Jayson: A New Adult / Coming of Age Romance (10 page)

He hangs up in my face and I stare at the phone. For a moment, the idea of a dark movie theater, Kit beside me, sounds like the acme of temptation. I imagine I can even smell the scent of her freshly washed hair, just as I did in the club the other night. But with a wry chuckle, I put the thought aside to focus on the road. I shoot over to the office to check some paperwork for another job so I can get home before it’s too late. There was never a chance for Kit and me to be anything anyway.

F
riday evening
I make it out of class before Gracie does, but we’ve made plans to meet up at my place so I don’t wait up for her. I feel like I’m barely making it, running on espressos and not enough sleep. When I open the front door and see the crew still working, I groan. The table saw is running on full blast, and there are guys upstairs working on my bedroom.

I sigh and trudge into the completed downstairs guest bedroom to try to snatch a nap before Grace arrives. Thirty minutes later I kick off my blankets in a full-fledged temper tantrum and cram my fingers in my ears with a muted scream. “This was a bad decision,” I whisper, immediately thinking of my mom. I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks.

“Excuse me, Ms. Schneider?” There’s a knock on the bedroom door, and I hop up from the floor to answer. “You have company out front. The door was open. It’s Grace.”

“Thanks, Devon,” I reply. He’s the quietest of the Zephyr brothers I’ve met, and he has soulful brown eyes that I’m sure charm plenty of women. He winks at me and walks back up the hall. I amble into the living room where I find Castiel and Grace laughing and chatting like lifelong friends.

“Hey, girlfriend. Ready to go shopping? Wow, you look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks. I, uh, was trying to get some sleep,” I deadpan with a smirk at the table saw that’s finally quiet. Grace giggles and hands me her sunglasses.

“Just wear these like the celebrities do. No one will notice you have bags under your eyes.”

“I would’ve gotten the house quiet for you, Kit,” Castiel interjects apologetically. “We’re ahead of schedule. We can leave early on days like this when you need the house to yourself.”

I flash him a thumbs up, filing that away for future reference. I shake off my grogginess and attempt to perk up. Why do these brothers have to be so cute and so sweet? I wonder briefly where Jayson is, but I soon tear myself away from the thought. Once my horny brains gets going lately, it’s almost impossible to turn away from fantasies of him, and I blush, remembering the sexy dreams that have been plaguing me. Each one takes the fantasy a little further. “Let’s go, Grace. A little retail therapy is what I need right now. It’s payday too, isn’t it?”

“Yep!”

We start off in high-end boutiques, but then we quickly end up in the kitschy lowbrow stores I was trying to avoid, transitioning from the sleek postmodern sofas I fall in love with immediately to the faux leather and plastic couches that I completely abhor. I have a strict budget of a few hundred dollars to spare, and I can’t go over it. I pout outside an antique shop, staring at a writing desk I can totally picture in the upstairs room I’ve allocated as an office space. I glance at the discreet price tag and my eyes bulge reflexively at the considerable cost. “What if we try thrift shops like I originally mentioned?” Grace suggests, peering over my shoulder. It’s getting late. We can’t scour the countryside forever.

“I’m starting to think that’s the better idea. I don’t want to go home empty-handed.”

“Did you hear yourself?” Grace asks with a smile. She nudges me with her elbow as we stroll back to her car. “You called it home. You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to call it? We don’t have a convenient English word for ‘place where I’m staying temporarily.’”

“No, no, no excuses. You think of that house as home. I still don’t understand why you feel the need to sell it.”

“I told you. I have to pay Mom back for the renovations.”

“Yeah, but instead of frivolously throwing money at an apartment, you can save up and pay her back out of what you’re making from work, Kit.”

“She didn’t offer that option,” I say sourly.

“So what’s she going to do—sue you?” I give her a look.

“Do you want to hear your horoscope for this month?” She grips the steering wheel before cranking up the car and sits there gazing at me with a playful expression. “You’re going to meet some challenges and make some tough decisions, but whatever decisions you come to will be right for you. I read it online this morning, and I memorized it because I think it’s what you need to do here. You’re trying to sell that house because Candace told you that was the best thing for you to do, but what do
you
want to do?”

“You have no idea how hard it is to decorate knowing I’m selecting pieces I love personally just to give it all away to someone else.”

“Exactly!” Grace starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot, steering us toward the more beatnik side of town where thrift shops and secondhand stores abound. I have never been there. Grace heads straight for a spot she was telling me about as she’s driving, and I follow her lead, getting caught up in her momentum. “Now, here’s where you can get some bang for your buck. Hey, check out that armoire over there. I think it would be perfect!”

The shopping trip ends up not being a total bust. We find a sturdy old iron bed that looks straight out of an institution and has so much character that I can’t pass it up. I also get a few lamps and tell another shopkeeper to hold onto a rug for me. With the bed scheduled to be delivered the next day, Grace drives me home…to my house that I haven’t decided if I’ll keep. I see her off and take the lamps inside to figure out where to place them.

“Home,” I whisper tentatively, gazing at the newly painted white walls of the living room. In the two weeks I’ve been there, I’ve watched the transformation of the lower level, with restored white wood floors, the kitchen walls paneled a darker timber for contrast. New light fixtures hang from the ceiling. The kitchen cabinets match the paneled wall, and the old fashioned appliances somehow pair well with the contemporary design. I still don’t have any furniture, but I can see myself and my things here. I can see this place truly becoming my home.

I
tuck
a fresh lemon wedge onto the edge of my glass of Stevia-sweetened tea and sit down with the meal it took Google and God to create, my best foray into the culinary arts yet. The steamed snap peas over jasmine rice looks delectable next to the slightly charred chicken breast on the new chinaware I picked out from an outlet store. I pull out my smartphone to snap a picture of the indoor picnic in the middle of my living room. “Not bad for my first home-cooked meal in my new place,” I type and post the shot to my social network page.

I did a lot of thinking last night about taking ownership of my house. Grace’s words played over in my mind and I thought, more rebelliously than I thought I had in me—Yeah, what’s Mom going to do—sue me? It’s not like I won’t pay her back. I woke up with my mind made up. “For better or worse, house, you’re mine.” Smiling, I take a bite of the food, which isn’t half bad. At least I won’t have to live off of microwavable dinners from now on. “Okay, let’s see if we can get some work done.” While I eat, I grab my laptop to work on finishing a project for Professor Schwartz’s Textiles class, knowing I have to be at work in a few hours so I have to multitask. Suddenly, a knock rings out from the front door. “Who is it?”

I’m not expecting guests. It’s taken me weeks to get comfortable with the quiet neighborhood where just about everyone keeps to themselves. I glance through the peephole and see a stranger standing on my porch. He’s a portly, middle-aged man in a baseball cap and a t-shirt with Western Addition blazoned across the chest. “Can I help you?” I ask nervously through the door.

“Just spreading the word about the block party, miss. It starts today at five, and I’m with the committee hosting the event. We wanted to let everyone on the strip know they’re invited. Hope to see you there,” the guy calls out. He tips his ball cap at the peephole and skips down my front steps on to the next house. I smile to myself as I cross back to my seat on the floor.

“Well, that was nice,” I murmur to no one. Chuckling at how living alone has me constantly talking to myself, I buckle down to try to scratch through something else on my to-do list. I’ve been staying up late working on assignments, getting up early to go to classes, leaving campus and heading straight to work, and picking up extra hours whenever I have free time. The words on the computer screen swim before my eyes, and I blink and yawn.

I can almost hear my chipper bestie telling me to look at the bright side. The bright side is my bill money is already set aside for next month. My grades haven’t lagged. I’ve staved off every bad thing Mom predicted…for the first month, at least. Whether or not I can keep up the hellish pace remains to be seen. Sighing, I stretch and rub at my aching eyeballs, and at that precise moment fate decides it’s the perfect time to field a phone call from my mom.

I groan as I glance down at the vibrating phone, seeing Mom’s face and phone number flash across the screen. Reluctantly, I pick up and answer. “Hi, Mom!” I inject false cheerfulness into my voice. There’s no reason to let her think I’m sitting alone in my new house, stressed out and tired.

“Ready to admit you were wrong, or are you still trying to prove a point?”

I roll my eyes to the ceiling and mouth the words 'fuck off' into the ether. “What are you talking about?” I ask with a fake smile. “Everything’s fine over here.”

“It usually starts out that way. They call it the calm before the storm…have you been eating well?”

At the unexpected question—the completely motherly concern about how I’m eating—my brittle composure shatters into a thousand pieces. I remember being sick as a child and Mom making me chicken soup…I remember when I was so sick, once, all I could stomach was toast and she actually baked bread so my toast would be especially nourishing. Right then I realize how much I miss her. But I can’t let her hear me get emotional. I inhale to hide a sniffle and reply, “I’m actually in the middle of lunch right now, pan-seared chicken breast. You know, the way you taught me to do it.”

“I, um…well, I went shopping for groceries and picked up too much stuff for one person. I’ll drop it by this evening if you like.” It sounds like she’s telling me she’ll feed her first-born child to an alligator, for how hard it is for her to get the words out. I stifle a chuckle.

“Thank you, Mom, but I have to work this evening. I don’t really need anything.”

It’s true. I have a meal plan at school and hardly eat at home. I hear disappointment in her sigh on the other end of the line and know that she’s read my refusal all wrong. She replies in an irritated tone of voice, “Kitrina, I get it. You’re brandishing your independence like a sword, like I’m the enemy. If that’s what you want to think, that’s your right. I won’t beg you to accept my help. Oh, this is all nonsense! You need to come back home where you belong.”

“Mom…” I squeeze the bridge of my nose, eyes clenched shut. I feel a headache coming on. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m not trying to shut you out or make you the enemy. I’m fine over here, honestly. I have enough food, and…and thank you for being concerned for me, but this is my home now. I
am
home. You’re welcome to come visit any time you like.”

“It’s a terrible neighborhood,” she complains.

“It’s a quiet neighborhood situated close to major shopping centers with a low crime rate. Half my neighbors are senior citizens. Seriously, if you don’t have anything nice to say about it, then let’s not talk about it. How have you been? Are we still on for Thanksgiving?”

She pauses, probably unsure of how to respond to my attempt at diffusing what could have turned out to be another heated battle of words. “Well, I invited some friends over for dinner. Of course we’re still on. Will you be bringing anyone in particular?”

“If you’re nosing around to see if I’m with Jayson, I’m not,” I reply wistfully. We haven’t spoken since I told him I wouldn’t welcome his advances, silly me. It’s weird how much I wish I could take that statement back because I still don’t have the time for him. I stare at the homework that isn’t complete. The clock on the computer tells me I have a few more hours before I have to get ready for work, but not long. Still, it feels good to be talking to my mother. She’d probably blow up on me and hang up the phone if I told her I was seeing him
and
keeping the house.

“Oh, alright. But I was referring to Grace. I know she’s far from home.” Just as I’m starting to feel the tiniest twinge of homesickness, she says, “You know I’m not one for long, drawn-out telephone calls. I just called to check on you, Kitrina.”

“I love you, Mom,” I whisper. She hesitates before she says it back.

“I love you, too. Please don’t run yourself ragged trying to hold onto that place.”

I suppress another yawn. “I won’t. Bye-bye, Mom.” I hang up the phone. The brief break to chat leaves me feeling depleted. I’m sleepier than ever and not nearly done with the day. Talking to my mom has me thinking about Jayson, the whole reason I moved out in the first place, the kiss, the way I feel about him. It’s a complete mess in my head, and I can’t deal. I find myself tearing up again but refuse to let the unshed tears fall. “I need carbs. Carbs, carbs, carbs,” I mutter to myself as I pad over to the kitchen and open the freezer. I pull out a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and grab a spoon from the drawer.

I hop up on top of the new kitchen countertop, digging into the creamy green dessert treat and taking the first healing bite with a sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a whimper. Why is this so much harder than I thought it would be?

W
hen Sunday comes
, I finally get to sleep in, but I get up around noon to finish my homework for Monday. I drive to campus the next day feeling slightly refreshed and ready to tackle another week. I have no idea how to take it when I glance at my phone between classes and see I have three missed calls from Jayson.

“He called you how many times?” Grace asks. She reaches for my phone and I hand it to her. “Ooh! You’ve got a voicemail, too.”

“I never check my voicemails. Why didn’t he just text like a normal person?”

“You better check that one. Something might’ve happened at your house.”