Page 14 of Cookout Carnage
Jonathan steps back from me and folds his hands over his chest. There’s a peek of a blond curl lapping up over the collar of his faded gray t-shirt. I want to bite it. He looks more delicious than I remembered. And now I’ve become unhinged and relentless in my choices—I want him, and I’m not afraid of it.
“Answer me, Juliet.”
I shrug, then get the pig and set it free. She nuzzles instantly against Jonathan’s legs and leaves a dirty snout mark on his jeans. He swats at it to beat the dust away. He always liked things pristine.
“Dust happens. It’s a farm.”
“Get on with it, Jules. I’ve had a shitty day, and night, and I don’t know what to do with this visit. Why are you here?”
He seems annoyed with me, but I can’t help but notice he’s breathing a little faster. Me too. I’m pretty excited to tell him he’s not getting married tomorrow. I won’t have it.
“Three things.”
“Will this take long? I mean, like, dissertation long, Doctor?”
I got my PhD in medieval literature about a year ago. I didn’t know he knew. We haven’t spoken in three years and haven’t seen each other in about five. When he came to me on leave so we could say goodbye. Five years of pretending I wasn’t Jules—I was Juliet. Five years of engaged listening to boring people. Five years without caramel cinnamon waffles or Kentucky cream candy.
I love literature. It’s a piece of who I am. Still, good lord, must all of academia debate the proffers of good and evil as displayed by the latest cancel culture all the fucking time? When I would get caught up in those conversations, I’d hear Jon’s laugh in the back of my brain, reminding me not to take myself too seriously. I couldn’t shake him loose.
When he went into the Navy, it was too much for me. I retreated to the shadows and safety of books like I did when my father died. But here’s what this farm girl has put together: Juliet was full of shit; I’ve been Jules all along.
I turn back to him and say, “A colleague died, and the only things anyone had to say about him were related to how he lectured or how neat he kept his office. I want my life to be filled with stories.” His smile grows just a little. “No one told a story about him spilling syrup all over a diner booth because he didn’t check the top.” Jonathan laughs, remembering my sticky mess. “Or what color underwear he preferred to feel confident.”
He laughs again, and under his breath, I hear him say, “Hot pink.” He straightens his face and says, “You said there were two other things. Ok, so folks didn’t know him. That happens.”
“My sister had a scare.”
He drops his folded arms and takes a step toward me. “Is she ok? Are you? Why didn’t you call?”
“It was benign.”
“Thank fucking God. We don’t need to live through that again.” He refers to my mother’s lost battle with a lump that wasn’t benign.
I muster all the breath I can find in his presence and say, “And your call.”
Not sure why he’s taming his wild cowlicks with product. I’ll put a stop to that.
“What call?”
He doesn’t remember. I eventually suspected he had blocked me. He has no idea I’m still in love with him too. I try to jostle his memory. “The call.” I roll my hands forward as if that will help him remember. I’ll resend every text so he can catch up to this moment if I have to.
“Jules, Mom and Dad are waiting on me. I have lots to sort through today, but it’s nice to see you.” There’s a slight tic in his mouth.
“Bullshit. It’s more than nice to see me.”
His eyebrows raise. “Oh, my God, you are killing me, Juliet. What the fuck are you talking about?”
I get closer to him, putting out my hand. The tension is so taut, I’m shocked we haven’t snapped.
“Give me your phone.” He does without question. I unlock it with his football numbers from high school and college. I’m in his phone under “Her.” I am indeed blocked. I fix that situation. Then go to his call log and pull up February 12th. I give it back to him, sit on the rock that’s been here longer than I can remember, and pull my feet onto the warm granite.
He’s staring at his phone in disbelief.
“Calls, actually,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “First, a feisty woman, then the one where you told me you still loved me. That no matter what was happening in the rest of the world, we were always meant to be. Come back to me.” He drops his phone, and his eyebrows may never come out of his hairline.
3
JONATHAN
