CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Finn
When she reached for the phone, it was with her head held high, a fierce look on her face. She looked ready for a fight and I was proud of her.
But the second she pressed it to her ear, and said, "Hello Mom," her face hardened. As Jackson wandered into the living room, slowly turning a whisk in a bowl, we watched the light go out of her eyes, and a hard, pinched expression take over her face, and it was all I could do not to gather her up in my arms.
"No Mom," she said with a deep, bone-weary sigh. "I know." She paused, and listened, pressing her lips together. "I know," she said again, and the way her voice was so tight and strained broke my heart in half. I had to force myself to keep my hands at my side, and not reach out to snatch the phone away from her and throw it out of reach. Throw it out the window and maybe run it over with her delivery van for good measure.
"Yes," she said tightly. I couldn't hear what was being said on the other end, but whatever her mother was saying was cutting Bee right down to the core. "I know," she said, nodding. "I know, but I'm not..." The voice on the other end went up in volume, so now I could hear the tone, if not the words. I reached out, sliding my hand across the couch to touch her, but Bee had completely shut down. "I know," she repeated robotically. "And I feel bad about that," she said, lowering her eyes.
But at that moment she glanced down to see my fingers. A small little smile played about her lips, and she glanced up at me. She raised her hand as if to stave of my words of encouragement, but also as if she was trying to ward off the flood of abuse that was pouring from the receiver. "Mom," she interrupted. "He cheated on me."
The voice fell silent and Bee sat up a little straight. "Yes," she hissed. "He cheated on me." The voice started up again but she held up her hand once more. "I don't care how it makes you feel, Mom." She glanced at Jackson and some of the light came back into her eyes. "Well," she said, answering whatever question had just been hurled at her with a smile. "As a matter of fact I have."
She sat up straighter, and her voice rose a little. "I have found someone to take care of me. So, thanks, but I told you. I can do this."
With that, she stabbed her finger down and ended the call.
I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to throw my hands up over my head and do a silly, stupid dance around her living room just to show her how fucking happy she'd just made me. I wanted to roar out how proud I was of her, how awed I was by her stubborn independence.
But I didn't yet know if she'd like that. So instead I reached out for her, expecting to see her pull away from me, to keep her self-possession a little while longer.
But instead, she sighed. Then she flopped to the side and rested her head against my shoulder, snuggling up to me with a low, slow, relieved breath.
"Is it weird?" she started to say. Then she exhaled again, and fell silent for a moment.
I waited, wanting to know what it was, but knowing better than to interrupt her thought.
After a moment I felt her shake her head against my shoulder. "No," she answered herself. "It isn't weird."
I reached out, brushing her hair back away from her temple, and trailing my fingers down her neck to her shoulder. "What isn't weird?" I asked.
She turned and looked at me, sitting up straighter as her eyes danced between me and Jackson. "That I felt more comfortable with you two in the past twenty-four hours than I have for the past twenty-four years of my life."
I felt my heart well up into my throat, and looked up to where Jackson stood. He pressed his lips together, and seemed to be thinking for a moment.
The triumph that I was feeling right now made no sense. She was talking about us, both of us, not me. But this was somehow okay...somehow it was even better than okay. It was good. I felt that more deeply than I thought possible.
Jackson shifted from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe. "It doesn't have to be hard," he said. "Perfection doesn't really exist," he mused. It was something I'd heard him say a million times before, but this time it took on a whole different tone. "It's a journey, not an endpoint. You don't ever actually achieve perfection. Not in the kitchen, and not in life either." His eyes twinkled and he leveled a significant glance at me, one heavy enough to make me look down at my hands. "And if you reach what you consider to be perfection, all that means is that you need to move your goalposts, because what you achieved didn't turn out to be perfect after all.”
"That's... kind of beautiful," Bee breathed.
Jackson grinned. "I have my moments."
"So what you're saying is..."
"It's not weird. It's not wrong, or bad just because it wasn't what you were expecting. Don't let your vision of perfect prevent you from seeing what's actually good."
Bee grinned down at her hands. "My mother would hate your guts," she observed.
"Thank you. From what I can tell, that's a compliment."
"It is," Bee agreed.
I looked up at him. "Since when did you turn into a philosopher?" I teased.
His eyes flashed. "Always have been. I've just never been able to get a word in edgewise with you."
I flipped him the bird and he grinned and looked down. "So I know I just said a lot of pretty words about how perfection doesn't exist, but I lied, it does." He looked up again. "It's not a lie to say that I make absolutely perfect omelettes. Who wants breakfast?"