17. BLOOM
17
BLOOM
THE PAPER KITES
DINAH
“You have got to be kidding me.” Jack brushes his hair back with both those giant hands of his, resting his head on the couch and looking to the heavens. He’s so irritated with me. All grumbly and faux chafed. I love it.
So, naturally, I push harder.
“Not kidding at all. I bought it in three colors.” I didn’t, but mentally I’m pressing “ Add to Cart” in my mind. I will make this cat wear clothes every day of his charmed little life if it means getting a rise out of the gentle giant pouting on his couch right now.
“He is not wearing that.”
“He seems to be wearin’ it just fine to me.” I adjust Chipper in my arms and do my very best not to flinch when he nips at my fingers. He hates the custom, mini Badger jersey I bought him just as much as his cranky caretaker. “He looks just as cute as can be. And check this out, it’s customized! I had C. Jones embroidered on the back.” I flip Chipper around but lose my grip when he squirms and flails. In one fluid motion the cat hisses like he’s dying, scratches down the length of both my arms and escapes my grasp. On his rapid prison break from my arms to the cat castle, I swear he pauses and looks at Jack in solidarity. Free at last… Now, you deal with the crazy lady.
But the jokes on him, because he won’t be getting out of that jersey on his own any time soon.
Jack jumps to his feet, inspecting the claw marks down my forearms, and rubs his thumb along my skin. “Mmhhmmm,” he hums deep in his throat and then pitches his voice to a ridiculous, mocking tone that—let the record show—sounds nothing like me.
Thank you very much.
“ He’s just as cute as can be. He’s a baby, Jack, let him be. Don’t you just love him ? We should rescue his brothers and sisters…”
Jack glares at my arms and drags me to the kitchen, picking me up by the waist and planting me on the countertop before I know what’s happening. He’s kind of a caveman when he’s all broody like this. I do not hate it. He briefly mumbles under his breath about cat scratch fevers and bacteria while fumbling in his cabinet for a first aid kit.
“We need to clean this.”
“Stop fussin’. It’s nothing, Jack. I’m fine.” I know he’s a little peeved I’m hurt, but I can’t help but smile and rub the crease in his brow with my thumb. He swats at my hand and growls low. I spit out my tongue. Honestly, it sparks joy to push his buttons like this, and over the last couple of blissful weeks we’ve spent together trying , I’ve learned that J. Jones does not like to be told when he’s being a curmudgeon, or a worry wart, or adorably handsome. He’s a beautiful and mysterious giant onion with many, many layers.
And I like him. So much.
“ I’m fine ,” he echoes. “Right. I’ve heard that before. When you weren’t crying.”
He delicately holds my arm in his hand while wiping a soapy, wet cloth over the scratches. I feel like one of his flowers in the shop as he handles me with so much care and attention. Is this what all those peonies and calla lilies feel each and every time Jack plucks them with something special in mind? For something beautiful? He’s methodical, yes, but never fumbling or aggressive. This Jack is the man I always see. Gentle. Caring. Aware of every curve of my hand and the sensations his touch kindles. The calluses on his hands send goosebumps across my skin, and because he misses nothing, Jack pauses and smirks at me with satisfaction.
“You good, Polly? You seem a bit flustered.”
“I’m fine,” I reiterate and can’t hide my smile. “It really is just a scratch… But maybe I was crying then. That day you came by.”
“I know you were.” He nods, running the warm cloth over the wounds on my other arm. “It was your down day.”
I’m hit with a crazy moment of revelation and a quick gasp of air rushes out of me.
“Dinah?” He grabs my hands, pausing his task. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I shake my head, running through conversations in my brain. “Did Jackson leave a note for you… about my down day?”
He shakes his head, eyes confused. “No. You… you must’ve told me.”
“No, Jack.” I hold his hand against my arm, pausing him where he’d begun cleaning again. “I told Jackson. On our second date at the animal shelter. You… you remembered.”
For a minute he looks like I’ve hit him in the face with a pie. All shock and disbelief. I suspect his brain is rushing through a mental rewind much like mine, thinking through the dates we’ve been on since that day. We’ve discussed my parents but never once have I mentioned my down day.
“And, I haven’t mentioned it, but you’ve sort of been calling me Dinah Belle. Every once and a while.”
“That’s your name,” he whispers under his breath, avoiding my gaze.
“Yes, but you never called me that before.” I gently pull his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “Jackson has since the first time we met, but never you, up until a couple of weeks ago after that first lunch with your family. I thought you might brush it off if I brought it up, but now… this feels like something.”
“It’s not.” He goes back to inspecting my arms, grabbing antibiotic ointment to apply.
“Has this ever happened before? You remembering Jackson’s days?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything further. Afraid he’s shutting down, pulling into himself when all I want to do is see more of him, I try to regain our levity.
“Ya know, those donuts you brought on my down day? They changed my life.”
His lips tilt in half a grin.
“I wanted to hunt you down just to make you buy me another box or propose to whoever made them.”
He chuckles under his breath, still focused on my arms. “I’m sure Tilda Holmes would be just downright delighted by that proposition, but unfortunately for you, she’s been married for the better part of fifty years.”
“Tilda! From The Gravy Boat?”
He shakes his head. “One and the same. And I’m sure Mr. Holmes loves her donuts just as much as you do. Probably more. ”
“Shame. They were incredible. And I wanna take a bath in that woman’s biscuits and gravy. I think we could have been really happy together.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll get the recipe for her donuts and bake ya a batch… Blow your mind.”
“Maybe I’ll accept.”
It’s a silly moment. One of many we’ve had lately. The last few weeks have been a montage of early morning coffee deliveries and secret kisses in the Petals’ storage closet.
Take that, Becky Sampson !
We hold hands while taking turns reading aloud to each other, have late night rendezvous to discuss important matters in our shared hallway—whether Jackson’s mint toothpaste tastes better than my cinnamon flavored—and every day we end with quiet cuddle sessions on the couch, Chipper wedged comfortably between us.
But the feel of his gentleness and concern in this moment, mixed with the ease of being together, presses against my chest like a firework igniting. My heart hurts in the best way. In the giddy, early stages of a relationship, this very well might be a forever thing sort of way. It’s scary and wonderful, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with it.
I take Jack’s hands in mine—stopping his delicate ministrations of antibacterial cream—and pull them to my cheeks.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Polly?” His thumb rubs against my cheek, and he presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Will you come to the farm this weekend? To Emory’s? It’s—” I hesitate. Emory and I haven’t crossed this boundary before, and I’m not sure how she’ll handle it, but it’s something I want to share with Jack. “It’s… Sunday is my birthday.”
“What?” He pulls away. “Why are you just now telling me it’s your birthday, Dinah? Of course I’ll be there. I wish I’d known. I need to plan—”
I grab his hands again, pulling him back to the counter, wrapping my arms around his neck, and locking my legs against his waist so he can’t get away.
You live here now, buddy. Too bad, so sad.
“You don’t need to do anything. It isn’t a big deal. We eat junk food and watch movies, and it’s usually just the three of us… since my parents… It’s only ever us.” I shrug noncommittally, like my indifference explains the hasty invitation.
Brushing a stray hair from my face, Jack studies me, seeing everything. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That they’ve missed so much. That they aren’t here to celebrate with you.”
“I’m fin—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you’re fine.” He rolls his eyes, and tears mist in mine, though I nearly laugh through the moisture at the way his annoyance really does lighten my mood.
“But I’m okay, though. Really. It was so long ago.”
“No, Dinah. It sucks. It’s okay to say it sucks. Grief isn’t measured with time. There aren’t rules for how long you’re permitted to miss someone, and pretending that you don’t will only hurt more in the end.”
His hazel eyes soften and his hands fall to my legs. Jack understands complicated grief better than most. He knows what it is to mourn someone and to not want to burden the people he loves with those complex, messy emotions.
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hands. “I want you there. With me… if you’ll come.”
“Okay, I—” A quick wave of sadness brushes over his face and it’s a familiar one. I know it means he’s thinking about three days from now and whether he’ll be him or not. Jackson loves dreaming up ideas and adventures, but Jack doesn’t like making plans for the future. Anything past tomorrow is a risk. Like he’s afraid if he makes the plan, he’ll surely be the one to miss out on it.
“I want to be there.”
I brush a kiss to his mouth and melt into the way he pauses against my lips. Like he’s memorizing the way we feel together. And I am too.
“Good.” I peck his lips again and say a breath away, “You can wear the jersey I got you to match Chipper.”
“And this is Pamela. We call her Pam for short. She’s our first girl.” The second Jack and I strolled through the door this morning, Molly jumped on the opportunity to introduce him to her ladies , trotting him around the field from alpaca to alpaca, hand in hand.
And I must say, seeing him shower attention on my niece is exceedingly enticing. Emory and I watch from the covered porch, grapefruit mimosas in hand, barely speaking—too busy eyeing the action and listening like the creepers we are.
“That gray one is Phyllis. Then there’s Kelly… Meredith, and… oh!” she yells. Jack startles, but Molly just pulls him across the yard—and let's be honest, probably through piles of alpaca poop—without preamble to greet the cria , the baby of the group. “This is Angela. Isn’t she so cute!”
“She’s awesome, Molly. Who’s your favorite?”
“Oh, definitely Meredith.” Molly nods her head like she wasn’t calling Pam her best girl the day before.
Jack kneels down, scoops her up in his arms, and in tandem, they reach out to pet Angela’s mama, Nelly, along her neck. Us grown girls on the porch release audible sighs.
“He’s awesome,” Emory says, never taking her eyes off of the man dressed in a henley rolled to his elbows. I’d like to tattoo my name front and center on those glorious forearms of his, now on display as he bounces Molly on his shoulders on their way to meet Dwight.
“I know, right? Every day together feels new. It’s exciting. I really like him, Emory.”
She nudges my arm with her elbow. “Every day is new and exciting, because every day he’s a different person.”
“He’s the same person, Em. Just… different. I can’t explain it.” I sip my drink and watch Jack’s head tip back in easy laughter at something Molly says up close, like a secret, in his ear. “Jackson remembered our first kiss yesterday.”
“I’d hope he would remember.” Emory scoffs and sits on one of the rocking chairs behind us.
“No,” I say, joining her on the neighboring chair, “you don’t get it. It wasn’t Jackson’s first kiss he remembered. It was Jack’s. We were makin’ pizza dough last night in my kitchen, prepping for today, and it was like something just clicked. He—”
I brush the back of my hand to my cheek, feeling the heat grow there as I remember the way Jackson’s hazel eyes had grown brighter the night before, as if he were stumbling slowly out of a dream. He hadn’t bothered cleaning the rest of his dough-covered hands before throwing me over his shoulder, marching us into the darkened shop, and planting me on the counter.
“This is where I kissed you,” he’d said, voice husky and hopeful, and I’d barely nodded my head before his mouth crashed into mine, showing me exactly how well he remembered…
Emory nudges me out of my thoughts. “He what , Dinah?” I don’t have to look at her to know Emory’s smirking like she can imagine exactly what he did. When I mirror her sly smile, she raises her glass to mine and clinks them together. “No further questions.”
Making their way towards us on the porch, Jack and Molly chatter easily, with Molly still on his shoulder cradling his head in her arms and talking a million miles a minute. She’s fast friends with everyone, but after Jack’s first day of coaching the Peewee Spring Training and Molly witnessing his migraine episode, she has taken a particular interest in Jack. Or Jackson.
She doesn’t seem to notice or care that he’s a little different from day to day. And though he hasn’t mentioned it, I can tell their budding friendship has been a bright spot in his days, no matter what he calls himself.
Jack asks about Molly’s interests and chats with her on our morning calls if he happens to be around. Jackson makes her tiny rose bud bouquets and sends them with me when he knows I’ll be seeing the girls. And today, he brought both Emory and Molly corsages, claiming he had extra clippings lying around, when I know he just wants to dote on them. To show them, in his own little way, that if they’re special to me, they’re special to him.
This is truly the first time in her life Molly has been shown affection by a man. Her paternal grandparents do show up occasionally, but don’t seem to get the ins and outs of what makes her so sweet and silly. They don’t know her, but J. Jones makes every effort to.
It’s also the first time in just as long that I witness Emory’s heart slowly soften towards the idea of romance. At least where I’m concerned.
“Presents!” Molly begins chanting, bouncing on Jack’s shoulders. He joins her, but slows as he reaches the porch steps, dramatizing his exhaustion and acting as if he can’t quite make it one more step.
Molly kisses the top of his head like she sometimes does the girls when she showers them with affection and treats. “You can do it, Jacky!” she encourages, petting his hair down whilst I melt into a puddle of attraction. My mouth is suddenly dry and tingly. Who knew a man—this man—loving my niece could create such a thirst trap? I’m parched.
“I’d have thought seeing Jack in a matching jersey with a cat was present enough for Aunt Dinah.” Emory sips the last of her drink and stands, pulling me up to her side.
She chuckles to herself, but Emory has no idea. We were twenty minutes late to the farm today thanks to those adorable matching ensembles. As Jack and Chipper arrived at my loft door this morning with wildflowers and matching jerseys, I made them sit for an impromptu photoshoot. It’s my birthday. I can do what I want.
Jack grunts, lifting Molly from his shoulders to the porch. “I will never wear this thing again.”
“I want one, Jacky!” Molly says, putting her hand in his and dragging him into the house. “Can mine be pink, though?”
“Course, Molly Dolly,” he says, and I know, without a doubt, Jack will be ordering a Molly-sized, custom jersey before the day is done.
We eat homemade pizzas, watch my favorite rom coms, and wear our matching tiaras and the Princess Panty Party t-shirts Emory had printed for the occasion.
Jack gifts me a new pair of pale pink Converse, looking more bashful than he should for such a thoughtful gift. Examining them more closely, I see that the phrases Reading is Sexy and Runs on Romance are printed repeatedly on the tongue.
“Thank you. These are amazing!” I squeal, ripping off my trusty old mint tennies and sliding the new ones on before throwing myself on his lap for a hug. “I’ll wear them every day.”
“Liar,” Emory coughs into her hand. “She has moods.”
I roll my eyes, but Jack points at my sister like they’ve come to an agreement. “I knew it! I knew you had a system.” He squeezes me. “I haven’t figured it out just yet, but you wear those green ones when you’re happy or excited or something along those lines. We’ll see what pink is all about.” Jack taps my nose and kisses it with a smile. “There’s another gift waiting for you at home.”
I wiggle my eyebrows at him in the least sexiest way possible but try to make it flirtatious and little ooh la la to really sell my excitement. “I love at-home surprises.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He kisses my cheek and pushes me off his lap. “Off, you. You’re trouble.”
Molly giggles and hands me the next gift. Opening the large box, I first find solid white granny panties. They’re big and full coverage and absolute perfection. I burst into giggles but then quickly find myself in tears when I see the real gift underneath.
Dad’s handwritten pretzel recipe printed on a wooden board.
It’s beautiful. I run my fingers over the curves of Dad’s lettering, going against the grain of the walnut it’s been etched into. Every curved swoop and end note that looks rushed or half written. I wonder why he wrote it down? He had this recipe memorized, backward and forward.
“He wrote it for James,” Emory tells me, reading my mind. I feel Jack’s hand slip up my back, running pressure up and down my spine. A warm comfort when I’m suddenly feeling a little off balance. “James… He wanted to make them for me once at school when I couldn’t make it home for a birthday. Mom texted him a picture, and I guess I just… I forgot it existed. I thought you might like to hang it in the shop.”
I nod, unable to form words. It’s the most she’s mentioned James or our parents in longer than I can remember, and the moment her explanation tumbles out, the floodgates of my heart open. Jack’s hand finds the back of my neck, giving it a tender squeeze. Reminding me that he’s here. Just like he wanted to be. It makes me feel brave. It makes me want to share a piece of my heart that I’ve held back so as not to weigh her down, but maybe it’s time.
“I miss them. So much, Em. I love you and this.” I hold the board to my chest, but I can’t help wishing it was a hug from my dad. Or a gentle tease from James. I can almost hear him saying Jack’s getting too handsy with me on the couch. I wish it was mom making pizzas and fawning over the guy I’m quickly falling in love with. I just… wish.
“But I hate that we don’t talk about them. Mom, Dad, James… They’ve become unspoken names in our life that feel like eggshells we’ll walk over forever and never clean up. I know you hurt more than I can understand, but Emory, it’s lonely… missing them. I feel like I’m alone.”
“You aren’t,” she whispers, her eyes brimming with tears.
“I’m worried that we’ll forget what her laugh sounded like. Or that we won’t tell Molly about James repeat-watching The Office or about Dad’s—” I choke on my words. “About how Dad always smelled like—”
“Butter and beer,” Emory utters so quietly, I barely hear her.
Jack kisses my cheek, lingering there for a breath, and I feel his pride in that pause. It makes me feel a little like a flower, blooming in the sun. Without a word, he takes Molly by the hand and back outside, and I take a deep breath, feeling more free than I have in a long time.
“I miss them,” I repeat, and though it sounds simple, they’re the only words I can articulate.
Emory jumps from her seat, and I do the same, meeting her in the middle as she bursts into tears and pulls me into her arms. “I’m sorry, Dinah Belle.”
We cry for forever, but not enough to cover the years of hiding our grief from one another, and follow it up by eating our weight in strawberry ice cream and looking at an old family photo album with Jack and Molly. I think it’s the best birthday I’ve had in longer than I can remember.