Page 33 of Wall

What?

“I miss how you hum movie music when you fold laundry.”

That is a habit of mine. I don’t know classical music, but when you hum, you want something with no words. So…movie scores.

“I miss texting you where I’m at, and you sending me pictures of cats and shit.”

Memes. He’s talking about memes.

“I miss your cooking, and I miss how you laugh, and I miss these fucking beautiful tits, and I always said if I got the chance, I’d tell you.”

“That I have beautiful tits?”

“Hell yeah. Beautiful everything.”

“I’m not as fit as when we were together. I’m not all ripped like you.”

“More cushion for the pushin’.”

“You didnotjust say that.” I can’t help but snicker. His dad always said that about his mom. She’d slap him and then shimmy her butt around the kitchen. My smile falls. I miss John Senior and Kelly. They make a point to call and check in, but it’s not the same.

“They miss you, too, you know.” He always could read my mind.

“Are we really talking about your parents while I’m topless in the bathroom?”

“We’re gonna talk about whatever for as long as you need. You need to ask me somethin’, ask.”

“What did she have that I didn’t have? It was ‘cause she was happy. Wasn’t it? ‘Cause she wasn’t all defective?”

My skin puckers with goosebumps. All of a sudden, I’m so cold.

John’s eyes fade, his clenched jaw becomes a grimace. “It was because I was weak.”

He rubs his rough hands up and down my arms, as if he’s trying to warm me up. “You needed me. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t help. Couldn’t even get out of your way. You told me you needed space, and I didn’t listen.”

“I said I needed space?” I don’t remember that, but it’s kind of ringing a vague bell.

“Yeah. Like encouraging me to go out. And I stuck at home, and you got mad. You needed to be alone, and I didn’t give you that.”

“I was a mess.” That’s somewhat of an understatement.

“You were mine. Best thing that ever happened to me. To this day.” His brown eyes are shining. His touch has lightened, gentled.

“To this day?”

“Baby, I been waitin’ for some punk to steal an old lady’s ring for four damn years.”

He’s funning. I don’t believe him. Obviously.

His eyes search my face, and it’s like he reads something there. He eases back onto his heels.

“You’re not sure,” he says.

How can I be?

“Did I tell you we got the name of the guy who bought the ring off Tommy?”

“You did?” The conversation’s changed so quickly—again—that I’m struggling to keep up. Besides, my body’s urging me to close the space between us.

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