33. Isaac
Chapter 33
Isaac
H er fucking tail light is out.
Leo is actually rolling over in his grave.
My grip on the steering wheel forces all of the blood out of my knuckles. I’m following too closely, but I can’t lose sight of her.
Jo pulls her car out onto Main Street, and to my surprise, heads in the general direction of my place. Two more rights and a left turn, and we’re here. We pull to a stop in an empty parking lot only three blocks from where I’ve created my new home in Illinois. I grab my umbrella from the passenger-side floor mat and my phone from the middle console before approaching Jo’s driver door. I can see through the window that she’s fumbling with bags and her large stainless steel coffee tumbler, trying to carry everything at once. I pull open the door, holding the umbrella over her as she exits.
“You really didn’t have to follow me here,” she says, her shoulder bag hitting the horn accidentally and startling us both.
“Yeah, I did,” I reply.
She’s quiet as I follow her to a peeling door on the second floor of the complex. A small, dead plant sits next to a doormat where the words “Go Away” are worn and barely visible.
She pushes the door open with a grunt, using her shoulder as a force generator.
“Don’t even say anything,” she adds, dropping her bags and tumbler on the counter. The apartment is small, but warm.
“I would never.” I nod my head, turning back to the door. “Well, you’re safe. I did my job.” I grab the door handle.
“Wait.”
I look over my shoulder from where I’m rooted at the door. She’s eyeing me intently, a brush of pink at the apples of her cheeks.
“Would you want to stay for dinner?” The words are slurred together and choppy at the same time. “I mean, as payment for fixing my car, you know.”
Don’t blow it.
For the love of all that is holy, please don’t blow it.
I glance down at my watch, but the time doesn’t even register. I don’t care what time it is, or where I need to be.
“I suppose I can stay.” I shrug, pushing the door a few times until it clicks. “You really should get that door fixed. Someone could break in here.”
“Yeah, and steal my neuromodulation manuscript and a bottle of ranch?” She pauses. “They can have it.”
Taking in the space, I notice photos of Jo’s mom and dad, Carmen and Chloe. Jo fumbles with pots in the kitchen, still wearing her black wool jacket. A photo of Jo and I from spring break in year two catches my attention.
“You couldn’t pay me to go back to Panama City Beach.” I snort a laugh, remembering the absolutely nauseating week-long bender.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. That was the worst week of my life,” Jo replies, taking a few steps into the living space, a sauce pan in hand. “Never again.”
“Twelve beer bongs in a row will scar you for life.”
A full-bodied giggle fills the quiet room.
Her laugh is the best reward.
“You literally stared at me for hours that night. I thought you’d died and I was gonna have to push your eyelids shut.”
Because I was fighting every drunken urge in my body.
Every neuron screaming at me to pick you up and fling you over my shoulder and carry you right to my room.
“I think I did die to be honest. It was a miracle that Kyle brought those electrolyte packets.”
“Oh my God, the eggs .” Jo’s giggle from before turns suddenly into a raging fit of laughter. “The whole carton of eggs.” It takes a few seconds before my brain catches up, remembering the kitchen catastrophe.
“Why the hell would he think it was a good idea to clean up eggs with a Swiffer ?”
Watching Kyle push raw egg around the kitchen floor of our rental house had us both toppled over onto the tile floor, laughing until we cried. It’s one of the last times I remember being truly happy.
Carefree.
Until adulthood punched us square in the nose.
Jo’s giggle slows and fades into silence. Though nothing happened between us that week, a thin veil of wanting blanketed our vacation.
I should’ve used it to my advantage. I should’ve spoken the words that sat primed and ready on my tongue.
But I was so afraid.
I still am.
“So dinner,” Jo says, startling me from my thoughts. A pot dangles loosely from her fingers and knocks against her leg as she moves.
“It’s really okay. I’m glad I could help with the car.” I glance out the window where the rain has finally let up. “My help is not conditional.” My gaze slides back to her just as she drags the back of her long sleeve shirt under her nose. With another quick sniffle, she turns her back to me and sets the pot down on the glass burner.
“No, no,” Jo replies, “it’s the least I can do.” She reaches up on her tiptoes to pull open the cabinet above the stove, balancing her weight with a flat palm on the countertop. A container of something white sits just out of her reach. “Ugh, damn my father for being a race car driver and not a basketball player,” she says as she lets her weight fall back onto her heels.
I approach slowly. “Here.” Placing my left hand on her shoulder, I reach up and over her head to grab the plastic container of what I can now see is flour.
Her voice is nearly inaudible. “Thanks.”
“What’s on the menu?” I take a step back, but my fingers linger on the skin at the base of her neck for a few more long seconds. The overwhelming scent of florals swirl in my nasal passages. Jo clears her throat and my hand falls, holding the flour container out to her.
“I was thinking chicken noodle soup?” She sets the flour down on the counter and side-steps to the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing a carton of eggs. “You like the flour dumplings, right?”
I nod, but quickly realize she has her back to me.
Dummy.
“Yes, yes, I do. They’re my favorite.” Cringing at myself, I backpedal out of the kitchen and around the small island. She’s started collecting supplies, pulling a box of pasta out of the cabinet to the right of the stove, and a large mixing bowl from the cabinet to the left. “Can I please help?”
She ignores me, moving around the kitchen with ease and grace. It almost looks programmed. Celery, carrots and an onion from the top shelf of the refrigerator. A cutting board from the cabinet under the sink. A knife from the block on the counter.
“Here,” she says, pushing the items towards me on the island. “Make yourself useful.”
I need time to slow down. I blinked, and dinner was prepped. I blinked again, and our bowls were empty, only our groans of satisfaction left to prove dinner ever happened in the first place.
“Why did you let me eat so much?” Jo asks, rubbing her hands over her abdomen. I attempt to laugh, but the flour and egg dumplings sit heavy in my stomach.
“I know better than to say anything to a grown-ass woman about how much she’s eating.” I shift in my chair, angling myself towards her. “But I had a feeling that fourth bowl might put you over the edge.”
A small smirk appears on her face before she lets her head fall back, exposing the long column of her neck and a gold necklace.
“Butterfly.”
How is it that I can present complicated neuroscience to a room full of established researchers, but my vocabulary becomes that of a second-grader with this woman?
“Huh?” Jo’s head pops up once again, and I watch as the lightbulb goes off and she reaches up to grasp the charm on her necklace. “Oh yeah, same one as always.” She pushes her chair away from the dining table, gathering both of our bowls and walking them to the sink.
I stand, awkwardly pushing my hands into my pockets. “Thanks for dinner.” I lean forward, balancing my weight on the balls of my feet. “It really hit the spot.”
Water pours from the faucet over the top of our dirty dishes. “Do you want to take some leftovers for Liam?” Somewhere between the last bite of dumpling and now, the energy in the room has shifted. Her tone is colder than before, like she’s just recalled she actually hates me.
“Oh, no,” I respond, pushing the chair back to its resting place under the dining table. “He’ll be on a flight bright and early back to the UK.”
She flips off the faucet, cocking her head to the side. “Oh.” Disappointment infiltrates her tone and my stomach sinks—maybe she is interested in Liam.
“He has a game next weekend.” I pause, examining her expression for changes. “He’s been traveling back and forth a lot recently.” I let the remainder of my thought sit stuck at the end of my tongue.
Sam is deteriorating quickly, but I don’t need to bring the conversation down. It’s not fair to her, nor do I want to ruin the semi-friendly meal we just had. Let’s be real, the likelihood that Jo even cares is slim to none.
I collect my jacket from the edge of the couch, draping it over my arm. The rain has stopped completely now, though the sound of the draining gutters still echoes through the silent apartment.
“You really should get that battery replaced—” I say, taking a step towards the door. She has her hip casually leaned up against the edge of the counter, her arms hanging limp at her sides, and an almost dejected look on her face.
Could she be sad that I’m leaving?
The air is heavy, but I have no more words.
“Wanna stay for dessert?” she asks unexpectedly, and the tension dissipates as quickly as it formed.
“I would love dessert.”