Joie leans in, elbows on the table, and gets comfortable. “You said you have a sister?”
I swallows the drink I was taking before answering. “Yeah. Greer. She lives in Kansas with my niece and nephew.”
“Where your parents were?”
“Yeah. Now that my parents are gone, I keep trying to get her to move down here, but so far, I’ve been unsuccessful.” A wave of sadness passes over me, but I’m not sure if it’s over the loss of my parents, or over missing the last part of my family.
“Is she worried about changing custody arrangements or something?”
I snort a humorless laugh. “Uh, no. Her ex-husband, the asshole, is sitting in prison for tax fraud, so all those arrangements are pretty much null and void.”
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I know she’s trying really hard not to be shocked, but it’s hard when a bomb like that has been dropped on you. I felt the same way when Greer first told me.
“I probably shouldn’t have just blurted that out,” I chuckle. “I guess I get a little overprotective of her and the kids.”
“It’s understandable,” Joie says, pulling herself back together. “Deadbeat dads are bad enough. But being in prison means there’s no way he can help provide for them.”
“Not that he was big on that before he went in, the fucker,” I grumble under my breath as I take another sip of water.
She’s smiling at me. I’m not sure why my indignation causes her to have that reaction, but I’m not going to dwell on it.
“If your parents are gone and the ex is in prison, what’s her hesitation in moving?” she inquires. “Her job?”
“Nah. She works from home, editing books or something.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
“Yeah.” I can feel my face light up when I talk about my baby sister. I’m so proud of her, I can’t help it. “When she first divorced the asshole . . . um . . . sorry,” I apologize, realizing my language may be offensive to her. I don’t think it is, but I try to be a gentleman and that means being respectful. “I mean, when she first divorced her ex, she wasn’t sure what to do. But she was into reading and knew there had to be a way to make a living in that arena. She took a bunch of classes or something and earned all these certifications. Now she has her own editing business. Has two or three people working under her and all these authors come to her for help.” I lean back and cross my arms over my chest as I speak. “She’s made a very good living for herself and the kids. And she can be there whenever Oli needs her.”
“Oli?” Joie questions.
“My nephew. He had some brain damage at birth and was diagnosed on the autism spectrum, so he’s a real handful.” I know some people think it’s odd that I don’t speak about my nephew like there’s anything wrong with him. Just very matter-of-factly. But to me, it’s not this huge thing. His disability is a part of who he is, and I refuse to treat Oli like he’s fragile or like being autistic is a bad thing. Sure, it creates some additional challenges, but it’s just who he is.
“Anyway, there are times, usually when he’s having growth spurts, that he can get really out of control at school. Greer has to be able to drop everything when that happens, so being her own boss has really helped out. Well, unless it’s summertime.”
“Wait . . . what happens over summertime?”
I shrug. “Oli can’t be left unsupervised or he gets into stuff. He has a really hard time with impulse control, so you have to watch him like a hawk.”
“What about, like, a day care or something?” I can tell by the expression on her face that she knows it’s a terrible idea, even as the words are coming out of her mouth. But it’s hard for most people to understand the gravity of having a special-needs child.
“He’s sixteen, so he’s too old for day care,” I explain. “And even if he wasn’t, the first time he flipped, they’d kick his ass out. Day cares don’t take too kindly to chairs being thrown around the room. There’s nothing she can do except ride it out and pray he finally starts to mature some.”
“And there’s nothing like a group home or something.” Joie’s face immediately reddens as she throws her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “I can’t believe I said that,” she grumbles. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like she should get rid of him or something.”
“You didn’t,” I reassure her, although I’m not convinced she’s actually reassured. “It’s a discussion Greer and I have had many times. We’ve actually explored that option because he’s almost bigger than she is. At a certain point, she can’t protect herself or Julie, my niece, if he goes into a rage. She’s trying to do what’s best for him, but she has another child to think of, too.”
The thoughtful look on her face shows she didn’t even think of that. But why would she? It’s hard to understand how much parents have to deal with when they have a mentally-disabled child. Oli is my nephew, and I still have a hard time wrapping my brain around it sometimes.
“Unfortunately, Oli doesn’t qualify anywhere,” I continue. “Either the facility doesn’t accept kids on the autism spectrum or they don’t accept kids with aggressive outbursts. Or they don’t accept her shitty insurance. Or they do but the payout on her end is still five thousand dollars a month if insurance approves it. She’s in a no-win situation. That’s the big reason I’m trying to get her down here. She needs my help.”
“And she doesn’t want to uproot her special-needs child who might have a hard time with the transition.”
I nod once. “That’s exactly it. Oli has had so much change lately, Greer’s afraid a big one like moving to a new house, a new town, a new school, would throw him over the edge.”
“That’s understandable. Kids on the spectrum are so routine-oriented, I can see why she’d be concerned.”
I run my hand through my thick hair as I relax more into our conversation. I like feeling comfortable enough to talk to her about my family . . . even the hard parts. “I keep listening for any resources down here that might be able to benefit him. Maybe a different school program or something. I don’t know. I’m sure the right fit is out there. I just haven’t found it yet.”
“Is he good with animals?”
“Loves them. He’s like an animal whisperer. Never met an animal he didn’t like and never met one that didn’t like him.”
“I actually heard about a program the other day.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of program?”
“I don’t know which one, but one of the high schools around here apparently busses some of their special needs kids out to a local ranch to work like a co-op type thing.”
I lean forward, intrigued. She has my full attention. “To work with the horses and stuff?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure that’s part of it. It came up in my educational psychology class the other day. I guess the guy who runs the place helps teach the kids different skills and sometimes even hires them for day-to-day tasks, if they have the capabilities.”
I rub my chin thoughtfully. “This is something I need to research. That sounds like it could be right up Oli’s alley.”
She nods in agreement. “Especially if he’s high functioning. He could learn a lot of different skills that could help him down road with work.”
I look at her, really look at her, and smile. “Thank you for that information. I’m gonna make a few calls and see what I can find out. Anything I can do to help my sister and my nephew, I’ll do it.”
Before she can respond, our waitress returns, carrying a giant pizza. The pan alone is half the size of our table. My mouth waters as I take in the black olives, mushrooms, pepperoni, and the most cheese I have ever seen on a thin crust pie in my life. Once the plates are in front of us, I give her the go-ahead.
“Let’s dig in,” I say with a smile. So we do.
It’s so greasy and gooey, we have to wedge a knife underneath each slice so the cheese doesn’t just slide right off before it reaches our plates. The first couple bites have to be eaten with a fork for that reason, but there are no complaints from me. In fact, I think Joie moans in enjoyment a little too loudly when she takes her first bite. My brain forgets about the pizza that’s halfway to my mouth when she does it, and sure enough, I end up with a pie crust in my hand, the cheese fallen back onto my plate. Joie, of course, laughs about it. Probably because she’s not the one trying to put her pizza back together.
Between the two of us, we eat the entire pizza. Not even a string of cheese is left on the platter. Then we sit back with a pair of Italian cappuccinos and just talk. About school. About jobs. About life.
After several hours, we realize the restaurant has been cleared out and it’s time to leave. I take Joie’s hand as we talk to my truck, letting go only to climb in on the other side, then grabbing it again as we head back toward her place. The contact makes me feel tingly. I guess you forget how much you miss the intimacy of physical contact until you get it back.
When we arrive at Joie’s house, I help her out of the truck, and take her hand once again.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to tell you to clear your schedule for the next couple weeks?” I ask as we meander to her door.
“A little,” she jokes. “But I’d probably do it for you anyway. Is that your way of saying you want to take me out again?”
I can’t help but chuckle at how direct she is. “I would very much like to take you out again. We have an out-of-town game this coming weekend, but would you be interested in doing something the following Friday?”
“Friday, Friday.” She furrows her brow and thinks for a moment. “Wait, don’t you go to that gala thing next Friday?”
I feel myself stiffen. How in the hell does she know that? Suddenly, I’m wondering if running into her, twice, wasn’t so innocent after all. The mess Matthews got himself into runs through my brain and I have to ask her. “How do you know about the gala?”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t everyone? Mia, that girl in my class, makes sure of it.”
She’s right and I feel myself relax. I can tell she’s trying to read my expressions, but there’s nothing to read. Sometimes I forget how far removed I am from campus talk, because I’m isolated in my little world. Not all women are out to bag a football player or a football coach. And Joie has never struck me as anything but honest, so I push those thoughts right out of my mind.
“That means Friday night is out,” I finally say, rubbing my hands up and down her arms when she shivers. The night has turned chilly, which is odd for September. “Saturday’s are hard because we have games, and I never know when I’ll be back, but I can do a late dinner if you’re game. Or even Sunday evening.”
She nods and places her hands on my waist, as my hands are still on her arms. “Sunday would be perfect. I’d like that.”
“Sunday evening it is.”
Suddenly, as plans have been made and the evening comes to a close, the air begins crackling around us.
“Joie,” I say quietly, my eyes staring at her lips. “I’d really like to kiss you. Is that okay with you?”
She nods and I lean in. Just as I’m about to make contact, she giggles.
I pull away. “Why are you laughing?”
She covers her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”
“About what? A kiss?”
“Yes,” she says, still shaking. Only now I don’t know if it’s laughter or nerves. “I don’t mind you kissing me. In fact, I want you to. But the anticipation gets me anxious so you’re not gonna be able to go slow. You’re just going to have to go . . .”
She squeaks when I take her by surprise, slamming my lips to hers. She’s not laughing anymore. Oh no. She’s kissing me back. Her lips are soft and plump. And she tastes slightly of cappuccino. It only lasts a few seconds—no reason to have a make-out session on her porch—but it’s pretty damn perfect.
When I pull away, her eyes are still closed and her lips still puckered. It takes a few seconds for her lids to flutter open, and when they do, all she says is “Wow.” I smirk and give her another peck.
“I take it that means it was okay?”
She clears her throat and licks her lips. “See how much better it is when all the nervous anticipation doesn’t get in the way?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Much better.” I run my hands down her arms, a small grin on my face. “I need to go.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
One last kiss and I let her go, even though after tonight, it’s the last thing I want to do.