Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Devon
Fridays—well Fun Fridays as my students call them—are normally my favorite.
Even the sight of my eighth graders wearing the unicorn horns I bought at the dollar store and playing ring toss onto each other's heads after solving fraction problems didn’t make me forget.
Well, it did when the ring bounced off the Smartboard and hit me directly in the forehead.
But that was only because I was stunned stupid for a moment.
The second the bell rang and the desks were empty and quiet, I was right back where I started. Trapped in my head, empty and raw.
As I walk across my mom’s yard, I see her through her oversized bay window, sitting at the kitchen table gesturing with her hands as her head nods and her lips move.
She always keeps her shit together around this time of year for me, the selfless woman that she is.
And in return I do the same, waiting till she makes her way to bed to let the mask slip off—let the looping thoughts pull me straight down into the bowels of a restless night.
November blows.
If Mom can fake it, then I can do the same.
She’s badass for the most part, crippling anxiety about leaving her property notwithstanding, but it is embarrassing that she’s talking to Brutus like he’s a human being.
Her head falls back and she’s laughing, and I shake my head, pulling my jacket tighter around my chest as I watch.
It’s one thing to talk at your dog, but to laugh like your dog is telling you a dirty joke—well I knew my mom had issues, but this is something else.
“Ma, I’m home,” I holler as I push through the front door and let my bags schlump to the floor.
I cringe at the sound. That’s a pile of 127 pre-tests that I stared at during my prep whilst I should have been grading.
Four hours worth of grading and sorting to look forward to.
This is what comes of breaking your rules.
“Devon, honey. You’re early,” my mom says in a pitch that makes me wonder if she’s been drinking already. Not that I can blame her. I’d have started two hours ago if I hadn’t been at my desk.
“It’s 4:30—the time I get home every day,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. It takes me a moment to process what my eyes are sending to my brain.
Handsome familiar man.
Familiar kitchen setting.
Very familiar woman I call mother.
“Hi,” Jeff says as he stands. Brutus doesn’t bother to move from where he’s sprawled over Jeff’s toes.
“Hi,” I whisper. I feel like I’m in some awkward scene of a teenage movie. My cheeks feel warm and I turn a little to catch sight of my mom staring at me with this brutal wide-eyed look that says “if you don’t jump him, I will.” I roll my eyes at her and turn back to Jeff.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and it comes out too harsh. As usual. But he doesn’t flinch. Jeff is used to me by now.
“I wanted to check on you,” he says.
“Check on me?” I repeat as I try to shush my heart so he doesn’t hear it slamming against my sternum like the Blue Man Group pounding trash can lids. Dumbass heart.
I glance at my mom for answers and she’s smiling so big I want to throw something at her.
“You wouldn’t answer and I haven’t seen you since—I just wanted to make sure you’re…”
He trails off and I lift a brow and look him over.
He’s in jeans and the soft grey tee with the little tear on the sleeve that he seems to live in on the weekends.
His hair is damp, and it curls around his ears, no sight of the stubble he usually sports after a day at work.
Did he shave for this? I almost ask when I catch my mom looking between us like her neck is on a swivel setting.
I clear my throat and tilt my head in a very unsubtle way toward the closest kitchen exit.
She lifts up her hands and submits.
“Lovely speaking to you, Jeff. I do hope you can join us for dinner. And dessert. And maybe break—"
“Mom.”
“Alright. Alright. I’ll be upstairs. With my beats on, music blaring, not listening to whatever you two—”
“Mom!”
She turns to leave and Jeff calls after her, “Goodnight, Mrs.—”
“Jeff, for the last time, if you don’t call me Kathy, I’ll make you clean the chicken shit off the deck,” Mom says as she ascends.
I wrinkle my nose and shudder. I had to use a window scraper last time.
I shift my focus back to Jeff, whose dimple is in full effect as he watches my mother slide out of the kitchen with Brutus following close behind.
“She has your sense of humor,” he says.
“I’m way funnier than her,” I tell him. He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, you didn’t need to come all the way over here. I’m fine. Really.”
He lifts a brow. Makes a patronizing noise in the back of his throat. “Fine doesn’t go into hiding for weeks at a time,” he says.
Who does this man think he is? Telling me I’m not fine. Pffft.
“Don’t tell me my business, Dr. Dick. I don’t go around telling you who and how to slice and dice.”
He slides his hands out of his pockets and leans back against the island.
“As fun as this is, I’m not here to fight with you.”
I let my face fall into a pretend pout. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m ‘showing up’,” he tells me, making air quotes. Like I’m supposed to know what that means.
“Stalking and ‘showing up’ are two different animals.” I air quote right back, but move to the opposite side of the kitchen island for safety reasons. I refold a dishtowel a few times, avoiding the intensity of his gaze.
Meredith told me earlier today that Jeff was worried—that I should call him.
But I didn’t think he’d “show up” here like this.
Looking all kind and concerned and hot AF.
I know if I lift his shirt I’ll see my best friend's name scrawled across his chest because this has Meredith written all over it.
I open the fridge and grab two beers, talking over my shoulder like his presence is not sending my body into hyperdrive.
I slide the beer across the island toward where Jeff is standing, eyeing me like I’m not a sweaty, disheveled mess who played five classes worth of Unicorn Fraction Horn Toss—like my eyes aren’t bloodshot and red rimmed and lifeless from sleepless nights of sorrow.
“What’s that?” I take a sip of beer and point at the paper bag on the table next to a bunch of DVDs.
Jeff doesn’t look away from my face.
“I brought movies,” he says smoothly.
“I see that, but why did you go all Fred Flinstone and bring DVDs?”
He shrugs. “I noticed your mom had a DVD player last time I was here.”
“Another tally under the stalker column,” I murmur into my beer.
“And the other bag is Maggie’s,” he says in a tone that clearly says I don’t deserve it.
Bastard! Cupcakes again? I had a hard enough time rationalizing the last ones. I try to step away, but my hand reaches for the bag like an out of control go-go-gadget arm.
“Am I still a stalker?” he asks, sliding the bag away from me.
“Stalkers aren’t always bad,” I tell him, gathering control and reaching for one of the DVDs instead. “Take that nice gentleman from YOU. Always thinking of her and…” I lose track of my rambling and pull the discs toward me and check the titles.
The Italian Job. Beautiful setting. Beautiful people. Good choice.
I nod and pick up the next.
The Greatest Showman. Love that shit. Musicals are my jam. It’s like Jeff can see right into my showtune singing soul.
I reach for the third and he steps between me and the table nearly knocking the beer out of my hand.
“Jeff—” He’s so tall. I’m like up to his right nipple and it’s so annoying. “Give me the DVD. I just want to see—”
“No. That one was a mistake,” he says as he looks down at me.
“Come on. The other ones are perfect. Just let me see.”
He shakes his head and I’m staring at the muscle in his neck while I try to reach around his back to grab it out of his hand.
“Devon, trust me,” he says, barely having to try to keep it out of my reach.
Our bodies are fully pressed together and I suddenly realize that every inch of me is tingling like I’ve been massaged for hours.
I step back. Stumble a little. Giggle as I catch my balance on the back of a chair.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m delirious.
Out of my mind. He smells like he rolled around naked in dryer sheets.
I take another slow, deliberate step backward.
“Ok. Jeff. So, what’s the plan here. Hypnotize me with Zac Efron and Marky Mark then fill me with sugar until I forget my sorrow?”
He nods, his genuine smile making me forget the sorrow that I’m supposed to be future-forgetting.
“Yeah. Sugar and beer, though,” he corrects.
“Sugar and beer,” I repeat.
He lifts his brow and waits, like I need to agree to this.
Like he didn’t already ensure that I’d have to agree to it when he showed up in my mother’s kitchen, bewitching her with his charisma and dimple depth.
Damn, I just want to say yes. Enjoy this—whatever the hell it is.
But I know that’s not in the cards. I look down at the nicks in the butcher block counter and probe at one with my finger.
“You know this—” I point between us, “—can’t—”
“Devon, did you ever think that this—," he mimics my motion, “—might be something you and I can’t control.”
“Do you know what an asymptote is, J.J.?” I ask, trying hard not to meet his gaze.
“The curve thing that—”
“The curve is the curve. The asymptote is something else. You are the curve.”
He steps around the counter, slowly, like I might bolt again at any moment and I hold up my hand and point. He stops.
“You are the curve,” I repeat. “And I am the asymptote. You can get really, really close to the asymptote. But the curve will never touch the asymptote. Are you catching what I’m throwing here, Jeff?”
He looks amused. There is nothing amusing about analytical geometry metaphors.
“You are amazing,” he says softly, stepping forward. I freeze.
He runs a finger beneath my chin. I shut my eyes. Focus on the trail of heat he’s left across my skin. “Look, asymptote. Curve is touching you.”
“That’s not what—”
“Besides, I’m not here to touch you,” he whispers. “I’m here to help.”
My shoulders sag. No touching. Right. Do I need help? I mean, I can’t move from this spot, so I might need help with that.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me and I feel like I did when I broke mom’s car window with a tennis racquet and an acorn. I’m in so much fucking trouble. I could run down the block and hide in the woods like I did when the glass shattered, leaving Tara to take the fall.
“If I throw you out, can I keep the cupcakes?” I ask, my voice too raspy.
“No.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
I step backwards, hand on the edge of the counter. Maybe he can help. Better this than a night with my mom pretending not to know what day it is. “You can stay. But I need to wash the eighth graders off of me.”
He laughs when I crinkle my nose as I process my own words.
“Ew. That came out wrong—”
“Go take a shower, Devon,” he says, saving me from myself.
I lift my beer toward him and take my leave, telling my dumdum heart to knock off its shit while I take the steps two at a time.