Page 59 of Somewhere Along The Line
A voice emerges from the table behind us as Xavier prepares for a roast—his specialty. I’m always his target and happily so; the kids are aware they have to be kind to each other in here.
“You think that’s good? You should check mine out,” Xavier turns his canvas around and the whole thing is solid blue. “Ms. Paulson’s looks like an Elvis costume.”
The group erupts in laughter and Xavier beams, pleased with his assessment of my work. My smile tells him I’m cool with his critique. How he knows about Elvis, much less what he wore, is unclear. Even so, he’s not wrong.
Turning back to my painting to view it with new eyes, I push down the memories that spring up of KingCon. Sitting next to James, the deal we made, and all that’s happened since. Those memories tangle into a lump that sits in my throat for the rest of the class.
“Alright, alright, enough with the laughter, thank you,” I say, motioning to the group to clean up their spaces as I collect cups and bring canvases to the rack to dry.
When the room is clean and the supply cart restocked, I shepherd everyone toward the door before stepping in front of it. “How’re we feeling?” I shout, just like I do every Thursday afternoon.
“Feeling good!” They reply in unison, lining up to give me a hug or a fist bump on their way out. Each student receives my praise and encouragement which most return with an eye roll.
The world that awaits them outside of this building can be cruel. I want them to know they have a champion here.
It’s 3:45 p.m. when I make it back to my desk. My shoulders feel lighter and my brain less cluttered after the painting class, even with Xavier’s comment about Elvis. I’m working hard to keep myself out of that particular rabbit hole.
The rest of the afternoon should be easy—sifting through emails and making sure the logistics are in place for our monthly donation pick-up this weekend. I open my computer and tap my fingers lightly on the keys as I think through where to start. The pitter-patter of my fingertips on the squares focuses my attention as I pull up the file with Saturday’s schedule.
I review each piece of the document carefully, stopping first to confirm that the truck is reserved, and two volunteers are booked. Looks like Tommy and Jamal are taking this one.
Three pick-ups are scheduled in various parts of town, one marked XL to indicate a large donation and the rest marked M for just a few pieces. Jack at the warehouse is assigned to meet the truck at 4 p.m. to upload. Everything seems ready to go.
Until the first name on the list stops me, my eye and my breath catching on the black font printed at the top of the page.
Jeffrey Newhouse.
The address is about forty minutes north of the city.
My mind tumbles back to the night in James’s kitchen. The Hope First flier tucked near the fruit bowl. Didn’t he mention his dad is moving? Maybe that’s why he kept the postcard. Jeffrey Newhouse, James’s dad, must be trying to clear out their house.
My thoughts spin, a tornado of questions and ideas bulldozing past logic… or maybe trying to find it.
James must have known I’d see his dad’s name on the schedule. Right? He might’ve been the one to schedule the pick-up. He said he was busy this week—it was probably this, getting the house ready.
God, it all makes sense now.
James isn’t trying to brush me off; he knew he’d see me again this weekend and needed time to get the house in order before then.
I’m an idiot.Not everything is about me.
My heart rate jumps by twenty as I think through the opportunity—to spend time with James again, to meet his dad, to walk through the house he grew up in. It makes me giddy. I pull out my phone to text Sami who’s been begging for a James update since our conversation after the gala.
Ridiculousness is what I always expect from Sami. Her guesses make me smile as I swivel my chair away from my desk and toward the side wall, my back to the office door.
She sends a gif of an old woman with her hand up to her ear, straining toward the camera.
Sami wouldn’t tell me if it was but I want her approval regardless.
I twist in my chair as I think for a moment, considering what I could do to make the morning brighter. Of course, I’ll bring sausage balls for James but… I could also bring some for his dad. I’m sure his mom used to make them for the whole family, and if James loves them so much, Mr. Newhouse might too.
Having Sami to talk me down when I get escalated (and to threaten anyone who might hurt me) is such a gift.
I consider texting James to say I’ll see him Saturday but don’t. He was so good about giving me space when I needed it, and I want to return the favor. There’s no need to act clingy with a guy who is my husband on paper (according to the MTA) but only slightly more than a friend in practice.
And, yes, “slightly” isn’t the right word… and neither is “friend”... but I guess that’s what we are for now.
Surely I can convince him to give me a ride to my place after we load up the truck, and I can use that time to tell him my feelings. That I want to give this a try for real, whether or not this stupid trial comes to fruition.
