Chapter 68
Sixty-Eight
My mom and I meet at the coffee pot midmorning. I’m dragging ass and physically need the caffeine in my bloodstream to clear out the cobwebs.
“Merry Christmas,” she says.
“Merry Christmas,” I answer groggily.
She pours coffee into a couple of bulbous pottery mugs she learned to make last year. Swirls of cobalt blue and earthy browns shine from the glaze as she hands me one.
Her eyes assess me before she strokes my cheek. “You look beat, honey.”
“I am tired. It’s been a long twenty-four hours.” To thwart her digging deeper, I add, “And Jacqui’s coming over today. We didn’t exchange presents yet and…” There’s so much more to say, but I bury it.
My mom smiles genuinely at that. “That’s wonderful. I look forward to seeing her.”
Yeah, me too.
Her gaze stays intent on me, and it seems like she’s debating what to say.
“What?” I prompt.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Madly.”
She looks ridiculously pleased, eyes lighting up over a big grin. “I’m happy for you, for both of you.” There’s a lot she’s not saying—and doesn’t have to. She’s harped on me for years about giving women a chance.
“I’ve never felt this way before, the way I do when I’m with her. She’s different. Special,” I murmur.
A multitude of emotions flit across her pale blue eyes as I down more coffee. They glisten, and she swallows thickly, blinking a few times. “That’s rare to find…and I’m so grateful you did.”
Is she upset? Or are those happy tears? Is she still carrying guilt or worry or some other mom shit?
She clears her throat, sets down her mug, and leans into me. Her arms encircle my waist and I return the hug, leaving my questions unasked.
I greet Jax at the door and haul her against me, relief coursing through me after the way we left things yesterday.
Her soft crimson sweater brushes against my skin and highlights the fire in her irises.
She’s the portrait of festive, while I probably present an exhausted, disheveled disaster in my T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet.
She graces me with a tender smile, and I keep my arm firmly around her as I steer her inside.
My mom’s waiting in the living room, her eyes filling with warmth when they greet each other.
My girlfriend hands over a loaf of homemade gingerbread and a bottle of white wine, and I’m struck again at her thoughtfulness and understanding. My mother will like both.
They hug, and it gives me a hit of comfort.
“So nice to see you, Jacqui,” my mom says.
“You too. Thank you for having me.” Her gaze sweeps the surroundings. “The house looks lovely.”
Mom offers her a mug of spiced apple cider, and we move to the living room. Jacqui and I claim one sofa and my mother takes the chair across from us. Several minutes pass with small talk until I interrupt.
“Mom,” I say.
She stops mid-question and arches a brow my way.
“If Jacqui doesn’t get to open her presents soon, she’s going to combust.”
My girlfriend scoffs. “Am not.”
Our gazes meet, mine confident. “I know you, remember?”
Her lips purse before a chuckle bubbles out.
My mom smiles knowingly then excuses herself and disappears down the hall. I’m grateful for the privacy and waste no time getting Jacqui’s first present and placing it carefully in her lap.
Her gleeful expression spreads as she rips through the paper and ribbon.
She’s like a kid, all wondrous and excited, and something about it lifts my heart.
Maybe it’s that, despite her crappy childhood, fucked-up parents, and the fact she tearfully proclaimed last Christmas with Remy and me the best one she’d ever had, she somehow remains undaunted.
Hopeful. Happy. She’s naturally so giving—when she’s received jack shit in return.
She sifts through each of the books my mother insisted every writer needs. The Elements of Style, the Associated Press Stylebook, The Chicago Manual of Style, plus a special edition of Writer’s Digest magazine.
“Mick…these are perfect. And helpful. How did you even know…”
“I can’t take credit. My mom said they would be useful.”
“Thank you so much.”
She’s visibly touched, and it pleases me to give her something worthwhile.
Bridging the small gap between us, she presses her lips to mine then sets her gifts on the coffee table.
With a secretive little smile of her own, she saunters over to the tree, getting on all fours to search underneath the branches.
“That’s one hell of a view,” I say.
She shakes her ass while eyeing me over her shoulder. If my mother wasn’t here, I’d be showing her exactly what I could do with that pose—and put an end to her flirty taunting.
Jax rejoins me on the sofa and hands me two gifts. By their shape and weight, I surmise they’re also books. Like minds.
The first features various nautical knots, and with so many still to learn, this is welcome.
“Not that you aren’t already quite proficient with some of these…”
We grin at each other as I open the second. Fifty Wooden Boats: A Catalog of Building Plans. “Oh, cool.” I flip the pages, practically salivating. “Baby, this is fantastic. Have I told you how much I think about building my own?”
“No, but it seems right in your wheelhouse, or should I say boathouse?”
I glance back at the book in my hands, thoroughly stoked and pleasantly surprised she’d guessed I’d want this. “I can’t wait to read this. Thank you.” I pull her closer, grazing her temple with my lips.
Jax begins to stand but I beat her to the punch. I have one more for her. The earrings.
She peels away the paper, sneaking a bewildered peek at me when she finds a black velvet box. My affectionate smile stays in place as she lifts the lid and turns quiet.
“It’s sea glass,” I say. “It’s been broken, weathered, and worn smooth by the ocean. It starts out a jagged shard and after years of turbulence and basically, abuse, it becomes beautiful. Like you, baby.”
“Like us,” she gently corrects.
Our eyes collide in understanding. “It’s rarer than you might think. The real stuff is old glassware, the kind no one makes anymore, and it takes decades, sometimes even centuries, of tumbling through the sea to buff all the rough edges. It’s special—even more so because of what it’s been through.”
She’s quiet for another beat. “They’re gorgeous, Mick. And capture us completely.”
I’m rewarded when she plucks the delicate, diamond-shaped earrings a nearly translucent shade of aquamarine from the velvet case and loops them through her earlobes. I shift her golden hair over her shoulder, humming appreciatively seeing them in place. A breathtaking combination.
Our eyes meet, a glassy sheen coating hers. “I love them. And you,” she says. Exhaling a shaky breath, Jacqui hands me her final gift.
It’s a sturdy, rectangular-shaped box. I run my finger under each section of tape vs. tearing into the wrapping like a madman—or my girlfriend. She fidgets next to me, and my curiosity grows. I finally work off the lid and pull back the tissue.
“Jacqui…” I start, all words evaporating.
“It’s a short story. It’s…about us,” she blurts, almost like she’s embarrassed.
I lift it from the container. “Ocean Deep, a Love Story, by Jacqueline Hall,” I murmur. Opening the thick cover, I flip through the typewritten pages of this intensely personal and surely beautifully written gift. I’m floored. Absolutely fucking leveled.
Jax wipes her palms on her jeans a second before my reverent gaze captures hers. “I’m honored…and lost for words.” I stare down at the story in my hands, my chest tightening with emotions so foreign, I can’t completely wrap my head around it. “I’ve never received a more personal, thoughtful gift.”
My eyes sting as I set it gingerly back in the box and onto the coffee table. “Come here,” I whisper.
She crawls into my lap, and we hold each other tightly.
My heart is full to bursting, like it’s been shot up with a life force.
It’s her. Always her, giving me something I wasn’t aware I needed or could have, taking me higher, helping me soar.
Unequivocally, down to the marrow of my bones, I know she’s the most important person in my life—and the one I never want to live without.
We stay molded against one another, quiet, saying volumes while not uttering a word.
My eyes open and I hear my mom and girlfriend chatting quietly in the kitchen. I’m completely irritated I fell asleep while Jax was still here and haul myself upright, itching to touch some part of her.
Jacqui and I steal another hour together before she has to leave. We walk to her car, and I’m wishing I’d thrown on a sweatshirt after my skin pebbles from the chill.
“You’re headed to San Jose tonight?” I ask.
She nods. “I have work in the morning. What about you?”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’ve been summoned for a meeting at the Remington’s tomorrow afternoon, then I plan to head home.”
“Any idea what about?”
I lift a shoulder. “Not sure, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of intervention.”
“Call me?”
“Of course, baby.”
Our bodies meld into a forceful, desperate hug—the sort we seem to share a lot these days. Despite managing to salvage Christmas, I can’t stop the premonition everything is about to go sideways.