Chapter 13 #2
Abby and Jay have gone to their rooms to finish up their homework, and Jo disappears saying she’ll be right back. Looking around at the dishes from dinner, I begin rinsing each one to load into the dishwasher.
Footsteps sound moving closer to the kitchen, and I feel Jo’s gaze, heavy on me. In her hand is a beat up shoe box that looks like it’s seen better days.
“What are you doing?” she asks warily.
“What does it look like I’m doing? You cooked, now I’ll clean. Sit down and rest. Neither your brain nor your body has slowed down since you got home.”
With reluctant steps, Jo walks back to the table and lowers to her seat.
“Abby and Jay usually help. I don’t want you to think they’re little slackers. I thought maybe cleaning would clear my head.”
“You wanna talk about it?” I ask, not looking at her while I carefully arrange the plates in the dishwasher rack. “Clearly something has you bothered. I’ve never seen anyone think so loudly.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Talk to me, Jo.”
She’s silent for so long I assume she doesn’t want to talk about it.
She’s probably emotional from visiting her grandmother today.
But then as her words tumble out, anger that I seldom lose control of boils just beneath the surface.
I’m surprised the glass I’m drying doesn’t shatter from how hard I’m gripping it.
“What do you mean, he suggested there’s one way to keep your funding?” I ask, whirling to face her.
“You know what he means. He has a thing for me, but I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s a walking red flag.”
“Jo, he should be fired. He can’t get away with saying something like that to you.” Surely she knows this is an abuse of power.
“It’s a lost cause, Tyler. He comes from a well to do, highfalutin family here in Singing River. He knows it and I know it.” She lets out a weary sigh, rolling her shoulders like she’s attempting to dispel her pent up tension.
Lowering my voice to a hushed tone, I say, “You’re the mother of my child. I don’t know how to stand by and let a man talk to you like that.”
Slowly she begins to shake her head. “I’m telling you, I’d be the first to handle this if I thought it would help.
I’d face a losing battle, though. I really don’t think he makes a habit of saying things like that to women.
Surely I’d know about it, if so. But I plan on applying for grants starting tonight. ”
“I don’t like this,” I admit.
“That makes two of us, but it is what it is.”
Her tone indicates she’s through discussing it, so I search around until I find her broom and dustpan. While I sweep, I look up to find her watching me.
“I know I already thanked you once, but I really appreciate the offer to tutor Abby. She worries herself sick over math and I’m useless with numbers.”
Huffing, I plant my hands on my hips and lower my voice. “She’s my daughter, Jo. You don’t have to thank me. I want to spend time with her. But there’s only so long I can do it like this. I promised I’ll let you lead the way, but I want her to know who I am.”
“I know, Tyler. I know. And we will.”
My eyes fall to the shoebox in her hands and I cock a brow. “What’s that there?”
Like she forgot she was holding it, Jo stands and thrusts the shoebox at me, her fingertips brushing mine in the process. Heat flares at the contact, however brief, and god my heart is pounding.
“Letters. I knew seeing you again was next to impossible, but I wrote them anyway. I guess it was almost like journaling.” She swallows hard when I take the box from her hand. “I’ve decided they’re now yours.”
Lifting the lid, I see a stack of letters resting inside, all folded into thirds and bound by a purple ribbon.
A smile tugs at my lips thinking back to that streak of purple painted throughout her hair that night.
Curiosity draws me toward the letter on top.
Her small hand lands on top of mine, causing the lid to drop down on the box.
“Good god, not in front of me.” Jo offers a tight-lipped smile. “Wait till you’re alone.”
“All right. I’ll read them later tonight. How about you go ahead and do whatever you need to do. I’ll finish up in here.”
“You sure? Don’t you feel weird cleaning the kitchen of a family you just met?”
“No, Jo,” I say gently. “Go do what you need to do. I’ve got this.”
“I need to finish a piece that’s due. Then I can get back to looking for grants. If you need me, I’ll be in my art room down the hall.”
Crossing to Jo, I take her hand in mine and haul her to her feet.
I know I should let go, but I can’t. Not yet.
I hold on an extra second, my thumb rubbing over the top of her hand, the contact with her not enough and too much at once.
She doesn’t back away either, though. Her free hand grips my bicep, and she takes in a shallow breath, the air crackling between us.
Her gaze tilts to meet mine and we stand there for what seems like hours but couldn’t be more than a couple seconds.
The overwhelming urge is there to take her face in my hands and kiss her until we’re both breathless.
What would she do if I did? Her eyes go to my lips, and I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing.
But I can’t rush things and risk screwing something up. Instead I choose to comfort her.
“I’m gonna hug you now.”
She gives a slight nod, and I draw her to me in a gentle hug, telling myself this is what she needs, but I know deep down I need this just as much.
Finally, she pulls back, her hand releasing from mine with a weary sigh. “I better go paint.”
My base instincts kick in watching her retreating form. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking or if she’s really doing it, but I think I detect a slight sway to her hips, like she knows exactly where my gaze has landed.
While finishing up in the kitchen, I think through every possibility for how to fix this Principal Ian Stanback situation.
Austin’s publicist, Kate, has contacts everywhere.
Plus, she could go toe-to-toe with any private investigator out there.
Does Singing River’s golden boy have any skeletons that need to be released from their closet?
I might have to give Kate a call to have ammunition ready if needed.
Kitchen reset, I grab the shoebox under one arm and make my way through her house, looking for what might be her art room to tell her goodbye. At the end of the hall, bright light streams from a doorway. What I see when I get to the open door has my steps faltering and my lips parting in awe.
Jo sits on a stool, a large canvas in front of her. She’s pulled her blonde hair up in some sort of twist on the top of her head, exposing her neck to the slope of her shoulder. The sight leaves me momentarily breathless.
How will I live in this town, spend time with her family—our daughter—and not have her as mine? The need I have for this woman, who I scarcely know, is so strong it’s as if she’s the sun sparkling through a dense forest, and I find myself helpless, shifting toward her light.