Chapter 24
KOLTON
I can’t remember the exact symptoms of a heart attack. Something about an uncomfortable pressure in the chest that comes and goes, like squeezing or fullness. I’m pretty sure there’s shortness of breath, too.
Either I’m about to drop to the ground, or seeing my son’s hand in Shay’s as they walk toward me in the library is messing with my blood flow.
She looks stunning as always, but the relaxed fit of her ripped shorts and oversize T-shirt kicks her sexy up a notch.
Jackson’s dog-ugly pottery is clutched in her free hand, his small backpack slung over her shoulder.
He’s talking up a storm, and she tips her head back, those long curls bouncing as she laughs.
She stops in front of me, and the smile slips from her face. “Your kid’s really shy. You need to work on that.”
“Yeah,” I say, playing along with her sarcasm. “Hard to get a word out of him.”
Flipping the pottery in her hand, she holds it so I can read the center: Please date my dad. “You know anything about this?”
I pull my head back, feigning shock. “Jackson gave that to you? Wow…this is awkward. He was supposed to give that to his teacher.”
Jackson giggles and tugs on her hand. “No, I wasn’t. It was for Shay.”
She bats her eyes at me. “Didn’t peg you for the older-woman type. How very Oedipus of you.”
“Ee-di-puss?” Jackson says.
“Yeah, buddy, Oedipus. He was a Greek guy from a long time ago.” Who married his mother, I don’t say, because it’s creepy as fuck.
I keep my focus on Shay. “I’m more of an Athena type.
Goddess of war and wisdom. I prefer my women feisty and smart.
So”—I nudge Jackson—“did it work? Did she give you her answer?”
Jackson sucks in a massive breath and heaves it out on a sigh. “Sorry, Daddy. She didn’t say. I think it was the red paint. I wanted to do yellow.”
Those heart attack symptoms return.
I knew it would take a while to break Shay, to get her to spend time with me this summer, but she’s holding out like a commander in the Thirty Years’ War. She hasn’t said a thing about the scrap of lace I saved from Aspen, or the note I wrote. No hint of cracking.
Looking at her now, though, with her breath coming faster and her brow creased, her eyes so full of everything she’s not saying, I’d say she’s leaning toward yes.
“Let’s sit for a bit,” I say, tipping my head toward a library table.
Jackson steps forward, attempting to pull Shay with him, but she doesn’t budge. “Actually,” she says, “I do have an answer.”
Forget heart attack. This is a full-on stroke. “Will I like it?”
She licks her lips. “I’m considering being wooed.”
“Considering?”
“Maybe you can pick me up from work tonight so we can discuss said wooing? I have a shift at Sass and Style starting at one-thirty.”
I grin. “I’ll take that maybe.” Which is a total yes. “And that gives us an hour and a half to hang out.”
She stubs her toe into the floor, stalling. “With both of you?”
I’m not sure if she’s concerned hanging out with Jackson is giving my son false ideas of a mother-figure, but I’ve spoken to Jackson about the fact that I might date women, and spending time with anyone, even short term, only works if they’re cool spending time with him—if they don’t judge him and his quirks.
Anything less is a deal breaker, serious or not.
I lean closer, my elbow brushing hers. “Don’t stress. We’re going to spend a bit of time with Jackson and a dictionary. And since I didn’t get a firm yes from you, I might even find an older librarian to give his pottery to. You really want to miss that?”
She chuckles. “Fine. But I get to choose the lucky recipient, Fabio.”
“As you wish, Buttercup.”
Her bottom lip drops open, no doubt picking up on my Princess Bride reference, another film she mentioned in Aspen when ranting about my taste in movies. At least this one had sword fighting and André the Giant.
Wordlessly, she follows us toward a free table. Sounds of scratching pens, whispers, and shifting chairs greet us. Light filters through the tall windows, dust particles caught in its glow. I head toward a table at the back and motion for them to sit.
Once Shay and Jackson take a seat, I kneel beside him. “What voice do you use in here, bud?”
“The inside one,” he says on cue.
I wink at him, then turn to Shay. “Be right back.”
A couple minutes later, I return with Encyclopedia Brittanica’s volume G tucked to my side. Jackson is swinging his legs as he tells Shay about the pool and sauna at the house I’ve rented, his “inside” voice drawing irritated glances their way.
I sit beside him, Shay across from us, glad I can watch her for the next ninety minutes.
“Pass me his pack,” I say as I heft the massive book onto the table. She slides the bag across, and I sift inside for Jackson’s journal and colored pencils, then I place them in front of him. “Where’d we finish last time?”
He clucks his tongue against his teeth as he flips the pages of his journal. I stretch my leg out until the side of my calf presses against Shay’s. She glances at me, but she doesn’t move.
“Here!” Jackson points to our last entry. A reedy woman a table over shushes us.
“Yeah, okay, bud. But inside voice, remember?”
“Here,” he says again, maybe a fraction more quietly. “The gaboon viper.”
Shay leans forward and whispers, “What’s a gaboon viper?”
Her calf rubs against mine, and I’d swear her breath hitches.
Jackson pushes his glasses higher, puts on his serious face, and proceeds to read the entry. “A big snake with long fangs and triangles on its body. It lives in Africa. It’s a nice snake, but if it gets mad, it shoots poison.” He looks up. “The gaboon viper.”
“Cool.” She reaches over and places her fingers on the edge of his book. “Mind if I take a look at this?”
He bites his lip, anxiety radiating from his hitched shoulders, three ums filling the awkward silence. Sensing his turmoil, Shay pulls her hand back. “I don’t need to see it, but maybe you can explain how it works. Do you record all the words?”
I rub his back until his arms relax, the same circular motion I use when he has a nightmare. It soothes me as much as it does him. “Not all the words,” he says, excited again. “Just the best words.”
Shay props her chin on her hands. “How do you know which are the best?”
He shrugs. “I just know. Daddy runs his finger down the page, and I say stop when I see one of ’em.
Then Daddy says the word and then I say it and then he reads the de-fi-ni-tion, then I hafta say how I wanna write it and then I write the word in orange and Daddy writes the de-fi-ni-tion in purple, unless it’s a Sunday.
” Finally, he takes a breath. “Then we use red and blue.”
I watch Shay for any sign of judgment. Jackson’s eccentricities are confusing for some people. Caroline is great with him. Patient and understanding. Exactly how Marina would have been—like mother, like daughter.
When my mother’s in from Arizona, she spends her time trying to fix him, like he’s broken. Like I’ve done something to fuck him up. She begs him to wear the same socks and insists he not walk backward into the kitchen on Tuesdays. But Jackson is Jackson, offbeat and fun and all himself.
Shay drops her hands under the table, her attention still fixed on Jackson, but her fingers find my knee. “Can I help today? Can I maybe write some definitions for you?”
She squeezes my knee, and I slip my hand below the table to cover hers. Of course she gets it. Of course this woman with the wild hair and mad temper and stubborn streak doesn’t question my son’s quirks.
I rub my thumb over her smooth skin until she pulls back, but her leg stays pressed to mine, her cheeks and neck a soft pink.
I lean over Jackson, who’s scrunching his face.
“What do you say, bud? I’ve seen Shay’s writing, and it’s pretty neat.
We could give her a different color to use.
” I should make him write it all, but after a year, it’s hard to let go of the tradition—my measured writing next to his looping letters, each word gradually getting neater.
Straighter.
Older.
More scrunching, more ums, until he says, “’Kay. But we’ll have to find the green for you. It’s not in the pack.” He shakes the incomplete set of pencils.
Shay drags the bag toward her and practically sticks her head inside. She emerges with the lost green pencil…and the book I thought Stella tossed.
“The Urban Dictionary?” She cocks her head at Jackson. “Is this yours, too?”
His eyes get as wide as his glasses. “Yeah. Aunt Stella said I could keep it but Daddy’s not s’posed to know, so we should put it back before he gets mad.”
She, of course, doesn’t. She flips through the book and lands on a dog-eared page. “Banana polish,” she says slowly, her left eye squinting like it does when she’s puzzling something out.
That’s when Jackson shouts, “Noooo polish!” his fist in the air.
Not only does the shushing get emphatic, but we invite the wrath of the librarian. I’ve been to this library a few times. The front desk is always staffed by an older lady who looks like she hasn’t seen sunlight in years.
Today, however, a different woman is working.
With her pencil skirt, high heels, and low-cut blouse, the woman approaching the table could star in every teen boy’s naughty-librarian fantasy.
Her sleek black hair is in a bun, her arms crossed defiantly over her ample chest. “There are people working in here. You need to respect the silence and speak in hushed voices, or I’ll have to ask you to leave. Understood?”
Shay’s eyes dip up and down the woman’s body. She blinks a few times, then moves her leg away from mine under the table, her warmth from moments ago spiraling into hostility. As if she’s jealous. As if she thinks this woman is why I come here.
Focusing on the issue at hand, I reassure the librarian we won’t cause any trouble.