Chapter Fifteen
“Is this too much?” I ask Jodie, pointing to the sundress I’m wearing with gladiator sandals.
“Are you kidding me? You look perfect. Va-va-voom! Look at those boobs in that dress,” she says, giving me a thumbs-up from her spot on the couch.
I shake my head. “I’m not going for va-va-voom. It’s not like that yet.”
“So you’re still delusional. Good to know. And people call me crazy,” she says, slamming her laptop shut. “Don’t you have garlic bread in the oven?”
“Shit,” I exclaim, dashing toward the oven, praying I’m not too late. I swing open the oven door, a blast of heat slapping against my face. I exhale, relieved to see perfectly brown garlic bread. Another minute, and things would have been on the decline.
I grab a faded pink pot holder and pull the tray out, awkwardly trying to figure out where to put the hot cookie sheet. The stove top is filled with boiling spaghetti, sauce, and meatballs.
“Here you go,” Jodie says, crossing the room to come to my rescue. She puts down a hot plate, one that looks homemade, and I toss the pan on it. “How long until hot stuff is here?”
“Five minutes.”
“That’s my cue.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
She gives me a look. The typical Jodie look. “Oh, I’m leaving. I don’t want to be here if some action takes place. I’ll pass. I’m weird, but not that weird.”
“I feel bad.”
“Why? I’ll just head down to the Coffee Shack. I do some of my best writing there anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. And I’ll make sure I come home extra late. And I’ll knock twice.”
I roll my eyes as I turn off the burner for the spaghetti pot. “No need. Nothing will be happening.”
“Well that’s a damn shame.”
She leans down to pat Henry on the head. Henry has plopped himself in the middle of the kitchen, right where he’s the ultimate tripping hazard. I step over him like I’m stepping over a log to get to the sink.
Jodie saunters to her room to change as I finish preparing dinner. I’ve set two plates at the island and two wine glasses. It would be fancy—if we didn’t have plastic forks and paper napkins to go with it. Oh well. I’ll just work with what I have.
There’s a knock at the door.
“I’ll let him in. I’m just leaving,” Jodie sings, dashing from the hallway before I can even think about getting to the door. Nervous tension rises in my chest.
You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself. This is just dinner. It’s not a big deal.
But I think the butterflies in my stomach are more aware of what’s happening than my brain—because I’ve felt them only one time before.
My mind almost travels back to that tiny bistro where I met Chris, but I don’t have time, mercifully. My naively nostalgic thoughts are interrupted by the swinging open of the door, the sight of Jesse, the sound of Jake running toward Henry, and Jodie screaming, “She’s all yours. And I mean all yours.”
I feel my face burning, so I busy myself with carrying the pot of spaghetti from the sink back to the stove.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say as Jesse steps in and Jodie shuts the door.
“Jake, no,” Jesse screams, just in time for me to turn with the pot of steaming spaghetti sauce in my hands. Jake is beelining for Henry—and he’s got that familiar, frisky look in his eye.
It is at this exact moment, as I’m straddling Henry on the way back to the stove, that Henry, perhaps afraid of Jake’s motives, decides to stand at attention.
It is also at this moment that I and the pot of spaghetti sauce go flailing across the tiny kitchen like a bad 80s romantic comedy.
***
When I was little, my mother always insisted I “sit like a lady” in my sundress at church on Sundays.
Legs sprawled, my sundress flipped upward toward my face and my Victoria Secret hot-pink underwear showing, I’m not quite sure this is what she had in mind.
I lie for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend this isn’t happening. There is currently sauce everywhere. I even see a splatter on the ceiling. I’m in such a state of shock, I haven’t yet decided if the boiling sauce has landed on me and melted off my skin. Glancing at my arms, I don’t see any burns or red splotches, so I think I’ve managed to avoid scorching myself.
“Are you okay?” Jesse asks, kneeling at my side beside a puddle of spaghetti.
“I think so,” I whisper, yanking down my dress. When I put these underwear on today—which match my bra—I was definitely not planning on Jesse seeing them. But, if he did happen to see the outrageously expensive underwear and bra I bought, I didn’t plan on it being like this, legs sprawled after an awkward near-death experience with boiling sauce, two dogs lapping up the remnants of our dinner in the kitchen.
Tears well. What a freaking disaster everything is.
Jesse collects the now-empty pot from near my head. On a positive note, I didn’t give myself a concussion with the Rachel Ray cookware, so that’s a plus.
“So, I’m guessing it might be a little while until dinner?” he asks.
I exhale, but in spite of the ludicrous situation, a smile creeps onto my face.
And then, before any tears can fall, I laugh. Like, ridiculous, snorting laughter. I turn on my side, holding my stomach as I laugh so hard I think I might hyperventilate. It’s contagious, because pretty soon, Jesse is laughing too.
Eventually, we try to shoo Jake and Henry away before they eat so much sauce they go into diabetic shock.
“I kind of want to let them go,” Jesse admits. “I mean, the more they eat, the less we have to clean.”
I sit up, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes. I take inventory of the disaster.
Despite Henry and Jake’s best efforts, there is sauce everywhere.
I mean everywhere.
“I’m sorry. This is a disaster.” I sigh again, shaking my head. Maybe I should’ve stuck to the whole swearing off romance idea because judging by this, I don’t think I’m winning any awards in that department anytime soon.
Jesse smiles. “It’s fine. I mean, I love cleaning up spaghetti sauce off every inch of a kitchen. It’s a good challenge.”
I shake my head. “So I guess I’ll get cleaning.”
“I’ll help.”
I glance around. “God, what a mess. Where do we even start?”
Jesse bites his lip, looking around as Henry and Jake continue lapping up sauce. “I have no idea.” We both shake our heads, laughing, because what else can you do?
As we gather the strength to pick ourselves up and Jesse reaches for paper towels, I head for the mop and bucket.
We each pick an end, sopping up sauce from every inch of the kitchen. I sort of wish now I hadn’t made a double batch. If I didn’t have such a sexy cleanup partner, I’d probably be scowling and using quite a few expletives.
Jesse doesn’t seem to mind our miserable job, though. In fact, he’s whistling while he scrubs up the specks of sauce.
When we’re nearing the end of the monumental task, which includes scrubbing Henry’s and Jake’s saucy paws, I turn to Jesse. “So what are we going to do for dinner now?”
I don’t have time to make new sauce. So far, we’ve got spaghetti noodles that are waterlogged because I haven’t been able to strain them, and garlic bread.
Jesse eyes me. “Chinese?”
“You read my mind,” I say as I finish mopping the final corner. “Sounds heavenly.” I reach for my phone and hit speed dial for the Chinese restaurant around the block.
As the phone rings, I realize I have no idea what Jesse wants. “Oh, what do you want? What do you like?”
“Surprise me,” he says, tying the trash bag to take outside. “I’m a man who likes surprises.”
He heads outside with the trash bag, Henry and Jake following him to the door. I call in an order, picking what I suspect Jesse will like. Once he comes back inside, I grab the bottle of wine from the fridge and pour us each a generous glass.
“God, that was a disaster,” I say, smiling. “To messy beginnings.” I hold my glass up to clink with his.
“To messy beginnings.”
“I guess it could always be worse,” I say, feeling a twinge of optimism.
“Absolutely. It wasn’t all bad,” he says, before taking a sip of his wine. For a moment I want to ask what he means by that.
But then I think of the pink underwear and the somewhat indecent display.
That can’t possibly be what he means, can it?
Get a hold of yourself, Avery. Slow down.
But if we’re taking it slow, why do I keep getting all flustered, all tingly, when I think about Jesse seeing me on that floor? Why do I keep wishing, just a little, that he’d helped me peel off that dress? Why am I having an odd kitchen floor fantasy—minus the sauce and such?
I need to get it together, or this could be a whole lot more dangerous that a spilled dinner. The va-va-voom Jodie mentioned could be a premonition for something even more indecent than the scene in the kitchen.
As I head to the door to greet Chuck, the local Chinese restaurant delivery boy, I start to wonder if maybe it is a good thing that Jodie’s going to knock twice.
***
When I come back into the kitchen and set the bag on the island, I take in the sparkling sight. Thankfully, there’s not a trace of sauce anywhere. The only reminder that my first dinner for Jesse was an epic fail are the take-out Chinese boxes he’s getting out of the bag.
At least I’ve uncovered one thing, though.
The man can clean.
Check off on my list of qualities I love in a man. Although I’ve sworn to myself I wouldn’t be checking off any this summer, and if I were, I’m pretty sure some of the physical attributes would rank higher than this anyway. Mad dusting skills or mad bedroom skills? I’ll choose the latter. Hey, I might be rational and a little square, but I’m no saint.
“I’m so sorry for ruining our night. I didn’t plan on cleaning and eating takeout when I invited you over.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t ruin it. Although Jake and Henry seemed to enjoy your pasta sauce and I’m sure it was delicious, Chinese food speaks to me.” He digs right in. “Yeah, you got it. Sesame chicken. My favorite.”
His grin is so huge I decide not to dampen it with the truth—the sesame chicken is my favorite. I actually bought him General Tso’s.
But I guess that’s the thing about us. We don’t know all the details about each other yet.
It’s weird starting over. As much as I don’t want to think about Chris, it’s so odd having to learn all the little things about someone again. It’s unsettling to have to uncover all the nooks and crannies of who Jesse is. With Chris, I knew his favorite food at every restaurant. I knew that he didn’t like apple juice, and that Adidas socks were his favorite. I knew he couldn’t stand the smell of nail polish remover, and that he loved watching the news on Monday mornings to get his week going.
The truth is, as I plop the food onto my plate, there’s so much I don’t know about Jesse.
Then again, as I turn in time to see him making Jake and Henry sit for a piece of chicken, there’s so much time to find it all out. It’s scary, but it’s also exciting. Looking at him as he smiles at our dogs, I realize I don’t see it as work to get to know him. I see it as an adventure. I want to get to know him, every inch of him, on every level.
“So, tell me about you. Tell me something I don’t know,” I say, deciding it might as well be now that I start uncovering some pieces.
“Like what? I’m an open book,” he says, grinning.
“Yeah, okay. If you say so.”
“Well, what do you want to know?”
“Um, well, when you’re not tattooing or eating at Midsummer or walking Jake, what do you do? What’s your hobby?”
“Napping. I’m a fan of naps.” He fiddles with the chopsticks that came in the bag as I opt for my fork. He chases a piece of chicken around his plate, and I shake my head at his answer and at his choice of utensils. He finally nabs the chicken and shoves it in his mouth.
I offer a mock clap at his skills, and he pretends to take a bow before switching to his fork. “Wow, impressive,” I offer.
“The naps or the chopsticks?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Clearly both.”
“I also like video games, if that helps.”
I raise an eyebrow, and Jesse playfully shrugs. “What? Don’t tell me you hate gamers. Please don’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t say I hate them. I just don’t get it. I mean, why waste so much time when you could be doing something productive?”
“Because the point of a hobby is to do what you like, not be productive. And let’s give me some credit, here. It’s not like I’ve got bloodshot eyes and am missing work because I’ve logged five hundred hours on Skyrim or anything.”
“What’s Skyrim?”
Now his jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Not much of a gamer, I know that’s shocking.”
“All right, that’s it. I’m adding to your bucket list. You’re going to play Skyrim.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m good.”
“Come on. Have you ever played a video game?”
I tap my chin. “Nope. Never.”
“Why not?”
“Just didn’t have time.”
He shakes his head. “Well, we’re going to change that. You and me. Tomorrow night at my place. I’m going to open you up to the magic of Skyrim.”
“Really?”
“Really. How’s seven o’clock?”
“Fine, I suppose. But on one condition. Are you going to feed me?”
“Yes. I’ll prepare my favorite meal. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t blame me when you get addicted.”
“I’m not really worried about it,” I say, laughing as I gobble up some more food.
Looking across the table at him, his silent, stoic maturity mixing with this new, childlike side, I grin. There are so many layers to him, so many walls to tear down. He already seems so different from the tattoo parlor owner I met that first day. It’s a good thing.
Together, it seems like we’re coming out of our shells, stepping away from the past and the hurts that haunt us. Together, it feels like we can just be ourselves, whatever that means.
I want Jesse Pearce to win over my heart even more than he has. I want to believe we can do this. Maybe we can fight the odds and win at love despite all our prior obstacles.
Settling onto the stool at the island, talking about the upcoming fall craft festivals at the beach and Jesse’s hopes for expansion, I can’t help but think maybe we can, a little spilled sauce and all.
It might not be perfect, but I’m starting to realize perfect isn’t what I need—just in time for me to accidentally spit a piece of rice across the table as Jesse tells me about the latest video he saw on Tosh.0.