The Crooked Jellyfish
Ashton
Jordy walks in the door, wobbling slightly as she closes it behind her.
I know that walk all too well, and even though I’m pissed at her for driving when she’s obviously had way too much to drink, I’m even more pissed at myself for not thinking of being her designated driver when I knew she was going out with Michael and Grace.
Paint nights are never a sober affair.
“Did you seriously drive home that way?”
She shoots me a sloppy grin, then holds up the painting in her hand. It’s a purple blob with strings painted all over it, surrounded by murky blue.
“Look, I painted a jellyfish,” she slurs, then stumbles again as she tries to take her shoes off.
“Is that what that is?’
Fuck, it’s hard to be mad at her. I get up off the couch, moving to her side so that she has someone to balance on while she slips off her …
Vans? I’ve never seen her in any shoes except for high heels and Sasha’s flip flops.
Stepping back, I get a good look at her, and fucking hell.
Her pencil skirts and stilettos are cute, but they have nothing on Jordy in jeans and a t-shirt.
It makes me want to wrap my arms around her and fold her in tight, fitting every one of her curves against me.
“We should hang this,” she says, pushing it toward me.
I take it, chuckling lightly. “Seriously, you could have called me. You shouldn’t be on the road like this. You could have been hurt.”
She scoffs. “I didn’t drive, Mabel did. She picked us all up and brought me home.”
Relief floods through me, so much that I wrap an arm around Jordy’s waist and pull her to me for a hug.
Her head rests under my chin, and I have the strongest urge to lean down and kiss the top of it.
The yearning takes my breath away. But not before I inhale the scent of her skin, the lilac of her shampoo, the pheromones that rush at me while my defenses are down.
I let go of her, taking two steps back. Then I pretend to be very interested in her painting. “A jellyfish, huh?”
She laughs. “Okay fine, it’s not my best work. But that was after two very big glasses of wine. You’re lucky the paint even made it on the canvas.” She looks around the room then points at the wall in the living room. “It would fit perfectly there.”
I don’t even argue. She could’ve painted a giant dick and I’d still hang it, just because she painted it.
What that says about me, I don’t know. Even if she returns my feelings, it’s not like we can do anything about it.
I’ve experienced enough hard goodbyes in my life. I don’t need to open myself to another.
Jordy holds the painting while I take a pencil and mark the corners of it on the wall.
I pound in the nail, and she—with unsteady hands—moves to hang it.
She almost makes it. The painting crashes to the floor, having missed its mark, and Jordy pitches to the side as her hands scramble for purchase.
I grab her, pulling her tight against me until she finds her legs.
Then we linger there like that for a moment.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful—and so fucking close.
She’s looking at me, her eyes half lids as she keeps glancing at my lips.
That subtle move makes me feel insane. Feral.
I want to throw away all my inhibitions, every single reason why this shouldn’t happen, and show her everything I’ve thought of doing to her since the day she arrived in this town.
“We keep finding ourselves like this, Oregon,” she murmurs.
I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of her wine that mingles with everything feminine about her. I just know this woman would taste better than she smells.
But I know if I give in, there’s no going back. Because I won’t be able to stop.
“That’s what happens when you drink too much,” I tease, releasing her with every ounce of strength I have.
I turn, but not before I see a flash of disappointment cross her face.
I can’t take it seriously, though. She’s only tipsy, but it’s enough.
By morning time, we’ll just be friends again—temporary roommates until she’s back on a plane to New York.
“I was wondering,” Jordy says, playing with the hem of her t-shirt. “Tomorrow when you go to work, what if you left Lottie with me?”
I search her face, then shake my head. “You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Not because I have to,” she says, then sits on the couch. Right near my pillow. Right where I will smell her all night long.
Fuuuuck.
I sit on the other side, and she folds her legs underneath her. “I mean, yes. It would kind of be a way to pay you back for everything you’ve done for me so far.”
I start to interject, but she puts a hand up.
“Let me finish. It’s not just that. It’s more like, I need to get over this whole fear of kids thing.”
“So, you’re going to tackle your fears by using my kid as a guinea pig?”
She winces. “Damn, that sounds bad. That’s not exactly what I mean, and it’s also totally what I mean.
” She wrinkles her nose, looking at me. “It’s just that, I know if it’s too overwhelming, Bec is just across the way.
So it kind of makes it feel safe. Also, Lottie isn’t some helpless baby, she’s a tough toddler.
And I’ve watched her. That kid is not going to break easy. ”
“She’s an Elliot,” I agree, flexing my bicep. “We’re sturdy folk.” I meant it as a joke, but her eyes linger on my arm, even after I lower it. She does this slight little tongue thing, just a flick across her lower lip, and my damn dick springs to attention like she’s called its name.
“You really want to do this?” I ask, and her eyes immediately move back to mine.
“What? Oh, yes. Lottie. I think it would be fun. I mean, I can’t go anywhere since my car is parked downtown. But she and I can hang here, or maybe even take a walk in the field and visit the cows.”
Her face turns serious then, and she looks down at her hands. “I know it’s irrational,” she adds quietly. “But maybe if I can handle one morning, it’ll remind me that I’m not broken forever.”
I’m not really worried about Jordy watching my kid.
She’s been around us long enough that Lottie knows her.
I’ve seen my daughter light up when Jordy comes in the room, though Lottie loves anyone she recognizes.
And Jordy seems to understand Lottie’s stilted language, knowing the difference between “kunchies” (crackers) and cheese, which sounds almost the same when she reaches hyperventilation stage.
Jordy still doesn’t pick her up or play with her, but she’s no longer taking the seat furthest away from her when we eat, either.
And honestly, I get it. I think of the ways I’ve protected myself from hurt, how I’m still doing that now because I can’t go through that kind of pain again. But it’s nothing compared to how it must have felt for Jordy to lose her child.
This is a big step for her, and while this is all her and not me, I can’t help feeling proud of her.
“I think the two of you will have so much fun together,” I say.
The next morning, I awake to Jordy stirring in the kitchen.
I peek over the couch, watching as she locates the coffee grounds in the cabinet and sets up the coffeepot.
You know what’s better than Jordy in jeans and a t-shirt?
Jordy in sweats. Her ass fills out those grey sweatpants like they have no business doing.
I sit there in the dark of the living room, watching her move, pretty sure I could spend a lifetime doing this.
What. The. Fuck. The girl has been here less than two weeks—not nearly enough time to have forever kind of thoughts.
“Oh, did I wake you?”
I flick my eyes to hers, then shake my head, hoping she didn’t catch me checking her out. “No, I need to get up soon, anyway. I should get Lottie ready before I go.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she says, pulling two cups out of the cupboard while the percolator brews. “I can do all of that. You can even sleep in, if you want to.”
“Well, that would be a dream,” I say, even though I know I’m not going to fall back asleep. Still, I burrow back under the covers and just listen to Jordy move around my kitchen, wanting to memorize the sound so I’ll remember it when she’s gone.
I actually do drift off again, long enough that I awake to Jordy placing a cup of black coffee on the table next to me, just as Lottie starts to babble from the bedroom.
“I got her,” Jordy warns as I start to get up. “Enjoy your coffee.”
I sit back, not even fighting my grin as Jordy eases open the bedroom. I pick up my cup, taking a cautious first sip, reveling in what it’s like to wake up with coffee instead of getting a fussy toddler first. I love my daughter, but I also miss the slow pace of childless mornings.
Jordy comes out, holding my sleepy little girl wrapped in a blanket. Lottie’s hair is all over the place, and I fight the urge to go wash and oil it before putting it in braids, just so it will be out of her face.
She’ll survive one day of messy hair.
Jordy sits in a chair across the room from me, just like I always do with Lottie in the morning. She keeps my daughter on her lap facing away from me, but the little girl twists, trying to find me. When she finally succeeds, she pushes against Jordy, trying to get down.
“Okay, fine,” Jordy sighs. She loosens her grip, and Lottie slides out of her lap and runs to me. “I tried.”
“She’ll warm up once I’m gone,” I promise. At least, I hope she will. I’ve never left her with anyone else besides Bec and Bob, so this will be an experiment for all of us.
Lottie must know something is different this morning, because she clings to me like a sticker weed.
As I shave in the bathroom, she plays at my feet while Jordy hovers nearby.
When I get dressed, she insists on staying in the bedroom, shutting the door between Jordy and us.
And as I move to the door, Lottie flings herself forward until Jordy swoops her up.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I ask over Lottie’s shrill wails. My daughter is like an octopus in Jordy’s arms, her hands stretched out for me while Jordy gets a mouthful of her poofy hair.
“She’ll probably stop crying once you leave,” she assures me. I don’t miss the anxiety on her face.
I also know I cannot get in the way of this huge step for her, even if my daughter screams the whole time.
God, I hope she doesn’t do that.
So I give my daughter a quick kiss on the cheek while dodging her flailing arms. Then, I lean in and kiss Jordy’s cheek before I can think too hard about it. Her skin is warm against my lips, and I pull away fast—before I give in to the urge to linger.
She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes follow me all the way to the door.
And I leave—my gut full of guilt over the sounds of my daughter’s muffled cries behind the closed front door, and my heart trailing behind me.