Chapter 26
Cole
The next few weeks go by in a blur. I haven’t heard from Josh, but Delia has sent me a few texts. Her messages unnerve me. I was expecting to face opposition from people, but Delia seems ready to endorse my marriage to Lydia. First, she congratulated me, then she told me she was sure Josh would come around. Her next text said how she knew she probably shouldn’t say anything, but she thinks Lydia and I make a great couple. “Ashley is great,” another text read, “but she’s basically the female version of you. You can’t marry yourself. Besides, I always thought you needed more fun in your life, and Lydia is definitely fun.”
Fun. That does seem to be the word that describes her. I’ve said it. Now Delia’s said it. My dad even said it–though he uttered it like it was a curse word. Fun isn’t high on the list of Jacobson family priorities. Unless you think work is fun. Which I do, obviously. I wouldn’t work sixty-plus hours a week if I didn’t, right ?
Honestly, as you get older it’s only natural for your idea of fun to change. I’m almost 30; I shouldn’t think prank wars are fun. The fact that we’ve gone almost three weeks now without either of us striking a blow shouldn’t leave me feeling disappointed.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about pulling a prank on her, especially since it’s my turn to make a move, it’s just that things at work have been busy. Plus, I still haven’t managed to clear the air with her about the things Josh said about me and Ashley. It feels weird to go on the offensive when I’m also busy trying to formulate an apology.
As for why Lydia hasn’t chosen to prank me, I can’t say for sure. Unlike me, she’s not swamped by work and seems to find plenty of time to read, watch TV, and, of all things, garden. For the last week she’s been spending hours every day working on the landscaping in the front yard. I asked her once what her vision was, and she told me not to worry about it. Before she moved in, my idea of landscaping was grass and mulch, so if she wants to plant flowers more power to her. Every night she covers her work with a tarp, informing me that she wants her color choices to be a surprise. Honestly, I really couldn’t care less whether she chooses white pansies or blue pansies. There are too many other things vying for my attention.
On top of normal work stress, Tom just informed me earlier today that the incumbent mayor, Ferris Arnold, just managed to procure state of the art smart boards for Holland’s public schools. Providing for the needs of our city’s educators has been high on my list of talking points for my campaign. Arnold making a move like this hurts. Even if it is virtually the only thing he’s done during his entire tenure as city mayor to improve our schools.
My phone alarm goes off, and with a sigh I push my chair back from my desk in my home office. It’s Friday evening, and I’d hoped to come home from work at the office and spend some time unwinding. That ship sailed when I got Tom’s phone call. I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes researching technology in classrooms and brainstorming ways to improve our schools. According to my phone alarm though, I need to take a break to eat. Especially since I ignored my lunch alarm to finish some paperwork.
I head to the kitchen, wondering idly if Lydia will want to join me for dinner. We haven’t eaten a meal together since the chicken salad incident. I don’t even know what she likes to eat, outside of orange juice and Pop-tarts. There’s a big box of strawberry Pop-tarts in my pantry with her name sharpied in large letters across it. “Those are name brand Pop-tarts, Cole,” she lectured me last Sunday when she caught me eating one. “I only bought them because they were on sale; you can’t just eat them all.” That was when she got out the sharpie.
I suppose she and I should talk about our finances now that we’re married. She’s been living like we’re roommates. The other day I found a check on the counter that read “rent” on the memo line.
I’m staring at the depressing contents of the refrigerator and wondering whether I should just order out, when the front door slams and Lydia comes marching in, excitement radiating off of her.
“I finished!” she trills. There’s a streak of dirt across her forehead and her ponytail is sliding down her back. She’s wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a yellow tank top. My eyes catch on her lower abdomen, and my breath hitches. It’s almost indiscernible and yet now that I’ve spotted it, I can’t see anything else. A tiny bump .
Women sometimes talk about their uterus leaping inside them when they find an attractive man who’s good with kids. Whatever the male equivalent of that phenomenon is, that’s what I’m experiencing right now as I take in that bump. Pride, possessiveness, a weird desire to puff up my chest.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. You’d think I wanted to get married and have children the way I’m reacting right now.
Lydia notices me staring. “Ugh. I know,” she touches the tiny bump, and all the feelings I’d been working to push away come rushing back, “I’m already showing! I’m only 11 weeks. Google says you show earlier with twins.” She frowns. “Just my luck.”
I’m speechless. I can’t come to terms with my own emotions.
“Geez, Cole,” Lydia tugs at the hem of her shirt, “way to make a girl feel self-conscious. I guess I’m going to have to start wearing baggy sweatshirts around you.”
Please don’t, I want to say, but maybe that’ll make me sound like a weirdo with a pregnancy fetish. Oh gosh, is that what this is? Have I just had a pregnancy fetish all along and am only now realizing it?
“Seriously, Cole, stop staring!” Lydia starts dancing around the room in an attempt to get rid of my gaze, but my eyes automatically follow her. Nope, it’s not a pregnancy fetish, it’s just Lydia.
“Cole!” A banging on the front screen door makes Lydia pause. I recognize Tom’s voice. “What is going on? What’s this mess on your front lawn? Is this some sort of joke?”
My eyes, still fixed on Lydia, narrow as a mischievous smile lights her face.
“What did you do?” I suddenly realize how stupid I’ve been. Who covers their gardening work with a tarp? I should’ve known she was up to something the second she said she wanted it to be a surprise.
“Just a bit of political landscaping,” she says with a shrug.
“Political landscaping?” I repeat, then set off hurriedly towards the front yard. Tom is still standing on the front porch, looking agitated. At first, I don’t see anything other than a boatload of shrubberies covering the entire 30-foot span of what was once just mulch, but then Tom’s words sink in.
“Vote for Arnold,” Tom is saying. “Did his campaign do this? This is foul play. I’ll have a news station here in ten minutes to tell them just what we think of such juvenile behavior.”
“Tom,” I cut him off, raising my hand to silence him, “this wasn’t Arnold’s doing.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot Lydia pursing her lips to keep from laughing. The thing is, I know she thinks this’ll upset me, but, in truth, I just want to laugh too. The woman wrote “Vote 4 Arnold” using flowers. How does she come up with this stuff?
“Not Arnold? Then who?” Tom demands, his fingers poised over his phone screen.
“Tom stole the cookie from the cookie jar,” Lydia sing-songs in response. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Neither do I, but that’s only because I pinched my forearm hard to keep myself from laughing.
“You!” Tom whirls on her. “You did this?”
Lydia cocks her head at him. “If you think it was me, you’re supposed to say, ‘Lydia stole the cookie from the cookie jar.’”
Tom’s face turns a deep red color reminiscent of volcanic lava. “Listen here, Lydia. This is not some silly children’s game! This is real life. I’m trying to run a campaign here. Do you understand how bad it would look if it got out that Cole’s wife was endorsing his competition.”
Lydia just looks amused. “I’m sorry, but who was the one about to call the news stations a minute ago? Honestly, Tom, you’re working yourself up into a tizzy over a practical joke. This was meant for Cole alone to see.” She gives him a sly look. “The fact that you happened to come over and witness it is just icing on the cake.”
Tom’s demeanor doesn’t soften. “This woman is dangerously close to becoming a liability,” he snarls at me. “Can’t you keep her in check?”
“Whoa, there!” Lydia puts her hands on her hips ready to take him to task, but I jump in first.
“Tom, c’mon. You’re way out of line. This is not a big deal. Look.” I grab a discarded spade, then walk over and kneel next to the letter A. In a few swift movements I’ve pulled up the middle bar of flowers, transforming the ‘A’ into an upside down ‘V’. “Problem solved.”
“Vote for Vrnold,” Lydia reads. “Ah yes, your lesser-known Russian opponent.”
“Ridiculous!” Tom throws up his arms.
“Fun,” Lydia counters. There’s that word again. “You two ever heard of it? Anyway,” she adds, “if you can get off your high horse, you’ll realize that I can easily make my letters say Cole instead of Arnold. I’ve already got the o and the l. Plus, with the extra space I can make it say f-o-u-r instead of the number four.” She pauses. “It’ll take me a few days, but say the word and I’ll get started tomorrow.” She smiles with satisfaction.
Tom is still scowling, though. He turns his attention to me. “I’m not in the mood for this sort of flippancy about your campaign, Cole. I was hoping to have a serious discussion with you about our options to counter Arnold’s latest move, but I can see seriousness and decorum have gone out the window. If you want to be cavalier about your campaign then so will I.”
“Tom, c’mon,” I plead, the first traces of annoyance with Lydia for doing this now starting to creep in. “I’m ready to get to work. You know I want to win.”
Tom studies me for a minute, then sighs. “I do know you want to win. It’s getting late now anyway, though.” He glances at his watch, “Why don’t we just meet tomorrow morning instead?”
It’s my turn to study him. Technically he works for me, and yet he’s weirdly also in charge of me. He has more experience than me, so I tend to just do what he says. “Yeah, okay.” I nod, feeling slightly defeated. “We’ll meet in the morning.”
Tom nods, then walks away, leaving Lydia and I alone on our front lawn.
“Listen, Cole,” her voice lacks its usual confidence. “That wasn’t supposed to go down like that. I had no idea he’d even be here to see it, let alone react so negatively towards you for something that I did.” She chews her bottom lip, and I feel my annoyance dissipate, replaced by weariness. I don’t want to fight with Lydia.
“Yeah, I know.” I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “Let’s just cover it with the tarps and go back inside.”
Lydia nods and together we parachute the tarps over the flowers. In the kitchen she flits nervously around pushing in the island stools and straightening the towel hanging on the oven. I ignore her as I open the refrigerator and start rummaging around again for something to eat. Still, nothing. My brain is too foggy to even try and put a recipe together. My hand shakes slightly, and I know I’ve waited too long to eat.
“Are you hungry?” Lydia pipes up tentatively.
“Not really, but I know I should eat,” the words slip out without my giving them much thought, but Lydia picks up the hidden meaning.
“Your phone alarm,” she comments, “that day I moved in. It was for you. What are you diabetic?”
I stiffen. “No, nothing as serious as that.”
She studies me, her eyes far more perceptive than I’m comfortable with. “Low blood sugar?”
I don’t say anything, but my face must give it away because she nods. “Well, then let’s feed you.” She hurries to the fridge, reaching past me to pull out a carton of orange juice. “But while I’m cooking, you can have some of my orange juice.” Lydia pours me a glass, then passes it over to me. “Drink up,” she instructs. “The sugar will help.” She stands there, waiting for me to drink, one hand on her hip. Dutifully I take a sip, and she smiles approvingly. “Now sit down,” she goes on, “and I’ll make us some dinner.”
I do as she says, too taken aback to argue. I can’t remember the last time I had someone take care of me like this. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I watch as she rummages through my cabinets, eventually emerging with a large pot and a cutting board. She fills the pot with water and sets it on the stove, before making her way back to the fridge where she pulls open a long thin drawer that I honestly never even realized was in there. She pulls out a colorful array of vegetables including two different types of bell peppers, mushrooms, and some sugar snap peas. Setting them on the counter, she gets to work chopping.
“You cook?” I finally break the silence. Lydia eyes me over the cutting board.
“Not really,” she answers. “But I do have approximately three meals that I am excellent at preparing. You can’t be a professional chef’s younger sister without learning a thing or two.” Her face clouds for a brief second, and I know she’s thinking about her fight with Josh. I want to say something to make it better, but there are no words I can think of that would even begin to do so.
“Well, I’ll be watching you carefully with the spices,” I say, choosing to go with humor instead. “Wouldn’t want you to try and slip something in my food again.”
Her face pinkens, the color staining her nose first, before spreading to her cheeks. “That was so stupid,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that.”
A laugh slips from my lips, and her head jerks up, green eyes meeting mine and sending a spark through my body. A smile dances across her face, and the spark turns into a firework. If this was a normal marriage, meaning one where we actually loved each other, I’d stand up, take her by the hand and whisk her to the bedroom. As it is, I force myself to look away and silence descends on us once more, save for the chopping of her knife.
“So,” Lydia speaks again as she dumps spaghetti noodles into the boiling water. “Do you want to talk about the low blood sugar thing or is that too personal?”
I grimace, then take a long sip of juice to delay having to answer.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, you know,” Lydia offers. “Lots of people are hypoglycemic. Besides, getting the shakes because you need to eat has to be less socially awkward than convulsing in the hallway of your high school because your then boyfriend kissed you after he’d just eaten a Snickers out of his locker.” She lets out a light laugh, but I can see the pain behind the memory, and I want to hug her. Instead, I hear myself tell her the truth.
“I’ve fainted twice,” I admit. “Once here at home and once in my office. The second time I hit my head on the desk. That’s why I started setting alarms to remind myself to eat.”
Lydia nods, taking this in. “Have you seen a doctor about this?”
“I don’t need to see a doctor.” I drain my glass, feeling my defenses go back up. I’ve already let her see too much of my weakness. “I’ve got it managed.”
Lydia purses her lips, but she doesn’t press, clearly sensing I’m done talking about it. My phone beeps from its spot on the counter and I read the email that just came through. It’s from Tom and the subject line reads, We Need a Plan . Attached to his email is an article about Arnold’s smart board initiative. It made the front page of the Holland Sentinel’s education section. I toss my phone across the island with a groan.
“Everything okay?” Lydia asks, now busy sautéing the vegetables.
For the second time in the last five minutes, I wonder how much I should tell her. For the second time, I’m taken aback when I can’t seem to stop myself from oversharing.
“It’s just this thing with Ferris Arnold,” I tell her. “What Tom came to talk to me about actually. Arnold has never been big into working with the Board of Education to better our city’s schools, but now all of the sudden he’s managed to find the funds to get new state of the art smartboards for every classroom. It’s a huge blow to my campaign, because we’ve been striking hard on the education front. Calling Arnold out for his lack of action and promising that if elected, I’d be a huge advocate for our schools.”
“New smartboards?” A furrow settles across her brow as she dumps soy sauce and some spices into a bowl. “That’s strange.”
“Why is that strange?” I ask.
“I used to sub in Holland,” she tells me, “and I could’ve sworn they just got new smartboards a couple of years ago. I remember because I couldn’t figure out how to use the one in my classroom, and the teacher who helped me out kept commenting on how the year before she’d struggled through learning how to use them.”
I stare at her, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. “Wait, so you’re telling me that Holland just got new smartboards a couple of years ago?”
“Yeah.” She nods, pausing her whisking to study me. “So why would Arnold get them new ones so soon?”
“And how did he get the school board to approve the expense?” I mutter, my wheels turning. “I have to tell Tom about this.” I start to rise, but Lydia stops me.
“No, what you need to do is eat.” She levels me with a glare, and reluctantly I sit back down. Lydia nods approvingly, then turns backs to the stove to pour the sauce over the pasta and vegetable mixture. After using tongs to dish out the food, she joins me at the island, setting a plate in front of each of us. Her hand brushes mine as she passes me a fork, and I temporarily forget about Ferris Arnold and his smartboards.
I’m eating dinner with my wife. The thought slides into my brain and settles there, like sunshine after a long winter.
“Shall we pray?” Lydia folds her hands, and I only hesitate a second before doing the same. I keep forgetting she’s the type of Christian who actually prays. Personally, I haven’t talked to God in ages. I feel a bit bad that our first conversation after such a long time is about a plate of pasta. Then again, it’s not as if I have much else to talk about with Him. I’m pretty self-sufficient.
Despite my indifference, I force myself to pay attention to what Lydia is saying. She just made me dinner, listening to her prayer is the least I can do.
“God, thank you for this food, we pray that you would bless it to our bodies. We pray also that you would give Cole wisdom about how to move forward with his campaign and help him to get the rest and nutrition that he needs. Amen.” Her innocuous words ruffle me, and a derisive snort escapes me.
“Sorry, did I say something amusing?” Lydia raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“No, uh,” I fumble around, not wanting to offend her in the middle of this truce we seemed to have called, “I’m just not that into praying. I’m more of an action type of guy.”
“I see.” Lydia swirls a noodle around her fork. It’s her turn to look amused now, and I can’t stop myself from prodding her for an explanation.
“What’re you smiling about?” I demand.
“Oh, well…” She takes a bite of her food, studying me with an annoyingly knowing expression as she chews. “It’s just,” she finally goes on, “last I heard, praying is a verb, which makes it an action. Of course, Jamie is the English teacher, not me.” She sits back in her seat and gives me a smug smile. I want to kiss the smirk right off her face. Instead, I take a bite of pasta and pretend it’s the burst of flavor that’s making my mouth water. Infuriating woman.
“You know what I mean.” My gaze hitches on her mouth again, and I try to imagine falling off a building or being the victim of a shark attack in hopes of reigning my hormones in. “Prayer is all talk. I like to solve my own problems.”
“Right.” She laughs lightly. “I totally get that. You want to be in control, always have a plan, tell someone I’m your sister.”
I break off mid-nod, “Wait, what?”
“Oh wait–” Another laugh from Lydia, this one clearly fake. “I’m getting you confused with this other guy. He was all about control too. He moved to this new place and told the leader there that his wife was his sister because his wife was gorgeous, and he was afraid the leader would kill him because he wanted the guy’s wife for himself.
I gape at her. “Is that the plot of one of your romance novels or something?”
“Um, no. That would be a story from the Bible. You’ve heard of Abraham, I presume?”
“Abraham? As in Father Abraham had many sons,” I lift my right hand then my left, “right hand, left hand, and all that.”
Lydia purses her lips against a giggle. “Wow, that’s a Sunday School flashback, but yes, same guy. There are all sorts of stories about him in Genesis where he lets fear get the best of him and instead of listening to God, he takes matters into his own hands. Like the thing with telling the Pharaoh that Sarah was his sister when she was actually his wife. Or the time he slept with Sarah’s slave because it was taking too long for Sarah to get pregnant, even though God had told him she would. ”
“I’m not sure I get your point.”
Lydia sighs and sets her fork down. “The point is, Abraham regularly spent time with God in prayer and even he sometimes fell victim to trying to take control of his own life. If you’re not spending any time in prayer at all, of course you’re going to buy into the whole ‘I don’t need God, I have everything handled’ mindset.”
“And what’s wrong with not needing God?” I ask, but even as I say the words a hollow feeling settles in my stomach.
Lydia studies me, her penetrating gaze unnerving me. “I think you’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”
A chill runs down my spine, but before I can formulate a reply Lydia’s phone starts ringing loudly. She tears her eyes from mine, her finger automatically sliding across the screen to pick up the call.
“Hi, Mom,” her voice sounds wary, but I don’t get to hear anything else she says because she stands and makes her way out of the room, leaving me to wonder why her words left me feeling so unsettled.