Page 56 of First Surrender

“I’m not sick.” Not yet at least. It might only be a matter of time.

“Okay. I’m going to make lunch.” He disappears from my doorway.

“It’s already lunch time,” I whisper to myself. Holy shit. I need to snap out of it, I cannot live this way.

It isn’t until I pull on my weathered athletic shorts I’ve probably had since middle school that I realize what Jackson said. He’s going to make lunch?

Nope. That man is not going to suddenly enjoy the art of cooking and put me out of my job. I run to the kitchen and gasp when I see him throwing random ingredients into a pan. A super nice stainless steel pan that needs to be heated properly before it’s used or everything will burn.

“Stop. Jackson. Stop.” I reach for the handle of the pan but he moves it out of my way. “You’ll ruin it.”

“It’s a pan.”

“It’s a nice pan, nicer than I’ve ever had. Don’t mess with it unless you know what you’re doing.” I reach again but he moves it out of my reach again. The jolly green giant has a great advantage over me. “Please!”

I watch his eyes widen slightly with my use of the p-word and victory sweeps over him. This asshole. He leaves the pan on the stovetop and backs away with a sweeping motion with his hands as if saying, “All yours.”

“This was very unnecessary,” I grumble.

“Nah. I think it was necessary. Now that I got the taste of hearing you say please, I like it just as much as I like arguing with you.”

My head whips toward where he’s taken a seat at the island. The last time he told me how much he liked my anger, we had a catastrophic night in his office.

“Don’t get used to it,” I mumble, not knowing what else to say.

“I wouldn’t dare, fireball.”

“I don’t know what that nickname means, so don’t do that either.” I turn back to my tasks at the stove, thankful that all he dumped in the pan were precut veggies that I had in the fridge already. I can make quick work of them.

“Who’s shirt is that?” He asks from behind me.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs in an exasperated tone. I have a smart remark ready but I’m trying to behave, so I ignore him.

I have a big ask of him and I need to be on his good side to do it. After a few moments of silence, I ask him if he wants a drink from the fridge but he only stares at me in confusion.

I grab myself a coke because I need it. Somehow I know that the caffeine will give me strength but I take my time popping the tab open in the silent kitchen and pouring it into a glass. “I have a favor to ask. Feel free to say no, but I have to ask anyway.”

He nods for me to continue as his eyes assess me.

“Dec’s 8th birthday is in two weeks and I was wondering if you would be okay with me inviting a few of his friends from school over for a few hours. Not this Saturday but next. The other moms will probably come and stay. I guess that’s standard, I don’t know. My mom always dumped me at any parties I wanted to go to until they stopped inviting me.” I’m rambling but I can’t seem to stop.

“I’ll clean up before and after, and you won’t even know it happened. You can come or leave for the day if you don’t want to be around a bunch of crazy boys. Up to you.”

He stares at me, not acknowledging my request and I wonder if I was talking too fast for him to interpret what I said until he goes, “Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sometimes I forget that you were a kid once.” He squints his eyes as if trying to imagine it.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I guess I assumed you started your life as an angsty teenager and got more rage-filled from there,” he says dismissively, shrugging.

He’s doing this on purpose. He’s trying to rile me up. I can see it in the way he’s tilting his head arrogantly.

“My rage stemmed from very early childhood trauma and progressed from there. Nice try though.”

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