Page 34 of Compassion

“Four bedrooms, two offices, one game room, one living room, one loft, one formal dining room and one kitchen.”

Her breakdown twitches my eyebrows in further confusion. “And there’s not asingle spacein any of those places you could display the book?”

She offers me an absentminded shrug. “Chris would’ve considered it clutter.”

“And Chris has been dead for three years.”

The bluntness tumbles her jaw down and my own to tighten.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. See what I mean. Combat skills? Pristine. Fitness regime? Sharp. Social capabilities? Non. Fucking. Existent. I gotta learn to either say the right things or say fucking nothing at all. I’m leaning towards that one.

Softening my tone to the most apologetic one I can find, I start, “Jaye, I’m-”

“Right,” she quietly chokes out before sitting up and forcing a grin on her face. “You ready to go grocery shopping?”

Hesitation to speak is hard to deny. “You sure you still want me to go with? What if I say something else fucked up on accident?”

Her feet suddenly disappear from my lap to be crossed and tucked in towards her. “Is what you’re saying fucked up?” She lets a small bounce hit her shoulder. “Maybe? Words are strange that way. What one person hears as ‘fucked up’, another may hear as honesty. As tough love. As an attempt tohelp.And despite how uncomfortable it makes me to hear some of these things, I need them said. IknowI need them said. And like the adorable children often in my care, I know I have to hear these thingsrepeatedin order for them to truly stick. So…worry less about saying ‘fucked up’ things on accident and more about receiving the ‘fucked up’ things I may someday say to you in an attempt to…help. Like what I’m about to for instance.”

There’s no stopping worry from crossing my face.

“Youcannotkeep wearing one outfit.”

Bewilderment replaces the previous emotion. “What?”

“You need clothes. Ones that didn’t come out of a dumpster, that weremadeto fit you, and will inevitably remind you that you are a wanted part of this society even if you have convinced yourself you’re not.”

So sweet, so sexy, and so fucking wrong.

“We’re gonna go by G-Street, the mega grocery store that has the clothing and house goods section too. It lets us get foodandthings for you to wearandnew books for us to readand-”

“I don’t think you’ve said and enough.”

“AnddddddI get a discount there. The CEO or CFO or something close to those letters has a grandkid that goes to my school. All educators who interact with her have a special discount card, which comes insuper handyconsidering how often I bake cookies.”

“How often is that?”

“Um…few times a week.” Her lips pull together to one side before she confesses. “I have a tendency to stress bake. And unlike a normal human who can make a batch, I have to make at least four, every time I bake.”

“Why?!”

“The first batch is always weird shaped and then the next batch is overcooked and then the following batch is under because I second guess myself, so it isn’t until that fourth batch comes out with all my mistakes nonexistent that I find that relief I’m looking for.” She flashes me a small smile. “In other words, I hope you like the smell of cookies.”

“Who the fuckhatesthe smell of cookies?”

“People I can’t trust.”

We exchange a few laughs, part our separate ways to get ready, and wander out to her car just in time to see Mr. Prescott arriving home with a large bouquet of roses.

Most likely an ‘I’m sorry you caught me fucking around on you again’ gift. Personally? I don’t think flowers should ever be given as an apology. It shits on the sentiment meant to express love or affection or devotion. But what do I know? I’ve never been married, and my longest girlfriend fucked me out of so much money I barely had enough to eat when I got discharged.

Our car ride to the store is filled with unexpected music. While Jaye is upbeat by nature, her choice in tunes is quite the opposite. Every song we listen to has some pretty strong emotional undertones. Bands like Incubus and Nirvana are ones I’m familiar with; however, The Script and Georgian ArKtecture – Irish bands I’m told – are brand new. Sadly, Fall Out Boy is the most upbeat shit we listen to, yet even the ones that come across her playlist have tragic themes.

Maybe this shit is like therapy for her? I know it’s how St. Clair used to work through some of the horrific shit we dealt with.

Parking takes forever, and as my stare roams around the busy lot, I helplessly zone in on the weakest shoppers.

The one whose basket would be easiest to grab a box of crackers from.

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