6. Jasper
6
JASPER
“She’s feeling punny today, isn’t she. I’d bet my house there’s no sugar in that dessert.” I take a sip of my coffee as I look at the photo she posted twenty minutes ago, captioned Sugar, We’re Going Down . Amusement crackles inside my veins like popping candy. I expected to see something with apples today, but Coraline Carter is anything but predictable.
I glance at her profile picture, looking for the colorful circle around it indicating she has a story. But it’s the same meme she shared last night about asshole exes. I chuckle as I read it again.
I don’t get addicted to things. I’m not gluttonous by nature, and I never get attached. But the satisfaction that sings in my blood at knowing she was still thinking about me six hours after our little run-in at the grocery brings me immense pleasure. It’s the kind of thing that has me contemplating driving the extra forty-five minutes from the clubhouse to Harold’s Grocery just to increase the odds of seeing her caught off-guard.
Pudding meows his agreement, like he can read my mind from his perch next to me. He’s currently twenty minutes in on a cleaning session, his sandpaper tongue rasping with every swipe along his back leg.
I tilt my phone to show my black and white Turkish Angora the photo of brightly colored ice cream sandwiched between two cookie-biscuits. And because he’s a fucking gentleman, he pauses his bathing long enough to stare at my phone and give it one long blink.
I chuckle at his perfectly timed deadpan stare. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t toss me in the lake to get your claws on one of these, ya fluffball.”
Pudding is the strangest and most amazing cat I’ve ever had. He’s the only cat I’ve ever had. But we have an unbreakable bond, him and I. A few years ago, I found him outside my late-grandfather’s house—right when it became my house—and brought him inside. He dove headfirst into a chocolate and vanilla pudding cup the second I turned my back, and he’s been king of this little castle ever since.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I answer it on a sigh, putting it on speakerphone right away. “Mornin’.”
“Hello, darling. Are you ready to sell Father’s house and come back home yet?”
I scrub my hand across the bottom half on my face, a chuckle slipping through my fingers. “Jesus, Ma. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning. Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?”
She hums over some rustling in the background. “Too early for me to start my weekly plea for my only son to move back home so there isn’t a million miles between us? I don’t think there is such a thing.”
There are only a handful of states between us, a relatively short plane ride. But I don’t need to tell her things she already knows. Vivienne Devereaux was born and raised in Avalon Falls. Not in this house. She was only here until she was twelve, then her dad got a job in Fontaine, Louisiana. Elias loved Avalon Falls though, so he eventually came back. Bought this lake house so he’d always have some place to stay here.
“You’re always welcome here, Ma. I have plenty of room.”
She sniffs, and I imagine her turning up her nose at the idea. “Oh gosh, can you imagine me staying at the clubhouse like a preteen at summer camp?”
The image of my posh and put-together mother strolling into the Reapers clubhouse is so comical I can’t stuff the laugh back inside quick enough.
“See! You finally understand how ridiculous that idea is. It makes much more sense for you to come home and stay with me. Unless.” She pauses, for dramatic effect, I’m sure.
My chuckles taper off. “C’mon, Ma. Just ask, I know the question is burning the tip of your tongue.”
“Unless,” she says, dragging the word out and somehow managing to sound both hopeful and annoyed. One of her many talents I suppose. “Unless I should come there to meet a certain someone. Perhaps someone special?”
I eye the ball of fluff underneath my palm, a smirk pulling up one side of my mouth. “You know, I wasn’t going to bring it up yet. But there is someone who you should meet. It’s been serious for awhile now?—”
“You better not be toying with me right now, son,” she snaps without any real heat. “I’m fragile.” She says it so dramatically too like she’s a crystal vase.
That pulls another laugh from me. My mother is a lot of things, but fragile isn’t one of them. She discovered my father had a second family when I was in high school, and she didn’t crumble, which would have been completely understandable—maybe even a little expected. Instead, she pulled herself up by her bootstraps, changed her name back, and got us the hell out of there. Then she took my dad for everything she could, and moved closer to her father. That lasted a few years until she decided she didn’t want to be run out of her town.
“Me? I’d never dream of such a thing. I’m serious. There’s someone who I’ve been meaning to introduce you to.”
“I’m on the first flight out, darling!” she practically yells.
“Black hair, a little white too, but don’t make a big deal out of it, yeah?”
“Well, that’s alright. I know a great colorist that can help cover up grays if she’s interested. Maybe you can plan a trip home to me and bring this special person with you, hm?”
“We see each other every single day, sometimes spending our mornings together too,” I muse, folding my lips over to hinder any amusement from slipping free.
“ Mornings ? Darling, do you two live together?”
I feel the goofy grin widen across my face. “Sure do, Ma.”
“Oh Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? It must be serious if she’s living with you. Where did you meet her? Please tell me she isn’t one of those club—club . . . whatever you call those gals.”
“Nah, Ma. Not a club bunny. Which, by the way, are really very lovely girls.” I take a sip of my coffee. It really isn’t hot anymore, but I still need the caffeine if I want to get through my day at the garage.
“Yes, well,” she stammers like she’s flustered. “Burn the bra, down with the patriarchy and all that. But I can’t lie and say that I want my son to be with a woman who would willingly bed anyone just to get a place on a motorcycle. I want your partner to be supportive and loving, to be with you because she loves you. Not your death trap of a vehicle.”
My mouth parts and for a second, nothing comes out. “Jesus, Ma.” How the fuck she can bundle a sweet sentiment in with her judgement is a fucking gift. It’s that southern in her. Kind of like when she’s telling me shit about people I don’t know and says “bless their hearts.” It’s basically code for fuck you but politely.
She called me last week to give me an update I didn’t ask for about her little run-in with the preacher’s wife, Belinda. Belinda’s been a real thorn in Ma’s side, one-upping her at the ladies brunch they have at the country club. Telling her the wrong dates and times for community charity things they all sit on. But last week, Ma caught Belinda canoodling someone who is definitely not the preacher in the frozen foods aisle at their grocery.
“So, how’s Belinda these days?”
“Don’t you change the subject on me, son. I want to meet this special someone. Is she there now? Let’s video chat! I can’t get a flight out until Wednesday, and I don’t think I can possibly wait that long to meet the woman who’s captivated my son’s heart.”
I shake my head, a little fissure of worry sliding into the back of my neck. How mad is she gonna be once she realizes I’ve been teasing her?
I open my mouth to tell her it’s a joke, but before I can say anything, she’s video calling me. I set my coffee mug down on the side table, pick up Pudding and wrap him around the back of my neck like some kind of old school stole scarf, and answer the phone.
“Darling,” she crows. “Let me meet my . . . Jasper Vincent Devereaux, what in the hell are you wearing?” Her lips twist into a scowl, the coral-colored lipstick pinching in the corners of her mouth.
I lift my shoulder with Pudding’s head on it and angle the camera so she can see his smushy face. “Oh this? This is Pudding.”
Her dark brown brows sink low over her eyes, accusation in her gaze. “Please tell me that’s not who I think it is.”
I rub my index finger over the bridge of his nose and he purrs in response. “Ma, meet my special someone. Pudding, meet Grandma.”
She gasps, her hand flying to her chest in outrage. “Absolutely not. I am not a grandma yet, and certainly not to some cat who you tricked me into thinking was your-your girl friend.”
I chuckle and Pudding opens one eye, giving me his best impression of a glare. Honestly, he’s pretty good at it. No one is as good as my mom though. That woman can knock me down ten pegs faster with one glance than most people could do in a lifetime.
The apples of my cheeks get warm. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds weird.”
“I guess I’m going to cancel my flight then,” she says with a pout, like she really booked flights while she was on the phone with me. Like this isn’t the same conversation we have almost monthly.
Our conversation lasts a few more minutes before she ends the call, telling me that Kathy is waiting on her at some coffee shop. Her guilt trip lessens by the end, but it never really goes away. It’s one of those things I’ve learned to live with.
And since I have a little bit before I have to get my ass to the garage, I push off the couch in search of one of the other things that guarantees bringing me out of the weird mood my mother’s phone calls put me in.
I set up my puzzle board and dump the contents of the box. Pudding and I have a date with leftover takeout and a new puzzle. Like a couple of fucking gentlemen.