11. BEAUTIFUL CRAZY
11
BEAUTIFUL CRAZY
LUKE COMBS
JACK
Wet sandpaper rubs against my cheek. And neck. And chest.
“What the—” My eyes burst open, and I jump out of the sheets. A small, gray creature scurries beneath the bed, and when my brain registers that it wasn’t a rat giving me a wet wake-up call, I crouch down to investigate further.
A cat.
No. A kitten. A gray furball, pawing its claws into the area rug and pulling threads up with every movement, pauses its destruction only to look at me with haunting green eyes. I don’t even have time to search for the note I know will be waiting for me with a three point explanation, because the little miscreant abandons my rug, scampers over to the clothes he left in the corner of the room, and circles once before using my favorite jeans and forest green henley as its own personal porta-potty.
“Hey!” I holler, only earning the cat’s unintimidated scowl. Did it just roll its eyes at me? “Where do you think you’re going?”
I scoop up the little—guy—I discover after a quick check, wincing as he claws my hands like the little demon he is, and search the room frantically for Jackson's sticky note. I find it quickly, stuck to the cat castle he’s installed in the corner of the living room right next to a basket overflowing with toys that was certainly not there before.
Meet Chipper Jones.
Food in pantry.
Dinah helped. 2nd date.
I can’t believe he did it. After I repeatedly said no… And Dinah helped.
I put the tiny infiltrator in the bathtub, because clearly I’m out of my element here, and I quickly throw on a shirt and shoes as he howls like he’s dying. After I take my daily meds and sneeze about a hundred times, I convince myself that I’m angry that somebody else's cat is destroying my bathroom. That, again, I don’t have a voice in the life I’m leading. I’m mad he didn’t respect me enough to listen when I said I didn’t want this.
My anger has absolutely nothing to do with the final line on that pale yellow sticky note. The one running on repeat through my head as I snag the furry interloper, stomp from my apartment down the stairs to the shop, and burst through the door that connects my loft to hers:
Dinah Helped. 2nd date.
“Jack!” She’s blurry-eyed and barefoot, dressed in daisy-printed shorts, an oversized t-shirt that says, “Reading is sexy,” and hair piled high on her head. “What are you doing here and… Hey! Where does that door lead to? I haven’t been able to get it open for months!”
I shake from the shock of seeing her so undone—keeping my eyes focused on hers and not down her long, lean, uncovered legs—and prowl closer, holding out the tiny monster.
“What is this, Dinah?” Then I sneeze six times consecutively. Unfortunate, given I’m trying my best to be intimidating.
Her guilty smile is achingly gorgeous, and it draws a painful growl from my now sore throat.
“Hi, baby,” she says, taking the kitten from my arms and letting it snuggle into her chest. Though he doesn’t stay content for long, trying to climb his way up the length of her arms and around her neck. I scoop him back before he can draw blood. “So, you’ve met Chipper. Isn’t he adorable?”
I hold him at a distance and stare at her, unsure of whether I’d like to yell at her for being an accomplice or kiss her pouting lips. And since when did I think about kissing her?
“Jackson said you’ve always loved Chipper Jones, and even though I have no idea who Chipper Jones is, it just seemed too good of an opportunity to miss.”
“Braves. Hall of Famer. Third basemen.”
“Right. That Chipper Jones. Anyways… J. Jones, Chipper Jones. Come on. It writes itself.” She holds up her free hand like it totally justifies the squirming monster in the mine. “All his food is in the pantry, and the castle and toys are—”
My feet move of their own accord, crowding Dinah before I even know what I’ve done. “I’m not keeping this cat, Polly.”
It’s Dinah’s turn to growl, and she looks like she’s ready to use her claws on me. “He said you’d say that, Grumpy.” Her sass only grows when she crosses her arms and juts out her hip.
“And did he say that we are allergic to cats? It’s a shared ailment… since childhood.” I glare at her, but only receive her ire in return.
“Take a pill, Jack.” Her teeth skim along her bottom lip like she might feel a little guilty, but then dig deeper. I see the moment she decides to fight me, completely ignoring the fact that I legitimately have an allergy to the fuzzball clawing at my hands.
“I said that maybe you’d surprise him. That maybe you might like the company and to take care of something other than yourself, and that maybe under all that grumbling you do, there’s a softness there that others don’t get to see, because you won’t let them.”
She arches her eyebrow waiting for me to respond, and I find myself speechless. How is it that I’ve known Dinah for all of a few weeks, and yet she’s so clearly under my skin? She’s thrown off my schedule. My expectations for how each day will go. My ideas of what my grim future will look like. And now… she’s worked her way into my thoughts. My routine. My home.
“Listen, I know this is a shock, but I’m right next door. I can help you. I’d like to help you.”
I hate the shakiness of my voice when I answer. “That’s the problem, Dinah. I don’t want your help. I don’t want the cat. I don’t want—”
Hurt washes across her face, and I tell myself I’m doing her a favor, but when tears brim, I know I won’t—I can’t—leave her here like this again.
I flick my eyes to the door. “I keep the door locked on my side. It leads into the hallway to my loft, just like yours.” She sniffles once, her eyes drifting to the horridly painted, orange door at my back. “I’m sorry I barged in here. That was entirely inappropriate. Especially at… what time is it?”
Dinah’s voice is unnervingly somber. “Six a.m.”
As soon as she says it, I realize that in the flurry of the morning, I didn’t check the calendar. Jackson’s note made no mention of the day either, as usual, so I’m in the metaphorical dark. Dinah must see the confusion written plainly on my face, because she adds, “It’s Monday morning, Jack. You aren’t open today.”
“Right. Monday,” I repeat, gaining my bearings. “I’m sorry, again.”
She offers me a close-lipped smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. More timid than usual. “It’s okay. I’m sorry if I stepped over the line with—” She gestures to Chipper—no, the cat —in my arms. “I thought it was… Well, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I thought he might be good. For you.”
“Hmmm,” I hum.
“And I… He didn’t tell me about the allergy. Is it really serious?”
“I won’t die, if that’s what you’re asking,” I admit. It’s more of an irritant than a danger to my health, but I’m not about to admit that to Dinah.
“So, you had another exciting date, huh? First batting cages and now illegal, ill-advised cat adoptions. Can’t wait to see what the guy comes up with next.” I wince, tasting the bitterness on my itchy tongue. I hate that I’m irritated. Hate that I’m holding a cat in my hands that I didn’t want, but I will do just about anything to wipe the sadness off of Dinah’s face right now. It’s a discomfort I haven’t felt in a long time, and I’m not quite sure what to do with it.
Dinah just purses her lips and tilts her head like she's reading me like a book, letting a long lock of hair fall into her face. And her shirt speaks the truth, reading is sexy. It feels like a physiological feat that I don’t reach out to touch that strawberry hair. I deserve a medal.
“J. Jones, if you want to plan our next date, just ask.”
“I… I didn’t say…” I stammer and freeze up even more when Dinah takes a step closer and nuzzles the cat, who’s grown uncharacteristically docile in the past few minutes.
“I think you two are gonna be just fine.” She coos and gently pets him behind the ears, but all I can think about is how she smells like a perfect combo of sugar and warm bread and honey.
“Did I wake you up?” It comes out as more of a whisper than I intend, but she’s standing so eerily close, it makes my innocent question feel much more intimate.
Were you sleeping in those adorable pajamas? Did you read a book before bed? What were you dreaming about? Did you just wake up? What’s your morning routine? Do you jump out of bed right when the alarm goes off or do you linger there, savoring the warmth and comfort a little longer?
“No. I had to be up for dough prep this morning, test out some new recipes, and wait on my grain delivery.” Her teeth begin playing with that bottom lip again, a nervous tick I think, and though her hands stay on the cat, her eyes lift to mine. “Do you… Do you wanna see?”
“See your grain delivery? No, I’m good. I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who’s delivered your grain for months. Larry or Luke or Lawrence. Something like that. Guy seems overeager about wheat processing, and he’s always hanging around longer than necessary.”
Her eyebrow lifts, and I deflect like I haven’t been watching every person who comes in and out of her shop like a career creeper every chance I get.
“He also can’t tell the difference between a flower shop and a bike shop. Like every other person in this town. You really want someone that ignorant providing the flour for your business?”
She laughs, jarring the kitten, but the sweet sound skitters across my bare arms. “You named your shop Pedals, and you have a bike out front. It’s confusing, Jack.”
“No. My gram named it Pe-T-als years before I took over,” I emphasize the ‘t’ and find myself grinning ear to ear back at her. “And people are idiots, Polly.”
“People like Larry, my grain guy?”
“Exactly.”
We both grow quiet, eyes stuck on one another like we’re in a staring contest. Call me crazy, but I’m not gonna be the one to break contact. I’ll win this thing, even if I have to stand in this pink hallway staring back at Dinah’s impossibly green eyes all day long.
“Do you want to make dough with me today?” she asks, and though it’s a simple question, there’s so much more stirring behind it in her eyes. It’s like she’s asking, “ Do you want to be my friend?” And as cheesy as it sounds, right now in this dark hallway, it’s all I want.
“Depends.”
She bites that lower lip again and I want to fist pump, because Dinah Belle might actually be nervous. Around me. “On?”
“Will Larry be there?”
She shakes her head, and the next words out of her mouth plant a seed of unreasonable hope deep in my gut. “Just you and me, Jack. Just you and me.”
“So this is the secret to the sauce, huh?”
Dinah smiles, blowing the hair out of her face as she pours a pilsner into her pretzel dough mixture. Dressed in a white t-shirt, apron, jeans, and a pair of mint, low-top Converse, she’s so beautiful in her simplicity. She looks as if she hasn’t tried at all, yet I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. I’m entranced as she throws ingredients into an industrial-size mixing bowl without checking the amounts and mumbling under her breath, like she’s forgotten me completely.
She’s a sorceress, mixing up a brew. Casting her spell. And I am completely enchanted.
Dinah in her element is absolutely breathtaking.
“Beer and butter,” she says breathlessly. “Can’t beat it.”
When she wipes her brow and steps away from the mixer for a moment, I'm temporarily stunned by the smell of just that—beer, butter, sugar, and yeast. It’s like a warm hug. A comfort smell of sorts. One I know I’ll associate with Dinah from now on.
“My dad taught me this recipe when I was fifteen. It’s the base for all my flavors.”
I nod and quietly slip up beside her, not wanting to interrupt but finding it impossible to keep my distance.
After we separated ways in the hall earlier, agreeing to get dressed and reconvene in her kitchen, I was surprised to see her on my doorstep not ten minutes later. She’d used the now unlocked door to my loft to let herself up my stairs through the back entrance and offered to help me with Cat . Then she proceeded to show him far more attention than I thought necessary, since I was vehemently determined to return him to the shelter as soon as possible.
Now, Cat is resting, curled in a ball in what Dinah assures me is an escape-proof carrier nestled in the hallway where the door stays propped open. Because, according to her, he might need us for something , but she can’t have him in her kitchen due to health codes. Praise be.
It seems the little punk wore himself out coughing up fur balls in every corner of the loft and tearing up the fabric of the rug under my bed, along the kitchen runner, and on the side of the recliner Jackson bought himself last month. I honestly wish I could see the look on his face when he discovers what his little surprise has done to the “gift” he purchased for us both after I said it wouldn’t look good in the living space.
“You’re humming again,” Dinah says, shaking her head.
“It’s catchy, though, right?” I hadn’t realized I was even doing it this time, too fixed on the task of studying Dinah’s practiced moves as she fumbles with the mechanics of the mixer. “ Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah…”
“Very clever, J. Jones. Very clever.”
“What’s up with the J. Jones bit?” I try not to let the uncertainty sound in my tone, but it’s not the first time she’s used the moniker today.
She shrugs and flicks the mixer on, filling the kitchen with a surprisingly loud humming sound. Wincing, I breathe through the immediate discomfort the noise has against my brain. “Should we wait in the shop? I can make you some coffee. That needs a few minutes to mix.”
She leads without an answer, and I follow, making my way to where I remember seeing the coffee maker and fumbling around for supplies.
“I’ll take care of it, Jack. You just sit.” Her hands stop mine, and she grabs the filter and a tin that smells of a rich roast.
“Does it bother you?” she asks when I take a seat at the counter across from her. “J. Jones?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know for you, you’re two different people. I get that. I think.” She slips the filled coffee filter into the machine and presses a button. I get the feeling she’s taking her time with her words, though. Something I don’t take for granted. So many people are quick to give their platitudes and opinions on the uniqueness of my situation. “In my head… you’re the same and you’re different. Obviously. And I’m obviously just getting to know you more. But when I’m around you… or him”—she shoots me an apologetic smile—“you both feel like you to me. J. Jones. Two sides of the same coin.”
I clear my throat, unable to sort through the thoughts running rampant in my brain. I understand, and I don’t. I’m jealous, and I’m sympathetic. I hate him, and yet, I know he’s me.
I just wish I knew if she felt the same way about him that everyone else in my life does. That Jackson is the version of us they all know. They all… prefer.
“But,” she continues, tapping her yellow painted fingernails against the counter top, “I want to know you , Jack.” And with those simple words, that pesky seed of hope she planted earlier takes root. “So if it’s important to you that I call you by your name, I understand.”
I nod. Too afraid I’ll say the wrong thing if I speak now.
“So, tell me something that is just Jack,” she says, tilting her head and resting her chin on her open palm.
“Well…” I lean closer and smirk, feeling more like myself than I have in a long time. “Not unlike your sleep attire, Just Jack also thinks reading is sexy.”
Dinah’s cheeks blush beautifully, and we enter into that same, repeat staring contest. One where I’m mesmerized all over again by her playful green eyes daring me to look away. Something I desperately do not want to do.
She smiles wide suddenly, and a sort of surprised chuckle fills the air between us. “You win!”
“I wasn’t aware we were playin’ a game, Polly.”
“Oh, you knew exactly what you were doin’ with those hazel eyes of yours, Jack Jones.” She sips her coffee, but stares me down over the rim. “I read romance,” she admits like it's a sultry secret.
“Me, too,” I answer and am only half playing with her. I’ll read just about anything if it gives me a moment of escapism. Romance isn’t my go-to, but I'm not opposed to it.
She purses her lips like she can’t quite make out if she can trust me. “Ya know, if I can’t call you J, then maybe you shouldn’t be able to call me Polly.”
“I disagree.”
“Pray tell, why?”
I take a sip then rest my cup and hands on the countertop. “You’re just so pink and pocket-sized, Polly, I can’t help myself. And now, knowin’ you’re a sweet, little romance reader… it just makes sense.”
Her green eyes flare with that playfulness I could easily become addicted to. “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment.”
“It most definitely is.”
We carry on like this for a while, with a back and forth that feels light and easy. Like we’ve hung out a million times before. As if drinking coffee and teasing one another first thing in the morning is just the first stop in our day. We’re only interrupted when a timer goes off in the kitchen and Dinah’s smile lights up her face.
“Okay, Just Jack . Ready to get your hands dirty?”