My Mountain Man Recluse: A Grumpy Sunshine Age Gap Romance

8. Izzie

What the heck Jagger does on his own up here all day is beyond me. There’s no TV, no board games, and the only books are dog eared thrillers. Not even a coffee table book with pictures I can look at.

We played a few rounds of cards, but he soon retreated to his office to sit by the radio doing God knows what.

I check my phone for the hundredth time, but there’s still no signal.

My fingers itch at not being able to scroll though something, not being able to lose myself in other people’s lives. I’m on the couch leaning against the arm rest with my knees propped up.

My phone has only twelve percent battery left, and I don’t have a charger with me, and it’s a different kind of phone than Jagger’s. Although he seems to spend his time with his ear glued to the radio anyway. I guess that’s how they communicated when he was my age.

I chuckle at my own joke. It’s hard to remember that Jagger’s twenty years older than me.

I’ve never really noticed people’s ages. Another trait I got from Mom. She taught me to focus on the similarities between people rather than the differences. As a nurse, you’ll meet people from all walks of life, all ages, all cultures, all ends of the socioeconomic scale, and all with different political views. But in the end we’re all human, and we all want the same things: love and belonging and acceptance.

Find the common ground, and the differences won’t matter.

Her sage advice echoes through my head. Mom was training me for this job her entire life, imparting words of wisdom any chance she got while we were baking together, in the car, while she drove me to school.

I loved going out with her on house calls when she’d let me.

I shake my head, clearing away the thoughts of Mom. If I think about Mom today I’ll fall apart, and I can’t fall apart in Jagger’s cabin. I’m here to look after him.

I spend a half hour organizing my apps into folders and deleting ones I haven’t used for a while. When that’s done, I go through my downloads and delete random menus, memes and what-not that I don’t need.

Jagger still hasn’t emerged from his office, so I open my photos and swipe through them. There are the recent ones of the storm, and I delete the ones I’ve already posted. There are some I took on campus last semester, study notes and smiling faces of my college friends. I take a while looking through them, smiling at the memories they bring up.

There’s one of my roommates dressed up for the latest frat party. I went to one with them, and it was full of drunk dickheads trying to get laid. Never again. It’s not desperate boys I want, it’s grumpy mountain men…

I swipe through the pictures, getting that thought out of my head. I have no place fantasizing about my father’s best friend.

Then there are some photos from last year when I was back on the mountain. A walk I did with Dad when we got caught in the rain, and as we were running back to the car I slipped and got coated with mud.

I laugh at the memory of Dad bailing me out of the mud and me dripping all over his pick-up. We went back home for a shower and hot chocolate.

The next picture makes me pause. It’s a photo of an old photograph. Mom’s holding me as a baby. Her hair shadows half her face, but there’s no denying the look of love she’s got directed at me.

My heart squeezes, and I quickly swipe to the next picture. I’m a toddler, wearing bright green tights and a t-shirt with a bee on it. Mom holds the fingertips of one hand and I’m caught mid step, one wobbly leg, jiggly with baby fat coming down on the lawn. My look at the camera, where I presume Dad is, is pure delight. If it’s because I’m walking or because I’m just so darn happy to be hanging out with my parents, I’ll never know.

After our failed walk last year, me and Dad spent the evening pouring over old photo albums and sharing stories about Mom. I snapped a bunch of pictures from the photo album, but this is the first time I’ve looked at them since.

The next one’s of me looking terrified on a bike. I’m about five, and Mom’s got one hand on the back, and my eyes are wide and my lips squeezed together, terrified.

My heart constricts, and it’s hard to breathe.

“You okay?”

I startle at the voice. I didn’t hear Jagger come out of his office.

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” I echo my words from earlier, and I can tell by the frown he gives me that he knows I’m not fine.

He sits on the couch next to me, and the sofa’s so small his thighs bump up against my feet.

“You don’t have to be fine, Izzie. Not ever and especially not today.”

“How do you know about today?” It comes out as a squeak, but my throat suddenly feels constricted.

“You should be at home with your dad. I’m sorry you’re stuck here with me.”

He puts a hand out as if to touch my knee, but it jerks in the air and comes down on my foot.

“But you don’t need to put on a show with me, Izzie. You can be yourself, be who you need to be.”

He squeezes my foot and it’s a reassuring gesture, but it sends heat up my leg that cuts through my grief. It’s so starling that I look up at him, and for a moment we share a surprised look.

Then Jagger’s up off the couch and heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll make you a coffee. Then, if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk.”

When he brings the steaming mugs back, he perches on the end of the sofa and doesn’t touch my foot again.

I take the mug thankfully and sit back. I’ve kept thoughts of my mom bottled up for so long that when I do start to talk, they all comes pouring out.

“I found some pictures on my phone.”

I show him the images, and he smiles at them.

“They’re great pictures. She loved you very much.”

His kind words makes tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away.

“Mom was there for my first steps; she taught me how to ride a bike…” I swallow hard as my voice cracks. “But she won’t be there when I graduate. She won’t be there when I get married. She’ll never get to hold my babies.”

The heaviness inside me erupts, and I can’t keep it in any longer. Sobs wrack my body as I succumb to my grief.

Jagger takes the mug out of my hand, and then his arms wrap around me. He doesn’t say anything, he just lets me cry.

It takes a long time for the well of emotion to drain out of me. And when it does, I’m aware of his solidness, the steady thump of his heart, and the reassuring scent of woodsmoke.

I breathe in deeply, and with every breath, I feel a little more restored. He hands me a tissue, and I blow my nose. A big honking unattractive blow, but I don’t care. I feel free. I’ve let out a part of my grief, and it feels good. He doesn’t judge me. He doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay. He just holds me until I’m done.

“I found a chess set.” He holds up a dusty box. “I’ll make us dinner, and then we can play.”

I nod, exhausted from my grief. I came here to look after him. That’s supposed to be my job.

But as he pulls the blanket up to my neck and places a glass of water on the coffee table, I realize that sometimes it’s nice to be the one getting looked after and that Mom was right.

Sometimes a cup of coffee and a chat is as important as medication.