Page 12 of The Jilted Lovers Club
Damn. It’s kind of hard to hate the guy after all that. I remember the night before in fits and spurts, enough that I know I made a complete ass of myself—starting with calling Ashton’s town a shithole. Oh, god. And throwing up everywhere. I want to burrow under the covers as memories of the night keep coming back to me, but my bladder is near bursting, and my nausea is returning with every forming recollection.
I wobble out of bed and open the door Ashton referred to, revealing my jewelry and phone right where he said they’d be in a bathroom with black and white checkered floors and hot pink bathmats. The theme might have been overdone, but it’s consistent, and it’s growing on me. Plus, everything smells nice in here and in the bedroom—like a hotel room or something. It’s like this room hasn’t been lived in for years, but has been kept clean and fresh, nonetheless.
Once my bladder is gratefully emptied, I glance in the mirror—and holy shit—I look like hell. My hair is a wild rat’s nest, and my mascara creates deep, dark circles under my eyes. The shorts are too small for my long legs, almost like underwear. I consider looking through the closet like Ashton suggested, searching for something less revealing. But it feels weird to rifle through someone else’s clothes, especially if they belong to some teenager.
Taking a deep breath, I cross the bedroom and ease the door open. Instantly I’m met with the smells of breakfast—bacon, syrup, coffee—each hitting me with another wave of nausea. I cover my nose and breathe slow until my senses grow accustomed, allowing me to remove my hand. All the while,I take in my surroundings; a large room with exposed beam ceilings, large windows and a door that reveal a porch area that face a large expanse of farmed land, and an open kitchen where an older woman stands, wearing an apron and a warm smile on her face.
“Well, hello there.”
“Uh, hi.” I feel naked all of a sudden, wearing this tight t-shirt and tiny shorts, especially as I see the young toddler in the highchair near the counter, her chubby hands grabbing at cereal on the tray. “I’m Jordy,” I say, then feel stupid. “You probably already knew that. And you’re, uh, Bec?” I hesitate, recalling the name from Ashton’s note.
Bec beams and nods. “That’s right. And this little cherub is my granddaughter, Lottie. Aren’t you, sweet thing?” Lottie grins around the finger in her mouth, then grasps more Cheerios with her slimy hand. “You know Ashton, and you’ll meet my husband Bob in a few. They head out early to tend to the animals, taking a half pot of coffee with them, I swear. Did you want coffee? Did you get enough sleep?”
I’m sure the bags under my eyes say otherwise, and I shrug as I pull at the hem of my shorts, trying to appear less naked.
“Oh, sorry about the clothes, I just grabbed what I could find. Let me get you a robe, if you’re uncomfortable. You’re probably cold anyway.”
I’m trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Bec is grandma to the toddler in the highchair, which makes her…
“Are you Ashton’s mom?”
Bec throws her head back, her laugh coming straight from her belly. I feel dumb immediately as I take in Bec’s pale ivory features that contrast with Ashton’s smooth brown skin.
“Lord, I wish I was mom of that boy. He’s the kindest, gentlest soul I know who would give anyone the shirt off his back. But no, I’m not his mom.”
She wipes at the tears in her eyes, her smile wavering a little as something dark crosses her expression. Then she waves her hand as if to brush away whatever bothered her in that moment.
“Oh dear, that robe. I’ve done talked your ear off. Let me get it for you. Watch Lottie for me, okay?” she asks, then scoots out the door and down the hall.
Watch Lottie.Watch her do what, exactly? I sit on the barstool and stare at the toddler, and she stares back. I realize quickly that this is the same child as the one in that photo, just a few years older. The soft auburn spray of hair from the photo is now a full blown fluff ball, which I have to admit is kind of cute. I mean, cute for an obnoxious, gross toddler. But cute, nonetheless.
Lottie picks up a Cheerio and holds it out to me.
“More?” she asks. I balk at the outstretched hand, then mentally chastise myself. This is a child, not a monster. I take a deep breath, then grimace into a smile—as if that will make me appear friendly instead of allergic to children.
“You want more?” I look around the kitchen, feeling out of my element until I spot the cereal box on the countertop. I start to reach for it, but then second guess the move. What if the amount on her tray was pre-measured? My mom did that when I was a kid so I wouldn’t eat too much, and she went ballistic if I ate even a bite more than what was given to me. What if Bec felt the same way?
I look back at the little girl and shake my head. “You have more on your tray.”
“More?” She continues to hold out her hand, and I see the slimy Cheerio in her hand and suddenly understand. I hesitate for a moment, then with cautious fingers, I take the Cheerio she holds out to me. She grins, her little teeth like pearls in her mouth. Then she gets another Cheerio off the tray and shoves it in her mouth, watching me the whole time. I pretend to do thesame, and she laughs as I make chewing noises. The sound is like a bell, and it goes straight to my heart, sending chills through my veins on the way.
Oh, that sound. It both breaks and warms my heart. I focus on the latter, burying my pain as I grin back at her. A real smile, this time. She laughed at something I did, and it’s as if a bird flew from the sky and landed on my open palm.
Bec returns just as I take another Cheerio from Lottie’s outstretched hand.
“Ah, I see she’s included you in her little game. Sweet Lottie, you’re such a giver!” The little girl squeals as Bec bends down and peppers her with kisses. “Here’s my robe. It’s probably too big for you, but at least you’ll be warm.”
She hands over the robe and I slip it on. It’s a little worn, but the weathered fabric feels smooth against my skin. There’s a comforting odor to it—like laundry detergent and the faint scent of cookies. The scent reminds me of my Grandma Dot, who used to putter around her house in the morning in her own worn robe while Nina and I took over the couch and watched cartoons.
“So, Jordy.” Bec hands me a cup of coffee, along with the creamer and sugar, both of which I wave off. “Is that short for something?”
“My full name is Jordan, but no one really calls me that.”
“I like that name,” she says, then smiles at me. Her smile is so inviting, I feel something soften inside me. This is the first time anyone has been welcoming to me in this town, and I haven’t realized how much I need that. I wrap her robe around me, then with a wary glance at Lottie, I choose the furthest barstool at the kitchen island with my coffee cup in tow. When I take a sip, I grimace at the bitterness of the black.
“Do you have almond milk?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“No, but the cream is fresh. Straight from the cow this morning.” She nods at the carafe she’d offered earlier, and Ilift it reluctantly. I haven’t had milk in ages, mostly because I can’t stand the taste. I sniff at it, pour a little in my cup, then I take another sip—and damn, if it’s not the smoothest, creamiest coffee I’ve had in ages.
