It’s only a few minutes until we get to our destination and, as we arrive, I recognize exactly where we are.
“What are we doing here?” I ask uncertainly. Considering the ground rules of not talking about the Angels or anything linked to them, this seems a little odd.
Jake has pulled up on the other side of the road to where my old house used to stand. Now there is just a broken pile of charred timber and a scattering of sad, blackened possessions that look like something out of a horror movie. Coming to this place makes me feel emotional—not because of the things that we lost, but because of the significance that the Angels did this to us. They try to destroy everything that they can’t control, and our home was just a casualty of war.
“Why?” is all I can ask Jake as I focus on the charred remains of what used to be my life.
“Because I don’t want the fire to be your only memory of the place,” he says eventually, and then jumps out of the car without any further explanation. He walks over to my side and opens my door again, gallantly.
“Jake, I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I tell him, feeling all the emotions come bubbling up from my chest and creating a knot in my throat.
“Just trust me,” he insists, kissing me softly as I step out of the car. It’s amazing how a simple kiss can make me feel more secure. I nod reluctantly—I’ll give it a chance.. “Great,” he says, still sounding surprisingly confident. “Now, this is the part where I need your help.” Then disappears towards the boot of the Jeep.
I hear him rummaging around and eventually he pulls out an enormous hamper and a folded blanket. He hands over the blanket and without another word he takes my hand and leads me towards the fields at the back of what used to be my house. These are the fields that Jake, Suzie, and I used to play in when we were kids. We would even camp out there some nights, pretending that we were on safari. I remember my dad would prowl around our tent imitating animal sounds and roaring like a lion to scare us. I smile at the memory—it’s something that I haven’t thought about in years.
“That’s what I was hoping to see.” I look up to see Jake’s tender gaze trained on my face. “You’re so beautiful when you smile, Aimee. I wish you did it more often,” he says, squeezing the hand that he’s holding.
We walk for a few minutes until we’re quite a way out in the field, and that’s when Jake comes to a halt and holds out his hand, wordlessly asking me to hand over the blanket. He spreads it out with a practiced flick of his wrists and motions for me to sit down.
“Why do I feel like this is something you’ve done before?” I ask, fixing him with a direct stare.
Jake has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “Yes, I have,” he admits, “But only with my mom.” I know I’m not imagining how red his face becomes.
“With your mom?” I ask, too shocked to say anything else.
“It was something we would do when dad was working late at the shop and Jonah wasn’t around yet. She’d pack up a hamper with some goodies from the store and we’d go out into the back garden and have a picnic. It was our time, just for the two of us,” he explains with a fondness in his tone as he opens the hamper and pulls out a mini cooler holding a few beers. “She would ask me about school, about what I wanted to do after school. About you,” he says, stealing a glance at me.
“About me?” I ask, surprised. “What about me?”
“I think mom knew how I felt before I even did,” Jake admits, opening two of the beers and handing me one before settling himself back on the blanket. “She would always ask these little leading questions. I didn’t think much of it at the time—it was only when I got a bit older that I realized what she was doing,” he admits, ruefully.
“How come I never knew any of this?” I ask him.
“I guess I was a little embarrassed. Not many thirteen-year-old boys like to advertise the fact that they have picnics with their mom in their back yard,” he points out, taking a swig of beer.
“You know I never cared about that stuff,” I remind him. I’m silently cursing myself for having decided on a skirt for tonight’s date. How do you sit down on the ground without showing your date more than he bargained for?
“I know.” Jake shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to look like a big dork,” he admits, laughing.
“But Jake,” I say gently, “I’ve always known you’re a big dork!”
“Thanks, Winters,” he replies, shaking his head. “I’m so glad I decided to confide my deepest darkest secret to you.” After a moment he looks at me and adds, “You don’t look very comfortable, why don’t you take your shoes off?” he asks, nodding at the high heels that are still firmly planted on my feet.
“Honestly?” I ask, cringing at myself.
“Yeah, what’s up?” he asks. “I know you hate them, but it’s not like I haven’t seen those claws you call feet before,” he notes, and ducks when I swipe at him.
“That’s comforting, thanks,” I say, sticking my tongue out at him.
“So…?” he asks, looking pointedly at my feet.
“Fine, if you really must know, then I’m afraid that if I take them off I’m never going to get them back on,” I say, looking up at the night sky just so that I don’t have to look at Jake’s face, which I know is cracking into a smile right about now.
“What? Are they glued onto your feet?” he asks, totally deadpan.
“No, but they’re too small and I don’t think I’ll be able to cram my giant feet back into these little dainty shoes again if I take them off,” I tell him, giving him a fake scowl.
I’m expecting Jake to laugh again, but he just looks confused. “But why are you wearing shoes that are too small for you?” he asks, scratching his head.
“Because they’re so pretty and I didn’t have anything else that was date-appropriate,” I burst out, and then cover my face with my hands because I’m aware at how ridiculous I sound.
“What’s the matter?” Jake asks, pulling my hands away from my face. “Why are you hiding?”
“Because I’m being such a girly girl,” I say, feeling my embarrassment levels start to rise even further.
“Aimee,” Jake sighs. “Take your shoes off before you do yourself some permanent damage.” When I don’t make any move to do as instructed, he shrugs and, quick as a flash, reaches over and pulls both heels off, releasing my poor feet from captivity.
“Oh my God,” I say, stretching out my toes, embarrassment completely forgotten. “That feels so good,” I groan, flexing my feet and getting the blood pumping around them again.
“If you keep making those sounds, this date is going to end pretty quickly,” Jake notes, and I see that he’s getting that lustful look in his eyes.
I can’t help but giggle at his reaction. Giggle. I wonder if there has been a time that I’ve ever behaved more like a girly girl.
“So what else is in the hamper?” I ask, nodding towards the basket.
“Why? You hungry?” he asks, giving me a naughty smile.
“A little.” I nod, opening my legs almost imperceptibly and licking my lips. I don’t know when I became so brazen, but all I know is that dressed like this and being here with Jake, I feel more confident and in control than I thought possible. Jake’s expression tells me he hasn’t missed the way I’m sitting and the signals I’m sending him. “Jake,” I say after a few seconds of him just staring. “The hamper?”
“Hamper, right,” he breathes out, and I wonder if I’m imagining the bulge in his pants. “Let’s see,” he says as he regroups and focuses his mind on the task at hand. He starts pulling out various foodstuffs. “We’ve got… Vienna sausages, packed with nutrition,” he notes sarcastically as he pulls out the can. “Cheese and cucumber sandwiches on white bread, crusts cut off. Oreos, the cookies of champions… a couple of oranges… and last but not least, tabasco,” he ends with a flourish of chili sauce.
I’m struck dumb by just how sweet and thoughtful Jake has been, and I feel a little like I might cry. How many people have been moved to tears by Vienna sausages, I wonder? “You’ve packed all my favorite foods,” I breathe out eventually, still not quite believing what I’m seeing.
Jake just nods and looks at me nervously, like he’s wondering what my reaction is going to be.
“How...?” I start and then have to try again. “How did you know?” I ask, looking between Jake and the food strewn out over the blanket.
“How did I know?” he asks, like it’s a crazy question. “I know you, Aimee. I know that you used to sneak cans of these little guys—” He shakes the sausages at me, “—when you thought your mom wasn’t looking. I know that you would refuse to eat your cheese and cucumber sandwiches, despite it being your favorite filling, if the crusts weren’t cut off. I know that oranges are your favorite fruit because the smell reminds you of Christmas. I know that you’ve never been able to walk past a shelf of Oreos at the market without grabbing some and eating at least one before you’ve reached the cashier. And I know that you add tabasco to pretty much anything that you can put in your mouth,” he finishes, shrugging. “That’s why I wanted to bring you here. Because I know how important this place is to you, and I don’t want your memory of it to be like this.” He gestures at the charred remains behind us. “I want you to remember all the great times you and all of us had here. I just want to see you smile, Aimee,” he adds softly.