Page 106 of Capri

“Hold on,” I groan in frustration.

Opening the door, a large man with a massive beard greets me. Well, he doesn’t exactly greet me. More like, announces his entrance. “Delivery for a…Capri Meadows.”

“I’m Capri Meadows,” I say, unsure of what’s happening.

“Great. If you’ll excuse us,” he says, pushing his way through the threshold.

Us? I’m confused, with no chance to ask questions before three equally large men follow him into my apartment with a dining room table in hand.

The shortest of the three hands me a slip of paper. “Order note,” he says. I open the yellow paper, revealing another note from Jones.

You can’t have a table full of kids without a table.

- Jones

“Seriously?” I hastily pick up the phone and huff to Jones.

His hysterical chuckle vibrates in my ear. “You did this, too. A table.” I’m nowhere near upset; in fact, I feel so caught off guard that it makes me emotional. I’m the person who gets angry when surprised with something nice before the actual happiness comes.

“Needed somewhere to eat dinner,” he says naturally, like what he’s doing isn’t batshit crazy. Crazy sweet. And kind. And thoughtful.

“Let me guess…when you sleep over?” I ask.

“Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Despite the surprise, I’m overwhelmed with how damn sweet he is. Consistent caretaking is something I’ve never experienced. I don’t know how to control my reaction.

“You didn’t have to do this…”

“Just say thank you and invite me over, Capri. And promise me you’ll fill that table someday.”

My heart aches, hoping and praying for the day I get to make that happen. I smile to myself and hand the big, strong men a tip before shutting the door behind them.

“Thank you, Captain.” I find myself blushing, lost in the magnitude of Jones’ kindness.

“What else, sweetheart?”

“Ugh.” I pause for a moment. “You should sleep over.”

“I’d love to fuck you into tomorrow morning. Thanks so much for asking.”

I giggle. “No one said anything about fucking.”

“You’re cute when you pretend you don’t want me.”

I laugh, thinking of a way to tease him back. “Yeah, that’s what all my boyfriends say.”

“Boyfriends, huh?” he asks. “Got a lot of them?”

“Sure do.” Surely, he can feel the weight of my grin through the phone.

I love playful Jones. The verbal sparring makes me needy.

“Which number am I then? Better not be in the double digits.”

“I don’t know, you’re pretty far down there,” I joke.

I use our phone conversation as a time to set up my new dining room table, sliding the chairs underneath and pulling out the table runner I had saved for the day I could afford to buy a table.

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