20. Something Like It
20
SOMETHING LIKE IT
W ill’s mother looks nothing like her son. Or rather, Will looks nothing like his mother.
Sandra Jacobs is platinum blonde and blue-eyed, with pale skin and delicate, soft, round features. And even from her wheelchair, you can tell she has a petite frame. She is shockingly the complete opposite to her son. Will is all angular lines, hard muscle, and Mediterranean skin. His dark eyes are wide, intense, and set below thick brows making it very clear that he takes after his late father. And if that weren’t enough, his over six feet two height sure should settle that theory. If it weren’t for the same infinitely long and full lashes and the deep laughter that stems from their belly, I would never have assumed they were related—at least by blood. But once Sandra takes one look at her son, it’s pure adoration and devotion you can see in her eyes. The kind you only see in mothers’ eyes—or so I’ve been told, since my mom was about as maternal as the bow clip currently keeping my hair out of my face.
Due to his height and her wheelchair, Will has to squat to hug his mother hello. She reaches her arms up and wraps them lovingly around her son, closing her eyes like her entire day has been made.
“You’re here!” she exclaims, pulling back to look him in the eye.
“Mom. I told you I was coming,” he says before kissing her once on the cheek and gently pulling away.
“Yes, but still! I’m excited! My first birthday party in a while and you’re here and all my friends are here.”
Will smiles down at his mom. “I know, Mom. I’m happy you’re finally letting someone celebrate you.”
Sandra grins up at her son a final time before her eyes land on mine, bright and mischievous. They say Aha! Gotcha!
“And she’s here, too.” She smiles at me before she glances at Will and back. “You must be Bridget. Will has told me so much about you, I keep asking whether you guys are together or not.”
“ Whoa , Mom! What the actual fuck? We’ve talked about this. I said no.” Will’s face flushes almost as red as mine does.
I sputter a laugh, almost gasping for air. Did she seriously just ask that?
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage at the moment, and honestly, I should receive an award for being able to say as much.
“C’mon, Will. You talk about her all the time. You spend most of your free time with her. And maybe I believed you the eight times you told me she was just a friend. But now that I’ve seen the way she looks?” Sandra shakes her head, laughing. “No way you guys aren’t together.”
“Okay, you need to stop this before it even starts or this will be the last birthday party of yours I come to.” He’s half-joking, half-mortified, and it’s so adorable I want to melt. “I do not talk about Bridget all the time.” He stops and looks at me. “I do not talk about you all the time.”
The only reason I believe him—besides just the idea of having him be as obsessed with me as I am with him is completely ridiculous—is because it feels like we spend any free time we do have talking to each other . When would he even have the chance to talk to his mother often enough for her to say he talks about me all the time?
Sandra throws her head back in laughter at our expressions and backs into the house, letting us in.
“Are those for me?” She nods towards the gifts in my hand.
“Yes! Sorry, yes. I got distracted from the whole…” I wave my free hand vaguely in the air.
Will sighs and rubs his eyes as he shakes his head in frustration while Sandra looks like she’s having the time of her life.
“Thanks so much for letting me crash your birthday.” When I hand her the three things, her eyes go wide.
“Honey, you did not need to get me this much stuff. The flowers would’ve been more than enough.”
“She has a whole thing behind each gift, Mom.” Will shoots me a smirk, dark eyes shining.
Sandra raises a curious eyebrow at her son, then at me.
“The flowers are a thank you for welcoming me into your home,” I begin to explain. “The heart shaped cookies because your birthday is on Valentine’s Day. And the other gift is your birthday gift.”
“It’s too much, is what it is. Thank you, though.” She takes my hand and squeezes it, her smile warm and tender. An obtrusive thought instantly pops into my head: I wish I had had a mother like her growing up . But the guilt pushes it away as quickly as it came on. My mother couldn’t help herself, so it’s not fair to feel this way.
“Of course. It’s no problem.”
She squeezes my hand once more before taking the gifts from me and placing them on her lap. “How about I introduce you to my best friends? They’re kind of like Will’s aunts and, in addition to myself, will be the ones providing you with a wide array of embarrassing childhood stories for your entertainment.”
I snort and follow her into the living room, laughing as Will groans in mortification. “Please don’t believe anything they say. And if they bring up the whole bowl of Jolly Ranchers thing, please have mercy on me—it was traumatic, not cute.”
* * *
The Jolly Rancher story turns out to be an instant classic—and something I will forever tease Will about. The way he stole and proceeded to eat all of his kindergarten teacher’s secret stash of watermelon candy. How she asked everyone to ‘fess up, but they all denied it—including Will. The way he tried to hide it but his bright red tongue sold him out. And how the teacher decided to punish him by not letting him participate in the holiday pageant while the rest of his classmates did leaves an image of young, cute Will in my head I never want to forget.
“It was traumatic, Bridge! Imagine standing there, crying, having to watch everyone have fun, but you can’t do anything about it.”
I smile and laugh, looking down at a picture of five-year-old Will. “I totally get it, Will. It does sound traumatic. But oh my god, look at how adorable you are.” I point to the adorable boy with the mop of curly hair, eyes too big to fit his face, and a sweater that screams the nineties so loudly I wonder how I can hear anything in this place. “I can just imagine you being a cute lil’ mess in your Rudolph sweater.”
He narrows his eyes at me and takes the photo album from my hands. “That’s it. No more baby pictures for you.”
“Noooo.” I reach over him in laughter as he pulls the album behind his back, losing my balance and falling over his lap, ass up. Realizing the precarious position we find ourselves in, I try to right myself but fail. Instead, I end up slipping off his lap and onto the ground with a loud thud.
“Shit. You okay?” He reaches a hand down to help me to my feet, but I don’t take it, choosing instead to right myself. When I sit up, leaning on my hands, I inadvertently push out my chest. Will’s gaze instantly drops to it, pupils blown wide. Humor has left the building, replaced by that ever-present sexual tension between us which only ever seems to wax and never wane.
“Will,” I hiss in a whisper voice as I readjust my neckline. “I didn’t actually think not staring at my tits would be a difficult thing for you to do in front of your mother.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, an embarrassed laugh bursting through his lips. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
“William, we need you in the kitchen!” Alexandria, one of Sandra’s oldest friends, calls out.
“One sec,” he calls back. He helps me to my feet, hands in his, and smiles down at me. “Thank you for coming, by the way. It’s helped in keeping them off my case about a lot of things. Even though I added one by bringing you.”
“What do you mean?”
He squeezes my hands once. “Well, now they think we’re in love. Or at the very least, something like it.”