14. Fallon
Chapter fourteen
Fallon
I glance at my watch. It’s 3:50. Jeb should be here in ten minutes, so I rush to the bathroom, apply deodorant, spritz some body spray into the air, and run into the cloud, letting the vanilla scent waft around me. I comb my fingers through my hair and swipe my tongue along my teeth.
At 3:55, I contemplate changing my shirt into something… better. It’s dumb, I know, but I want to look good for Jeb.
God, that sounds ridiculous.
I don’t want to look good for Jeb . I want to look presentable for anyone who might be coming over. Leggings and a tee are my go-to clothing choices these days. Nothing crazy, nothing special. I feel comfortable and look like I’m about to do yoga and park my SUV in the carpool lane.
I’m not really putting any kind of effort into Jeb’s arrival, just making sure my appearance isn’t a complete mess. I check my light pink tee in the bathroom mirror. No stains, so that’s a plus. I don’t have more time to worry about my outfit when there’s a knock on the back door.
I tip-toe run to the door, not to seem too anxious. I spot Jeb through the sectioned windows on the top half of the door before he sees or hears me. He’s staring at the river, mesmerized. I’m like that, too. The riverscape never tires.
Thin, wispy clouds stretch high, while solid mid-level ones dot the sky with abstract shapes. Under the sun, the river glows with a gemstone-like hue. It’s captivating.
The clink of the lock disrupts Jeb from his marvel. His head snaps to the door and his lips turn upward when he spots me. A dimple I’ve never seen before peeks out on his left cheek. Hugged into his side is a potted bush. A hydrangea.
I open the door, remembering the last flowers I received—for Rhett’s funeral. My mom and dad gifted me chocolates for Valentine’s Day a few months ago. Rhett’s parents gave me a gift card for a massage, and his sister showed up with a basket of wine, but these are the first flowers I’ve been given since his death.
“Jeb.” I can’t unglue my eyes off the tiny pink buds. “For me?”
“I saw it at the grocery store and thought it’d go great in the shady spot out back where the little shed used to be.”
My eyes water instantly.
“If you don’t like it, or if you have other plans for that spot, I can plant them at my parents’ place. It’s no big deal,” he says, searching my eyes.
“No, no. I love them. They’re beautiful. Pink hydrangeas are some of my favorites.”
“Okay, great. I have a shovel in my car and some tools for the chairs. I’ll plant this first, then I’ll give it some water. Do you have a hose out back?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure if it’s connected. I’ll come around with you.” I walk out through the screened-in deck. He stops to put the pot next to the steps on the way out, and I follow him to his truck. “Need help carrying anything?”
With one foot on the top of his tire, the other swinging into the bed, he hoists himself up into the truck bed with a gazelle-like ease. Just like he was mesmerized by the river, I’m currently fascinated by his corded calf muscles. I wait on the driveway, the trees above throwing shadows of leaves all around as I peer up at him. He reaches into a five-gallon bucket, grabs a drill, and hands it to me over the side rails. Then, he does the same with a little plastic box.
“You can carry the drill and the drill bits. I’ll get the rest.” Stepping on the side of the truck bed, he jumps down. “Tailgate’s stuck, or I’d get in that way.” He reaches his arm back up, pulling out a shovel by its worn wooden handle.
I place the drill and the bits on the steps that lead to the deck, next to the boxes of chair parts.
It isn’t until Jeb spears the shovel into the ground, using his left leg to send it further into the earth, that I notice his clothing. I’d been too busy focusing on the roping veins on his calves and the bicycle tattoo on the back of the left one to notice anything else. I stare with fascination as he penetrates the earth with the silver head of the shovel’s blade, his army-green tee stretching over his arms and chest with the movement. His well-worn jeans have a hole in each knee, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy them distressed like that.
It’s hard to compare Easter Jeb to Present Jeb—both only weeks apart. My pulse pounds and I feel heat bloom in my cheeks as I gawk at the man in front of me. Holding the plastic pot with one hand, Jeb grabs the hydrangea bush by the stem with his opposite hand and pulls both in different directions. Steadily, he twists the base of the bush, pulling it free from the pot before lowering it into the freshly loosened soil.
I swallow the tangle in my throat, confused as to how a glimmer of Jeb gardening is shooting heat straight to my core.
Am I allowed to think that?
Yes, my fiancé died, but it’s been almost seven months now. I’m allowed to notice another man’s physical appearance, I think?
Jeb must sense my gaze on his fingers, gingerly packing the loose soil around the hydrangea’s roots, because he pats the soil once more, then turns toward me. Our eyes meet for a brief second before I look away.
“I’ll grab the hose,” I blurt, not wanting to focus on how his hands danced through the soil in such an intimate way.
On the other side of the house, I uncoil the hose, then connect it and turn the water on before dragging it around.
“The internet said to water thoroughly three times a week for the first couple months after planting. Sorry I got you such a labor-intensive project. I didn’t think about it when I bought it, but I can always come by and water it for you.” He wipes the dirt from his hands onto his jeans.
“Did you just invite yourself over three times a week for the next couple of months?” I chuckle, resting one hand on my hip.
“No, well, kind of. I don’t want to cause the bush to die too.” He fingers the soil while I’m watering. “I think that’s good,” he says, standing.
“Oh, that was terrible. Two weeks after Rhett died, everything was a blur. Probably for longer than that, but definitely those first two weeks. The first thing I really remember after the funeral and everything settling down was all the damn flowers dying. What kind of sick joke is that? Flowers meant to celebrate his life, then they die, too?”
“I’m so sorry, Fallon.” My breath catches when he inches closer. His arms wrap around me, pinning our chests together, the hose still in my hand. I hook my free arm around him, tapping his back. It’s the first time he’s hugged me unprompted.
“I’m not telling you that to make you feel guilty or bad in any way. I want you to know I’m only reminiscing,” I clarify.
“I know. It’s just a reminder of how much I’ve ruined for you. I took away something you can’t get back. Something so permanent. It’s… Every day, I wish that I could go back and have a re-do.”
“Me, too.” I snuggle into his chest, wondering what it would be like to be hugged by Jeb. Really hugged by him, not in a sympathetic type of way.
He lifts a hand from my back to smooth my hair, and I don’t even care that it might be dirty. The contact between our bodies means a lot more to me than a little dirt does.
“Close your eyes and pretend I’m Rhett for a minute if you want to. I won’t mind.” His voice is deep and croaky.
I drop the garden hose, letting it clink on the stone sidewalk, Jeb’s words dousing the heat of my daydream. A reminder that I shouldn’t be enjoying Jeb’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist or in my hair. My mind goes blank as I reach my arms around him and squeeze, picturing Rhett.
It’s not the same. He doesn’t feel like Rhett. He doesn’t smell like Rhett.
I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Rhett’s smile and the snorting sound he made when he laughed. My head rises and falls against Jeb’s chest with each breath he takes. I never had a chance to have one last hug with Rhett. He was gone in a second.
My eyes fill and tears threaten to spill over, but I blink them away. I bask in the warmth of Jeb’s arms, thinking about Rhett. It doesn’t quite feel right, but nothing does anymore. The Dead Fiancé Guidebook might have a chapter on this if it existed, but I doubt it.
If only I had the real Rhett. Or the real Jeb.
Not the Jeb that holds me tight so I can picture another man.
Jeb sniffles, and after a minute or two, I let him go.
“Thanks for that,” I tell him, already knowing I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want Jeb to think I wish he were Rhett.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He wipes his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “Let’s get the chairs put together.”
We each grab a box of chair parts, working side by side in the backyard, sharing the drill he brought. He studies the instructions, telling me when to find piece A6 or B8 and where to screw it. It takes about an hour with some trial and error, but we successfully assemble both chairs.
“I’m going to head out so you can get to your pajamas.” He grabs his tools, along with the empty cardboard boxes, and tosses them into the bed of his truck.
“Thanks for your help. This project would’ve taken me forever. Well, it wouldn’t have been completed since I don’t have a drill,” I say, relaxing into my new outdoor furniture. I’ll drag these down to the dock once he leaves.
“Yeah, that would be a hard task to complete without one. Let me know if you have any other projects. I’d be happy to help.”
“Thanks, Jeb. I’ll text you about the fundraiser next weekend.”
“Have a good night.” I watch him walk to his truck, and then he turns around. “Hey, Fal?”
Butterflies hit my stomach and for a split second, I wonder if he’ll ask for another hug or offer to pick up dinner for the both of us to prolong our afternoon together. “Yeah?”
“I hope you dream about him tonight. And I hope it feels real, if only for a little bit.”
I nod my head, tears already falling. This time, I can’t hold them back. My lips purse together, and I wipe my eyes while waving bye as Jeb’s taillights fade. I cry, but not for Rhett. This time, I cry for the ramblings of Jeb’s mind.
I cry because he thinks he doesn’t matter. He believes the accident was his fault. He feels like he’s the one that should be dead. I cry for the sweetness that is Jeb Baker.