Chapter 27
Jake
“Tell me all about your hometown.” Ali was reclined in the passenger seat of my Volvo.
Pineville was a couple of hours outside of Lakeside.
My old truck was not well equipped for the trip.
Ali was happy to see that I did have another mode of transportation.
I also sensed her relief that it was a newer-model vehicle.
And while not exactly luxury status, it was probably the kind of vehicle she was much more accustomed to.
“What can I say? It’s another small town. Smaller even than Lakeside, if you can believe it,” I said. “Dense forests, sprawling farmlands. It’s sleepy.” I shrugged.
“Other than visiting with your dad, what are we going to do to pass the time?” she asked playfully, dragging her hand along the side of my face.
I reached up and brought her hand to my lips. “I have a few ideas. None of them are wholesome, though, and none of them require us to leave the hotel room.” I nibbled on her hand.
“I am looking forward to meeting your dad.”
I knew my dad was going to absolutely adore Ali. He sounded intrigued with the notion of me bringing Ali along. It had been a while since I’d brought a girl around. Charlotte was the last one.
“Ooh, I love this song.” Ali reached in to turn the music up.
It was Tom Petty, “Wildflowers.” I stole glances at Ali, and she joyfully sang along to the song. She was not a singer. Her voice was completely out of tune, but it didn’t matter. She sang with gusto, like she didn’t care who was listening. I couldn’t help but laugh and sing along too.
Ali took over the streaming music from there, assembling the perfect “road trip carpool karaoke,” as she put it.
Watching her jerk her shoulders and head back and forth as she beamingly sang along to “Scrubs” by TLC, I could not think of anywhere I would rather be.
When she pulled up “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus, I knew our musical souls were aligned. And belting out the chorus together felt like its own sort of celebration.
We started to make our way into Pineville. Corrugated signs promoting upcoming events and rummage sales danced above the well-maintained grass at the town border next to a sign that welcomed visitors to town.
Ali gasped, lowered the music, and grabbed my arm across the center console.
“What, pray tell, is a meat auction?” she asked, laughing in disbelief as she read one of the lawn signs.
“It’s basically exactly what it says it is . . .” I responded. “An auction where packs of meat—bacon, steak, ribs—are sold to the highest bidder. It benefits the Pineville 4-H Club, I think.”
“I have never heard of a meat auction”—she expressed each word with emphasis—“and I don’t know who 4-H is, but I absolutely think I have to experience this. Can we go?” she pleaded, her hands pressed together at her chest.
“They are extremely well-attended events, and it’s tonight . . . it might be hard to find tickets,” I said.
“And it’s an exclusive event? Oh my God, this is so my jam!” she said with delight.
“I’d say popular, not exclusive. These events have been known to get rowdy too. There’s lots of drinking involved.”
“It sounds like the party of the year here! And it just so happens to be the weekend we come to visit? What are the odds? We have to go!” she said.
“Maybe my dad has some tickets,” I acquiesced.
She clapped her hands playfully.
I reached across the console and interlaced our fingers together. I was struck again by how absolutely stunning she was . . . especially sitting in the radiance of delight and enthusiasm. She was lit from within, and I wanted to bask in her glow.
We pulled into the driveway of my childhood home.
It wasn’t much. A ranch-style, two-bedroom place with pale yellow aluminum siding, white trim, and a one-car garage filled to the brim with tools, toys, and other “storage.” It was what most people now call a starter home; however, my parents started here and never stopped.
Especially after my mom died, Dad couldn’t see himself anywhere else.
“Ready?” I asked Ali.
She responded with a smile and an excited nod.
I gave a quick knock on the front door as I opened it and stepped inside. “Dad? Hello. We’re here.”
My dad walked out of the kitchen wearing a frilly apron and a jolly, welcoming look.
“What are you wearing?” I asked as he embraced me at the front door.
“I wanted an apron to keep oil splashes from ruining my shirts. The school secretary made this one for me. Whaddya gonna-do?” he said with a shrug. “Well, well, well, you must be Ali,” my dad said.
“Ali, this is Shane Elliot, my dad.”
“Mr. Elliot, it is so nice to meet you. And I think your apron is very chic,” she said with a wink.
“Please call me Shane. I get called Mr. Elliot all day long by my kids. It is so nice to meet you.” He turned to me and playfully slapped my chest. “Warn a fella about how pretty she is next time, eh?”
“Your kids?” Ali asked.
“Students. He means his students,” I clarified.
“Sorry, yes. After thirty-five years teaching high school English at the same school, they just become my kids.” Dad started to hurry back toward the kitchen, his apron tail dangling at his back. “Come in. Come in. I’m making us some lunch.”
Ali rushed in behind him, asking what she could do to help. Knowing what I knew about Ali’s cooking, I hoped he didn’t need much.
We spent the afternoon with my dad, and it felt so right having Ali glimpse into my world.
Shane Elliot knew how to make a great visit.
He told all the humiliating stories about me growing up and even pulled out some photos.
Ali got the biggest kick out of me in my emo phase.
One photo documented me singing and playing guitar on the street during a local farmers’ market.
I must have been twelve years old, my hair floppy and my arms like scrawny sapling branches.
“What song were you singing? Do you remember?” Ali asked.
“‘Baby’ by Justin Bieber.” I shook my head in mock embarrassment.
“Ahh. Yes. That was a crowd favorite. He was so cute singing about being persistent in love when he hadn’t even hit his teen years yet,” Dad said.
“There aren’t any photos like that until much later in high school. Why not?” Ali asked.
I huffed a laugh. “Because, well . . . puberty. It was humiliating. I was like Peter Brady, with my voice cracking and my overactive oil glands.”
“Ali, I tried. I really did. But this one would not be seen in public, let alone perform, from around thirteen to sixteen years old,” Dad said.
“I don’t know how Justin Bieber ever survived those transitional years in the spotlight,” I said.
“I bet you had all the girls swooning over you in high school, though,” Ali said.
“Ha!” Dad let out a booming laugh.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. Then to Ali, I explained, “I was something of a nerd in high school. My voice deepened and I got the skin under control, but I was quiet. Girls at my high school wanted cool guys. I was not that.”
“Hmm . . .” Ali said with a scrunched nose.
“Yes, Jake here did not bring anyone around for a long time. Until Charlotte, of course,” my dad blurted out without thinking. He quickly looked at me, realizing his error. I shook my head to let him know it was no big deal.
Ali just smiled and continued to sift through the pile of photos.
“And now you’re here,” he said, attempting to recover.
“Dad, we saw signs for the meat auction tonight. Are you planning to go?” I asked.
Ali looked up excitedly.
“Nah. I don’t go to those much anymore. Oh, but I do have a couple of tickets. The kids were selling them at school. Would you like them?”
I looked to Ali, and she was nodding enthusiastically before saying, “Yes, please! I’ve never been to a meat auction, and now it’s the only thing I have listed on my bucket list. It sounds amazing.”
“Oh dear. It’s really not. But for a city girl like you, I can see how it might sound that way.” Dad laughed.
“What does one wear to a meat auction in rural Wisconsin?” Ali asked.
“We wear our version of our Sunday best—flannel or Green Bay Packers,” Dad said.
“Oof. I don’t think I have either of those packed,” she said, looking down at her outfit of a white dress and open heels with straps crisscrossing the tops of her feet.
“Good news! Jake here has plenty to share,” Dad said.
With that, I took Ali up to my old room. My dad was right. I still had meat-auction-appropriate clothing hanging like ghosts of teenage Jake.
“You had such a diverse wardrobe, Jake,” Ali said jokingly, noticing that most of the items looked exactly the same.
“Hey now, these are the items I left behind. I also had a surplus of obnoxious T-shirts as well as hoodies that I couldn’t bear to leave,” I joked back.
“Your room is cute.” She started to walk around the bed. “So many trophies,” she said. “A star swimmer. Basketball player. And . . .” She bent in closer to read the biggest trophy on the shelf. She gasped before saying, “And you received the 4-H Key Award. Dr. Elliot! What a stud you were!”
“Do you even know what that award is for?” I asked.
“Nope, but it sounds very important. I bet it made all the girls swoon.” She read from the plaque: “Consistent leadership, service, and personal growth. Well, you haven’t changed a bit.”
I just rolled my eyes and walked behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. I couldn’t keep my hands off her for more than a few moments.
“It would have been fun to know you back then,” she said.
“You would not have given me a second glance, Bennet! Are you kidding? You are way out of my league, then and now.” I turned her around to face me and pressed our foreheads together. She wrapped her arms around my neck.
“Maybe? Maybe not? Maybe I would have passed you notes in bio just to make you blush. I do like that effect I have on you.”
“Feel like heading over to the hotel and getting checked in?” I kissed down the side of her neck.
“Are you trying to get me alone?” she asked.
“Hmm . . . yes,” I admitted.
“Need to make up for lost time in the make-out department before the meat auction?”
“Damn right. I won’t be able to concentrate on brats and bacon properly if I’m this distracted.” I pushed the hair behind her eyes and pulled her face in for a kiss. I knew she could feel the hardness of my distraction growing between us.
“Then let’s go. You have to be on your A game tonight, sir! I want to leave there a huge winner and enormously satisfied . . . with the experience.” She put a flirty tilt to a few key phrases.
I couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.