Chapter Eighteen James
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James
I unload the boxes onto Madison’s kitchen table with her hovering right behind me.
“Thank you,” she chirps. “You can get going now.”
I don’t think so.
I mosey around her small kitchen. It’s compact but efficiently arranged.
A countertop and stove line the left wall, while a wide window in the middle lets in so much natural light during the day it makes the space feel larger.
On the right, a small counter holds the sink, and in the center of the room is a wooden table with two chairs positioned on either side.
There are dishes in the sink waiting to be washed.
A wrinkled KISS THE CHEF dish towel hangs from the dishwasher.
A slender vase with flowers (probably stolen from Annie’s flower crop) sits by the stove.
Brownies are arranged on a floral plate that I recognize as one that used to belong to her grandma, who passed away last year.
And above the window, lining the trim, she’s taped a row of Polaroids of her and her siblings. One of her and Mabel too.
None—I notice too quickly—of us.
But I do find the two word search puzzles I gave her (now completed), magnetized to her fridge along with several scribbled recipes, on everything from a napkin to a gum wrapper to the back of a receipt.
“Okayyyyy,” she says again, tiptoeing behind me and trying to corral me toward the door. “It’s getting late. See ya later.” She continues her campaign to get me out of her cottage, pushing me toward the door.
I hit the brakes when my gaze snags on her countertop. “Shit—did they get divorced?” I turn to her, salt shaker in hand. “Where’s Mr. Pepper? Don’t tell me that son of a bitch left her.”
The most sparkling smile blooms on Maddie’s face. “How did you know they’re married?”
“Because I’ve known you your entire life, and half of those years you spent cooking in my kitchen.”
“I didn’t realize I ever said that out loud to you, though.”
I set down the salt. “You told my mom once. And Amelia another time. But I overheard.”
Because that’s mostly how things have gone between us. Her telling everyone but me about her life, and me paying pathetic, tedious attention to every word leaving her mouth.
“Mr. Pepper is on my bedside table.”
“Of course he is. Do I even want to know why?” I make my way over to the bedroom section of the cottage to retrieve Mr. Pepper from the bedside table and take him back home where he belongs—with Mrs. Salt, by the vase of flowers.
“I was distracted while cleaning and carried it with me.”
Her chest expands on a huge breath as her hands go to her hips. “Why are you still here, James?”
I tilt my head. “Why do you want me to leave so badly?”
“I don’t . . .” She pauses. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Do I actually stink?”
“No,” she says so passionately it makes me smile. “Don’t get your undies in a wad when I say it, okay? But . . . I’ve been worrying about you a little.”
“Worrying about me?” I point to my chest.
She thumps her knuckle in the same spot I just pointed to. “Yes. You. Mr. Not Spun Glass . . . Mr. Man with High Blood Pressure.”
Ah.
“Madison . . .”
“No. This is important. You promised me you would take care of yourself, but you’re still running yourself ragged. You work nonstop wild hours. Refusing to go home and sleep when you should. Did you know you have dark circles under your eyes?”
“No.”
“You do.”
As if to prove her point, she reaches up and gently paints over them with the pad of her index finger. “You’re still not taking care of yourself.”
My shoulders relax. “You don’t have to worry about me, Madison.”
“Mm-hmm. But if I don’t, then who will? Because as I see it, you don’t let anyone worry about you while you’re out there worrying about everyone else.”
“Because I don’t need that.”
Her eyes go soft. “James. Everyone needs someone to worry about them.”
She rubs her palm over my chest, where my heart is beating firmly against my sternum. Like she’s trying to soothe it. Heal whatever is wrong in there.
I push her hair behind her ear before I even realize what I’m doing.
“Hey. I’m really sorry for biting your head off back there with the ‘spun glass’ comment. That was some real toxic masculinity shit. And I . . . I really wanted to come hang out with you here tonight. Can I stay a little longer?”
Her eyes are so brown at night. I look back and forth between them, happily lost in their depths.
“This . . . is the best part of my day so far. This is the relaxing part.” I don’t even bother to add some ridiculous line about our friendship to smooth over that statement. I let it fall like a boulder into a lake. I want her to hear the splash.
And Madison is not squeamish when it comes to unexpected feelings or emotions. She welcomes them every second of the day. Which is probably why she doesn’t back away, and instead smiles.
“You’re a touchy-feely person, aren’t you? I never realized it until recently. But . . . you’re affectionate.”
“Noah hates it,” I say, drawing a laugh from her. “I do like affection, though.”
“Me too.”
“I know.”
I’ve seen it with her and her siblings. Her and her dates.
Madison would sit right in anyone’s lap if they let her.
She’s always the last one to let go of a hug.
And when she hugs, she squeezes, rubbing her hand against your back.
I’ve watched her mindlessly braid her sisters’ hair if they’re sitting on the couch, and I’ve seen her make out with more guys in public than I like to dwell on.
She’s just . . . physical, and I’ve always been enamored by it. By her.
And deeply jealous of everyone who gets to experience it.
I doubt she remembers, but once shortly after she’d turned twenty-one, we were all at Hank’s and one of the siblings had dragged me out to line dance.
When the song ended, a slow song came on and everyone paired up.
Madison looked at me and extended her arms, saying, Grin and bear it for one dance, will ya? I love this song.
I wonder what she’d think if she knew I would have danced with her to that song all night if she’d asked. That getting to look in her eyes while standing that close felt like a damn gift from some benevolent god.
And now we’re here, standing closer than friends really have any right to stand, and I wonder if her heart is racing as fast as mine is.
But then she pulls away and takes a few steps to the stove. “Fine, you can stay, but I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, so you’ll sleep well when you get home.”
“Tea is disgusting.” I turn toward her “bedroom” again.
“You’re going to drink it, and then as soon as you’ve finished it, you’re going home and going to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, resting back onto my elbows. But it’s a bad idea, because the second I rest on the cushy mattress, my eyes drift shut. Between the smell of brownies and the sound of the kettle’s rolling boil, I swear that if I were to lie back right now, I’d pass out in ten seconds.
It’s peaceful in here.
I force my eyes to open, and when I do, I find Madison staring at me.
“You’re going to fall asleep.”
“Nah,” I say with drowsy eyes. “Not me.”
The thing I don’t tell her is that, despite how tired I’ve been, I’ve been struggling to sleep at home. There’s something about it. The second my head hits the pillow, my brain is wide-awake. But in here, I could sleep for ten days straight.
I think it’s her.
My body feels right when she’s around.
After pouring some honey into the steaming cup of tea, Madison carries it over to me. I push back up into a seated position. She stops in front of me, standing almost between my legs, and hands me the cup.
I take it, even though all I really want to do is wrap my hand around the back of her thighs and pull her even closer to me. All the way until we’re flush.
Instead, I look into her eyes.
“Tell me about your day.”