mean.”
“Okay, wait,” I say. “You’re not thinking about that old myth about how your hair and nails keep growing after you’re dead are you? Because I’m pretty sure that’s been debunked.”
“You still don’t get it. What I mean is, what if it grows back instantly? Like that Christmas movie we used to watch when we were kids. The one with the guy who kept turning into Santa Claus—remember? Every time he tried to shave off his beard, it would immediately grow back.”
“That was a movie,” I remind him. “I’m pretty sure that neither Santa nor his insta-beard are real.”
“Maybe. But what about all the books and movies that show ghosts stuck wearing the same outfit they had on when they died? Or how vampires, no matter what happens to them, every evening they wake up looking just like they did when they were first turned?”
“Wait, are you kidding me?” I stare at him in alarm. “Vampires are real?”
“No! Okay, actually, I have no idea. I’m…honestly not sure what’s real, anymore. Is any of it?”
He looks so dejected that I’m tempted to reach out and take hold of his hand, reassure him that at least this is real, and that he’s really here, but my own fears hold me back because…is he really here? If I try again to touch him, will our hands connect, or will my fingers pass right through him, once again?
“I don’t know, Jake. I’m even newer to this than you are.”
“I know. I just… I just don’t want to risk shaving it.”
“Then don’t,” I told him. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I was just curious.”
Except now, I’ve brought it up again. And I’m not the slightest bit sorry.But, all the same, I can tell that my dad’s remarks have got him spooked. I know that panicked look in Jake’s eyes is his way of begging for a lifeline. And, of course, I’m going to throw him one.
How can I not? It’s what I do, after all. What I’ve always done. Almost always.
Jake used to call me Saint Anthony from time to time. Sometimes laughingly. Sometimes mockingly. Sometimes, I swear to God, there was a thread of anger behind the name. I was never comfortable with it. I might have an overdeveloped conscience, which is more of an inconvenience than anything else; but I’m not a saint, and I never claimed to be.
All the same, “Leave him alone, Pops,” I tell my father, as I continue leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking my coffee, awkwardly trying to stay out of the way as my mother bustles around, reaching into cabinets, dragging out more plates. And Maggie and Dennis travel back and forth to the table, carrying platters of biscuits and corn bread, and even more bacon; and then going back for the—Yep. Called it—grits and gravy. “I like the beard,” I announce to the room. A total lie; but needs must. “I think he should keep it.”
“Oh well, if that’s the case…” my father says, backing down without a fight, which I think is odd until I catch sight of the look my parents exchange behind Jake’s back. Then it all makes sense.
Oh, no. No, no, no. No good deed goes unpunished, does it?
They think we’re getting back together, and I can only imagine how disappointed they’re going to be when it turns out they’re wrong.
“I gotta go.” I clap my cup down on the counter with a little more force than intended. It’s got a rubber bottom, but still makes enough of an impact to get everyone’s attention. I refuse to meet anyone’s eyes as I push away from the counter and head toward the door.
I almost make good on my escape, but just as I’m reaching for the door-handle, the door opens and Tim walks in, forcing me back a step.
“What are you doing here?” I’m startled into asking. And, this time, even I can hear how accusatory that sounds. “I mean, hey. I thought you’d left already. Why aren’t you at school? Is everything okay?”
“I missed my ride,” Tim says, looking past me with a hopeful, puppy-like gaze. “I was hoping Jake could give me a lift on his bike?”
I open my mouth to argue, but Jake gets in first saying, “Happy to, Timo. But your brother’s right about the helmet. I’m gonna need you to wear one.”
We both stare at him in surprise, although I’m sure that it comes in very different flavors. Mine is laced with gratitude. Is this an olive branch? Payback for having helped him out with the beard thing? A white flag? Whatever it is, I’ll take it. No motorcycle for Tim—perfect.
Until, of course, Jake opens his mouth again and says, “Luckily, I have one in my top case. And I’m sure it will be a perfect fit.”
“In the where?” I snap, trying to tamp down my annoyance. And failing.
“Top case. You know, the storage unit behind the seat?”
“Behind the seat?” I frown as I try to picture the bike in my mind. “I don’t remember seeing any storage case.”
Jake’s laughing gaze meets mine. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Tee. But I think, if you go and look at it now, you’ll see that I’m right.”
I catch my breath as the implication lands. Apparently, it’s not just cigars that he can make appear—or disappear. Apparently…he really is an angel. Which means he really is dead. Which means I’ve really lost him. Again.
Knocked off-balance, my emotions start to wobble. I don’t want to believe any of it. I don’t want it to be real. I want…well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what I want. Or maybe I do know, and I just don’t want to admit it.
“I got this, Tony,” Jake assures me, in a tone that’s so serious and intent that it makes everything else around us recede into the background. Once again, chills sweep over my skin, and I feel like I’m about to melt into his gaze. “I promise. He’ll be safe as houses with me.”
“Well, of course he will,” my mother says, breaking the spell as she ruffles Jake’s hair and slides a fresh plate, piled high with migas, in front of him.
Jake’s eyes go wide as he stares at it. A delighted smile breaks like sunlight across his face. “Aw, yeah,” he breathes happily, closing his eyes and groaning with pleasure. “Now I know I’m home.”
And now I know I’m in hell, I think as I push past Tim and all but run from the house. I know that look, that smile, that groan. I must have seen and heard it half a million times—usually when my mouth was on his dick, if you must know, but still…
I can’t do this. I don’t want him to be gone, but I can’t have him here. And I don’t know how to deal with any of it.
I’m all the way across the lot before I realize I forgot my coffee in the house. And I never took the kolache out of the microwave, either. Fantastic. What a perfect start to the day.