Chapter 8
Alice
I f someone had told me this morning that I’d sit in Jake’s lap for almost an hour before the day was over, I would’ve asked what they were smoking. I hate being trapped here, but I have to admit, he’s a much better partner for riding out the storm than I expected. He always seems to have a plan, and even when those plans are stupid—like eating nothing but cupcakes for the foreseeable future and hiding in a bathtub under couch cushions—just knowing there is a plan helps to ease some of my anxiety. Eventually, the sounds of the storm seem to wind down.
“Do you think we can get up now?” I angle my head to look back at him.
“Probably.” He loosens his arms so I can get out of the tub first. When I shift my weight, I feel something poke my back.
“Ew, Jake. Seriously?” I scramble up off him and gesture at his lap, where the evidence is obvious through his gym shorts.
He shrugs. “Sorry.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I’m not convinced he feels apologetic at all.
“There’s been a beautiful woman rubbing herself up against me for the better part of the afternoon, Lousy. Stuff is going to happen. What do you want me to do?”
His comment catches me off guard, and I pause for a second before responding. “Okay, A: Gross. And B: I absolutely wasn’t rubbing myself against anything.” Not intentionally, anyway. “And C: Did you hit your head? Do you realize you just called me beautiful? Me?” I can’t remember the last time I received a compliment from Jake. Besides, no one calls me beautiful. Tiny, sure. Petite, yes. Occasionally someone’s elderly aunty will say something that borders on positive about my features, like how my “angular face is quite striking.” But beautiful? Never.
My stomach chooses this moment to grumble, loudly protesting the fact that it’s almost dinnertime and all I’ve eaten today is one full cupcake and a half of another. I was serious when I said I don’t want to consume too many of Danielle’s wedding treats if we don’t need to. The bridge could be fixed as soon as tomorrow for all we know, and I’m crossing my fingers that’s the case. But in the meantime, I’m starving.
“I told you, you need to eat more of those cupcakes.” Jake takes the opportunity to change the subject, and he gestures to my belly.
“I’m a grown-up, I decide what I eat. I do wish we had something a little more solid, though. You should tell your uncle to at least stock peanut butter in his rentals or something.”
“Peanut butter is a liquid, but point taken.”
“I don’t think so,” I argue. It’s infuriating how I’m always second-guessing myself around Jake, but this is like basic third-grade science so I’m going to stand my ground. “It’s a solid because it holds together and doesn’t spread to take the shape of its container.” If you put a blob of peanut butter on a slice of bread, it would stay put. Therefore, solid. Right? I’m almost positive I’m right about this.
“Oh, I’m going to love seeing your face when you Google this one. It’s for sure a liquid. Try taking a jar of it on a plane and see what happens. Although, technically, it’s a Bingham plastic like toothpaste, so I can see why you’re confused.”
“Oh my God, you are so patronizing and annoying.”
He smirks and changes the subject again. “I think the rain let up for now. I’m going outside to assess the damage. I want to take some photos to send to Uncle Tim.”
The sky has brightened. Although the forecast says the storms will continue on and off all day, more of the late afternoon sun is coming through the windows now, so he’s probably right about the break in the rain. But I’d rather take a minute to discuss Jake calling me beautiful like it was no big deal.
He allowed that word to fly right out of his mouth as though it didn’t shift the entire dynamic between us and alter my perception of reality in general, but now I can’t bring it up again without looking like I’m fishing for compliments. Based on the things I’ve heard about my body for my entire life, I know for a fact what he said is not true. I’m not soft, or curvy, or round, or any of those other traditionally feminine adjectives. Still, it’s flattering to hear, even if he was talking out of his ass.
But we have bigger priorities right now than discussing my bone structure. We need to figure out if we are likely to be stuck here with each other for the next few days. Together. Just me and the frenemy who only moments ago was sporting an impressive erection, apparently from proximity to my body. A body he just said he thinks is beautiful.
I shake my head and follow him to the yard. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be much damage to his uncle’s property other than what seems like hundreds of small fallen branches. None of them are big enough to cause any serious problems, but it will be quite a job to clean up. The creek has risen over the bank, but just barely. The water is still far enough away that it won’t flood the house, at least as long as it doesn’t start downpouring again. Jake starts scooping up sticks, so I follow his lead and do the same.
“You don’t have to do that. You can go back inside.” He straightens up to talk to me.
“It’s fine. What else am I going to do? If I’m stuck here, I might as well make myself useful.”
“Then wait a minute.” He goes to the garage and digs until he finds a filthy pair of work gloves, then he returns and offers them to me.
“Ew. No. I’m not putting my hands in those. There could be spiders in them. Besides, they’re too big for me and I don’t know whose sweaty, hairy hands were in there last. I’ll take my chances with the twigs.”
“My hands, if you must know. These are mine. I wear them when I come out here to pull weeds.” He shakes the gloves and looks inside each one, presumably to check for spiders, then he takes my wrist and places the gloves in my hand. “Put them on. Or don’t. Do whatever you want. I don’t care. But the last thing I need is to hear you whining about splinters for the next three days, and I’m not sure we have a decent first aid kit.”
“If we’re stuck together for that long, you won’t have to worry about being around to hear anything. I will surely strangle you by the middle of Day Two,” I say, accepting the gloves from him. They’re gross and I don’t want to wear them, but I don’t want splinters either, so I compromise and only put one on my right hand, tucking the other one into the pocket of my cut-off jean shorts.
The two of us walk around the front yard gathering sticks and piling them in a heap. It reminds me of when we were young and we would play in the yard while Mr. Gibson raked.
“Do you remember when your dad would make those giant piles of leaves for us to jump in?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. I think my mom still has a few old photos of us with Danielle burying each other in those piles.”
A beat of awkward silence passes, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. His parents tolerated me as a child, but I haven’t been to the Gibsons' house in a long time. And, except for the wedding, I’m no longer welcome, especially after the incident last year.
I add another armful of twigs to the pile in front of us.
“That’s probably good enough for now,” Jake says. “Thanks for helping, Lousy.”
“Could you not?” My voice cracks at the end of the question I didn’t mean to ask. It slipped out because after the afternoon we’ve spent together, my guard is down.
“What?” He brushes the dirt from his clothes and stands still to look at me.
I clear my throat. It’s hard not to squirm under his gaze. I hate that his nickname still has so much power over me. We’re adults now. This shouldn’t still hurt. I don’t even think Jake’s trying to be mean. He’s called Danielle ‘Dan-Dan’ for as long as I can remember, and although she says she hates it, we all know she doesn’t. But that’s a lot different than a nickname with head lice origins, and if I tell him it gets to me he’s just as likely to double down as he is to stop.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” I crouch down to pick up another stick. He tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows, studying me briefly before he gives up and walks back inside.
I make my way to the porch and take a few more minutes to myself.
When I go into the house, Jake is on the phone with his mom. I can only hear his side of the conversation, but based on the way he rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut, my guess is it’s going as well as I would expect it to go for someone to tell Shelia Gibson her precious baby is stuck overnight with the likes of me.
“We’re fine, Mom. Jesus, no, do not call the National Guard… Sorry. No, you’re right, I shouldn’t swear at my mother…I do respect you…It doesn’t really matter how we feel about her, I don’t have a lot of options right now…can we just…Yes, I can appreciate your feelings…”
I thought maybe, after a year of fixating on it, I had blown that morning at their house out of proportion and my memory made it seem worse than it really was. But now I know it’s not my imagination. His entire family hates me.