Page 16 of Wall

John stands, steadying me with a firm grip on my elbow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I’m glad you came.”

He is?

“Come on. Sit back down. Tell me about this punk.”

He kind of guides me back down, but this time, he sits me right next to him, no space between us on the log. I wish I could suck in my thighs. Mine splay, pressing against his. His are rock hard.

I scooch away. He widens his stance until we’re touching again.

He always did take up as much room as he wanted. On the couch, he had two cushions. I had one. He commandeered three quarters of our bed.

My breath catches. I don’t need to be thinking about our bed. What was the question?

“Tommy Merrill? He’s in his early twenties. A real jerk. He’s completely trashed his grandmother’s house. I’m sure he’s pawned the ring, or traded it for drugs. And she’s the best. She’s been kind to me.”

John pins me with a stare. I can’t quite read it, but it’s not unfriendly. Maybe he’d do this favor for me. I’m here. No harm in asking.

“I guess I was thinking…maybe we could go back together and ask for the ring. You could kind of hang back. Just seeing you, I think, he’d take me more seriously. I could, um…pay you or something.”

“Pay me?” His voice is clipped.

“Yeah. For your time.”

He tilts his head back and stares up at the gray sky, his huge hands resting motionless on his massive knees. He’s thinking of a polite way to say get lost. I’m sure of it. This was a mistake.

I should’ve at least had a plan. I can’t actually afford to pay him. At least, not much.

A goose honks way overhead. Poor fellow’s lost. He should be down south by now. I know how he must feel. I’m totally out of my element here.

“Okay,” John finally says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want your money.” He lowers his eyes to mine. “I want something else.”

The butterflies go nuts again. Is he going to ask for sex? Of course not. That only happens in romance novels. To women who aren’t wearing handmade, crocheted hats and muck boots.

And I wouldn’t have sex with him anyway. He cheated on me. He didn’t even try to hide it. And I’m still not sure if that makes him a bigger jerk or not.

My face is burning; I’m gnawing at my lower lip. John waits, cool, calm, and collected.

“What do you want?” I finally sputter.

“Dinner.”

I blink.

“Home-cooked dinner. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes, not from the box. Green beans. Dessert.”

He wants me to cook dinner? He always did like my meatloaf, but it’s nothing special. I got the recipe from the back of a soup can. I’m not sure what to say.

“Green beans are out of season. The ones in the store are all spindly.”

“Green beans from a can are fine.”

Seriously? He’s feedingthat bodycanned vegetables? “You’ll go with me to get the ring if I make you dinner?”

“No.”

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