Chapter 7 Jamison
Jamison
Ipark my truck and walk around the side of the strip mall where Enzo’s sits in the middle. Normally I would go through the back, which leads right to my apartment, but I skipped lunch to look over the Maverick, and I am starving for a couple of slices.
I grab a smoke from my pack as I stride toward my destination.
Back, forth, back, I rub it habitually between my lips before it settles in its familiar spot, waiting to be lit.
My lighter barely hits the tip when I hear someone mumble something from behind me.
Instinctively I snap my head back searching for the source.
“I said, you should quit.”
Standing in front of me are the same amber eyes from this morning.
The same loose waves, this time down, falling in damp ripples around her face.
The same lashes, same freckles, and dammit if it isn’t the same full lips, only now they’re pursed around a straw.
Nerves that haven’t been lit in a long time spark to life at just the sight of her mouth in that shape.
What the hell is she doing here? And why do I care?
Drawing a long drag for effect, I blow the smoke discreetly from the corner of my mouth, away from where she’s standing.
“I’m not much, but I’m definitely not a quitter, Claire.”
She smiles with her mouth still sipping her drink.
The satisfaction I get from that smile is embarrassing.
Between that and the sundress she must have changed into between our first meeting and now, my mind and body seem completely mesmerized by this girl that I don’t even know.
I’m not sure if it's exhaustion or hunger but it’s like I don’t have enough energy to pretend I don’t care.
It goes against everything in me, but I play along.
“Are you stalking me now?” I deadpan. This time she pulls back completely from her straw.
“Excuse me? First, you show up at my dad’s house and now you walk right past me. I was here first so if anything…” It hits her that I’m kidding just a little too late. “Very funny.”
There’s that smile again.
I puff my cigarette again as my reward and lift my head to release the smoke. Looking back down our eyes meet and suddenly nothing feels funny. Well, actually something feels pretty fucking funny, just not my stupid joke.
“So,” she says to break our stare, “What are you doing over here?” She gestures to the strip of stores and restaurants behind us.
Flicking my ash, I buy myself half a second then motion to Enzo’s.
“Just grabbing food after work.” It’s technically not a lie. Plus I live there.
“Oh, Enzo’s! I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s good.”
“Best in town.” Again, not a lie. Plus I live there.
“I’ll have to try it sometime.” She pauses expectantly. I realize she’s waiting for me to reciprocate the question. Damn, is this what casual conversation is?
“How about you? Since apparently you’re not following me?”
She tilts her head and squints as if to say, “Ha Ha” then shakes her iced coffee.
“Busy’s.” She points to the sign on the door right behind us where BUSY brEWZ is written in bold yellow lettering.
“With a ‘Z.’ Cute.” I puff again, poorly attempting to hide my smirk.
She rolls her eyes playfully and my stomach rolls with them. My own body is betraying everything I’ve ever known.
“The butterscotch latte is my weakness,” she laughs but I’m immediately hit with a memory.
I’m five and in my closet, blanketed by dirty laundry.
My palm hurts and I don’t know why. There was screaming and banging in the next room, so I stopped playing with my Matchbox cars and did what Mommy told me to do — I’m hiding until she comes to get me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but all of a sudden, I hear the closet door creep open.
“Jamison, it’s okay, honey. Mommy’s here.” I hear her knees hit the floor.
The sound of her voice alone is enough to calm me down. Suddenly my palm doesn’t hurt so bad. I crawl out from under the clothes and into Mommy’s arms. Her shirt is ripped and she smells like him, but she hugs me tight and gently kisses the top of my head.
“It’s okay. It’s okay," she says over and over and over. When I finally let go, she wipes silent tears from my cheeks. “I brought you something.” My face lights up. “Close your eyes and put out your hand.” I do as she says.
When I open, I see a small butterscotch candy sitting next to my red 1979 Lincoln Continental. I smile, then she smiles, and we both ignore that the spot where it sits on my hand is surrounded by tiny red indents matching the car’s frame.
I blink hard and Claire is staring at me, head slightly forward, waiting.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, have you ever had one?” she repeats, raising her cup.
“Oh, uh, no. Not really my thing.” If she notices my dejection she doesn’t react.
“They’re kind of sweet, but they taste like childhood.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I mutter under my breath, looking at the ground to stomp out my butt before throwing it away.
“What was that?”
“I should probably go.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I meet her gaze. She’s caught off guard by my sudden exit, but I think it’s best I end this now.
“Oh, sure, yeah, me too,” she says, checking her watch.
I tighten my lips and walk backward two steps before turning around completely. As I reach Enzo’s I glance over my shoulder, but Claire is gone.
“Jay! Where the hell ya been?” Ronan Caruso stretches a large pizza dough, then throws it high above his head.
He stands behind the counter, his short frame half hidden by the display window filled with pies of all different toppings from extra cheese to eggplant florentine.
His shirt, dusted in flour says: May I Suggest the Italian Sausage with a suggestive arrow pointing towards his apron.
The humor is so unlike him that it makes it even funnier.
The best part is that Ro isn’t even Italian. The kid is as pale and Irish as they come, but the couple that took him in when he was fifteen was. His adopted dad, Enzo, taught him all about the business.
We met when I was twelve and Ronan was fourteen.
There was a brief two weeks that we shared the same foster house where I was coming and he was going.
In those two weeks we formed a quiet bond, sharing space with four other younger kids and sneaking glances of disgust at the dinner table — too many times a week, dinner was bowls of mushy noodles covered in a thick brown gravy.
Fortunately for Ro, there was only one other foster house between this one and the one he ended up calling home.
We weren’t all that lucky.
Ronan ladles a heaping spoonful of red sauce onto the stretched dough and smoothes it in circles until it covers the surface. “Haven’t seen you on this side of the building in a few days, man.”
“I know, I’ve been covering extra shifts at the garage and am just so beat after. I come home, eat, work out, pass out, repeat.”
“Tough, man. Are we still on for next Friday? You can’t bail on me now. I need a break from these four fucking walls.” He swings his arms around, a drop of sauce falling to the floor.
Ronan and I don’t get out very much. There’s just a lot of work and a lot less play. It’s how we were brought up, or lack thereof maybe for some of us, but every once in a while, we force ourselves to do something social. Friday’s plan is a dive bar across town for live music and a few drinks.
“I’ll be there,” I nod. “But I’ll be coming from work so Sean and I will meet you.”
“Sounds good.” He reaches for a plate and grabs a slice of pepperoni and a slice of mushroom from the display — my usual order.
He pulls open the pizza oven and tosses the slices inside to heat up, handing me a cup to fill at the fountain while I wait.
I fill my cup halfway with ice and then hit the button for my drink of choice.
I breathe in the scent of the root beer as it leaves the machine.
A little bit sweet and a little bit spicy, with just a subtle hint of… vanilla.