Page 44 of A Better Place

CHAPTER EIGHT

James

“What’s up?” I ask Jack, hoping he ignores the fact that I’m pretty sure he saw me almost mounting up on his mama on the couch. I have no idea what came over me, but the playful glint in her eye when she was running through her house, her tinkling laughter washing over me along the way made me feel alive.

I couldn’t stop myself, and when she was teasing me about Dean being the better brother, which, obviously he isn’t, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted her to keep up the act. Because in that moment? Her guard was down. She was being herself and finally giving me a piece of what I’ve been longing for. A hint of who she was before whatever changed her, whatever spooked her.

Something happened in her past. Something that caused a shift in her, and created this hard-edged barbed-wire fence that she built around her heart. Tess says she turtles herself for protection. But from what, I don’t know. I’ll find out, though. And every day, every chance encounter, every text I send her removes a barb and opens her up to me. I don’t think she realizes how much she’s letting me in.

In the short amount of time I’ve known her, I’ve learned that she’s an only child. After her dad died before she was born, her mom was never the same, turning to the bottle to cope. I learned this one night when she let it slip that she has never once been drunk in her life. Not even in college. I wasn’t a big drinker, by any means, but I can’t say that I’ve never had a few too many.

I learned that she was originally from the Southwest, although I’m unsure of exactly where. She divulged this little bit of information when we were talking about loving white Christmases as I was helping her hang Christmas lights. She didn’t grow up with snow, and it’s snowed every year she’s lived here.

At one of the playoff football games, she let it slip that she used to hate tattoos on men, which leads me to believe that she now likes them. My ego tells me it’s because she likes my tattoos. When I teased her and asked what changed her mind, she quickly looked back toward the field and avoided answering that question, confirming my suspicion.

Her favorite meal is beef and broccoli with Asian noodles. Her second favorite meal? Bacon cheeseburger with real potato fries. The fact that she knows how to enjoy food and not live off salads is one of the many things that attracts me to her.

Her favorite dessert is chocolate. When I laughed at her response, she just said, “Literally anything chocolate. I’m not picky. Just give me all the chocolate.”

I immediately went home and started going through every recipe I could find that included chocolate.

Even though I’ve learned things, there’s still so much I want to know. I may know how she takes her coffee, and that she doesn’t drink soda because the bubbles make her squeamish, she hates sweet tea but loves iced tea, used to run but doesn’t anymore because she hurt her knee. But those are things that are easy to find out. I want to know more. I want to know it all. From finding out what her dreams are, to the real reason she doesn’t run anymore (because she plays tennis, so… the knee thing? BS) to what kind of toothpaste she prefers. I soak up every single thing she tells me and hope to God that she continues to open up, to trust me.

“You’re so transparent,” Jack says, laughing, bringing me back to the fact that I’m standing in his bedroom.

I take a moment to look around. One wall is jet black with lime green squares and rectangles painted in random locations. The other three walls are a deep charcoal color. The comforter that covers his unmade bed is black, and ’lime-green pillows are strewn about. In one corner, there’s what looks like an old set of lockers. It kind of looks like Pinterest threw up in here, and I wonder if his mom decorated it or if he designed it. And yeah, I know Pinterest. I use it for recipes.

“Transparent? What do you mean?” I ask, still looking around the room. Every time I walk into Carly’s house, my eyes don’t stop moving around, soaking it all in, trying to get more glimpses of who she is.

“Oh it’s like that, huh?”

“Like what?”

“Listen. I see how you look at my mom. And even though it makes me wanna puke to think about my mom being hot or whatever, I still want her to have that, you know? She deserves that. After—” he starts to say then looks away from me. “Let’s just leave it at that she deserves it.”

“I agree with you. She does. But what exactly are you getting at, Jack?”

He takes a seat on the edge of his bed and leans over, clasping his hands together. I sit down in the chair by his desk and mimic his position. “Didn’t I say?”

“Not really.”

He fidgets, running his hands through his dark hair, making it stand on end. “Oh. Dating. I mean, you and her. It’s obvious to me. But you want to, right?”

“I do. But she’s made it pretty clear that she just wants to stay friends.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I am. If my other option is to not have y’all around? It’s no question.”

He nods his head, seeming to soak in what I’m saying.

“And you’re okay with always only being her friend, if that’s what she wants? You would never push her to be something she’s not? Never make her feel like she’s… I don’t know… less or something?”

I remember again that Jack is very protective of her. More than what a typical son is of his mother. But this questioning gives me even more insight. I’m dying to ask where this is coming from, to get the details of their past that I so desperately want. But I won’t. I don’t want to make either of them feel like I’m not willing to fulfill my promise of being okay with friendship.

“Jack. Listen to me and look me in the eye so you can see the truth there, alright?” He stares right at me, and I continue, “Getting to know the both of you over these past weeks, it’s been really great. Am I attracted to your mom? I am. She’s gorgeous. More beautiful than any other woman I’ve ever met or seen. You’ve got a hot mom, dude, deal with it,” I say with a grin when he fake gags.

“You can’t tell me your friends haven’t said…”

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