Chapter 10
Eyeliner & Dry Humping
Twenty-four Days Until I Can Go Back to Work
“Being around children when you’re violently hungover should be a crime,” I whisper to Jamie as he slides me an aspirin and a green swamp-looking smoothie across the table. I slump forward on his long, rectangular kitchen table.
“I told the girls to let you sleep. But they were worried you were never going to show,” Jamie says, a gingerbread-printed towel tossed over his shoulder.
His hairy forearms flex as he grips the back of a chair.
He’s wearing a faded hockey T-shirt that’s basically see-through at this point.
Worn plaid pajama pants and bunched socks make him look like he just rolled out of bed.
About five minutes ago, Kiki and Honey pounded on my door, shrieking about the Cranberry Social starting in three hours.
I managed to splash water on my bangs so they’d stop sticking straight up, then brushed my teeth and yanked on a pair of leggings before I let myself be towed across the driveway with Jubilee and my makeup bag in my arms.
I blink through the hangover fuzz, trying to take in Jamie’s house. For all I imagined it as some rustic spread lifted straight out of an L.L.Bean catalog, it’s nothing like that.
It’s comfortable.
And I like comfortable.
From where I’m sitting, I can see almost the entire first floor of Jamie’s two-story house.
There are paper snowflakes hung on the white walls, along with school pictures of the girls and drawings done in paint and crayon.
Tiny boots are piled by the front door next to big ones.
A row of jackets hangs crookedly on the rack.
A brown-and-white checkered floor runs through the kitchen and dining area, while the rest of the first floor is warm hardwood.
There are peanut butter smears on the homemade curtains with tiny red stars embroidered on the fabric.
The fridge is cluttered with report cards, finger paintings, and clay magnets.
A giant tree glitters beside the fireplace in the living room, where the beige sectional rests on a patterned rug, dotted with mysterious stains.
It reminds me of my own home growing up.
My eyes land on a framed photo of a younger Jamie, curly hair tucked behind his ears.
He looks tired, but he’s grinning while he holds two newborns beside a woman who must be Tessa.
They look happy. My chest twinges. He said they’d been growing apart, but sitting here, it’s hard not to wonder if he wishes she were here instead of me.
It’s the hangover talking. I rub my forehead with my palm, but the thought lingers.
I’m a visitor in this home, nothing more.
Upstairs, the girls are trying to wrestle Jubilee into a doll dress. I tried to stop it. Gave up when the giggles started. The sweet, high-pitched sound hammers directly against my skull.
I glance at the clock above the stove.
One p.m.
Guilt and anxiety settle in my chest like I’ve double-booked a surgery. “I’m sorry I missed chores this morning.”
“I’m glad you slept in.” Jamie drums his fingers over the wooden chair back. “But you look like you’ve got a headache.”
I make a face at him. “Thanks.”
“How are you okay?”
“Raising twin girls practically alone, I learned how to get by on very little sleep. Mom dropped them off this morning at seven.”
“Are their other grandparents still in town?”
“No. They moved to Washington after Tessa graduated high school. They’ve only seen the girls once.”
I nod, unsure what to say, so I pick up the aspirin and wash it down with the lime-green slop. I brace for horror but blink in surprise. “This is actually pretty good.”
“I add apples. Hides the grassiness and hot sauce.”
He turns back to the counter and starts chopping tomatoes. It shouldn’t remind me of last night when he was pushing me against the wall, except he moves with the same ease.
Even through the pounding in my temples, I’m glad I’m here.
Finally, the girls thunder down the stairs. Honey hoists Jubilee up like Simba in The Lion King, her oversized striped sweater hanging off one shoulder.
“Presenting Princess JubJub!” Kiki yells before Jubilee immediately goes limp in Honey’s arms. “Oh no!”
The girls’ eyes go wide in horror.
“She’s fine.” I lean forward in my chair, trying not to laugh. “She just got scared. Wrap her in a blanket, and she’ll come around.”
“We’re so sorry we hurt your bunny.” They stare at me like I’m some strange creature that wandered in from the woods.
“Princess Jubjub is tough,” I assure them. “Trust me.”
They bundle her into a blanket and settle her on the couch with all the tenderness of ER nurses. They press quick kisses to her furry forehead, then clasp hands and launch into a chant.
“They aren’t hexing my rabbit, right?”
Jamie, at the stove, hides a smile. “They made up a get-well song this morning for the sick reindeer.”
My heart squeezes.
After their séance, the girls drag chairs over and plant themselves on either side of me. I chug the smoothie while they shove Pinterest boards in my face. I look to Jamie for help, but he busies himself with stirring his pasta sauce.
The twins are easy to tell apart. They both have green eyes like their dad’s, though Honey’s have a speck of gold on the edges.
Kiki is a tomboy in her basketball shorts and baggy Nirvana T-shirt.
Her hair is in two messy braids. Honey, on the other hand, is in a matching sweater set, her hair neatly combed.
They both are deadly serious about fashion.
Kiki requests a smoky-eye look with dark-cherry lipstick, and Honey asks for sparkles. Just sparkles. Ten minutes later, I’m swiping pink glitter against her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Jamie says, opening up a door next to the fridge. “Gonna go check on my Mama Jama loaf.”
“Wait…your oven is in the garage?”
“Built a wood-burning one. Bread tastes better that way.”
“Saving reindeer by day and baking bread by night?” I joke.
“Actually, I throw it in the oven in the morning.”
“Excuse my mistake, Jamie Crocker.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “My little chickadees, be nice.”
“We’ll be good, Dad,” Honey replies sweetly, but the moment he’s out of earshot, both girls turn their full attention to me. “I like your butterfly tattoo.” Honey points her pink nails at my wrist.
I smirk. “Thanks.”
“So…” Kiki starts, legs swinging from the chair next to her sister. Her eye makeup is already done. She came out looking more raccoon-y than I would have liked, but she insisted it was what is in style. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Oh, um, no. Do you?”
“We’re ten,” Honey says flatly.
I laugh, more out of nerves than anything. “I had my first boyfriend in kindergarten. But he stole my strawberry Pop-Tart, so I dumped him.”
“How did you get a boyfriend?” Honey asks, her voice quieter now, like she’s trying to ask something without really asking.
Oh shit. I don’t actually know how to answer this.
Kiki smirks and playfully nudges her sister. “I knew you liked Wyatt.”
Honey’s face flames pink. “I do not! But…” she whispers, “we can’t ask Grandma about asking boys to dance. She thinks girls shouldn’t do that.”
“You just ask them,” I say, forcing a smile. “Girls, one thing my mom told me at your age is that you’re probably overqualified to date any of the guys in your class. No boy is worth putting your dreams on hold. So go up to him with confidence and ask him out. He’d be lucky to have you.”
Once the words are out of my mouth, I hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t be giving these girls advice, especially since I am not exactly skilled in the romance department, but at least I have a career I’m proud of.
“I just want to look cute,” Honey sighs.
I scrunch my face at her. “You look cute.”
“The cutest.” Kiki hugs her sister before singing, “Wyatt and Honey sitting in a tree—”
“Wyatt? Bob’s kid?” Jamie enters the kitchen, bread in hand, and the girls drop silent. “I’ll cut down all the trees on the property before you get in the tree with one of the boys.”
“Daaaaddd, ew.” The girls share a look with me, and I raise my eyebrows like we’re all in on the same joke.
Huh, they aren’t that hard to talk to. They’re just curious like I was at that age.
I finish up Honey’s makeup while they fill me in on the very serious fifth-grade drama involving someone named Madison who “totally copied” someone else’s science project.
Meanwhile, Jamie busies himself with cutting the garlic, mixing it with butter, and slathering it on the sourdough loaf that smells downright sinful.
Maybe he picked garlic bread so there won’t be any risk of us making out tonight.
Garlic keeps the vampires and single ladies away?
“Girls, set the table for lunch.”
“But, Daddddd…”
“You gotta eat before I take you to the dance. And before you get your dresses on.”
“But our lipstick.”
“I can reapply it after,” I say.
That seems to do the trick because they start setting the table with mismatched bowls.
For the next hour, we eat vegetarian mushroom spaghetti and garlic bread while the girls animatedly talk about their week, excited to share that they’re learning fraction division. I casually offer to tutor them after school next week.
When Jubilee wakes up and starts darting around the house, Jamie sets down a head of lettuce for her by the fire. She demolishes it, then flops over upside down, snoring softly.
I end up having three extra slices of bread.
Maybe it’s the wood-burning oven that makes it taste this good.
Or maybe it’s the dad who makes pasta sauce from scratch, who’s devoted his life to his daughters and every creature on this farm, and who kisses me so deeply I forget where I end and he begins.
A dangerously domestic feeling settles in my chest, like this isn’t the first time I’ve had lunch at this table.
Miriam would be impressed with me.