Page 82 of The Idiot

“Oh, that much I’ve figured out. He sure likes to push Pete’s buttons.”

Glancing down the table, I take in Jesse’s jovial expression. His good mood should bring me joy, not leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I feel like a smitten teenager waiting for a morsel of something I can construe as affection.

His hand sneaks another dollop onto Bradley’s plate, except this time, he’s caught in the act. Bradley’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Uncle Jesse! It was you! I knew I ate those!” Turning his distressed face to his mother, Bradley pleads his case. “I told you! I told you I ate everything. Uncle Jesse’s being a shit again.”

I can’t help but laugh at that one as the table erupts in a mix of laughter and gasps. Jesse tracks the reactions of his family over his epic prank. Everyone. Everyone except me. It’s basically impossible to not cross gazes with someone on the opposite side of a table unless you’re trying not to.

Is this because I told him I stayed home this weekend to spend time with him? If that bothered him, then why in the hell did he invite me?

“Hey! Language,” Craig warns his son. “We don’t say that or call people names.”

Bradley goes from annoyed to hostile. “But Mommy calls him that all the time!”

Jesse lets out a mock gasp. Miranda reaches behind Bradley and smacks Jesse in the back of the skull, mouthing,‘Thanks, shithead,’before addressing her son.

“I’m old, so sometimes I say it even though I shouldn’t,” she explains, shoveling the excess potatoes back onto Jesse’s plate. “But ifyousay it, Grandpa Frank’s going to get out the soap instead of the ice cream and wash your mouth out.”

Bradley studies Frank Carver’s somber nod, weighing his options as he looks back at his mother. “You can’t eat soap. You’re teasing me.”

“Oh, ho!” Miranda guffaws, getting up to collect the empty plates. “Why don’t you ask Uncle Jesse about how much soap he ate when we were kids?”

“Stay away from thePalmolive, kid,” Jesse warns, snatching another turkey leg.

I could stay sitting here as everyone starts scattering since it looks like he’s still digging in, but the seeds of doubt have already been planted. I don’t feel like setting myself up to be further ignored.

I should have gone with Mom up to Danielle’s house. Why did I open my big mouth?

Still, it’s not like I proposed. I don’t understand why I’m getting the invisible treatment.

I’ve been here hundreds of times, had dozens of dinners with his family. I’ve sat on their porch, drinking moonshine with them countless times, like an extension of their family. Maybe that’s what stings the most—without Jesse’s acceptance, it feels like I’ve lost an entire family. Do I need approval as much as he does?

Because that’s his M.O. All his shenanigans are attention-seeking behavior. I have to wonder now if that had somethingto do with his reaction when I came out to him, the way he followed me onto the cruise. And when we jerked off in my cabin. Did he think he had to go along with it all for me to keep paying attention to him?

I know it sounds far-fetched, but this is Jesse we’re talking about. His mind is a confusing place sometimes. For the first time in nearly two months, I don’t feel confused at all. Unfortunately, everything seems perfectly clear. And now, I think I might lose my dinner.

Grabbing my plate and Cam’s, I follow Miranda to the kitchen. The further away I get from Jesse’s laughter, the less painful this will be.

“Oh, thanks Murph,” his sister says, taking the plates from me. “How are you? We haven’t seen much of you in a while.”

Sadly, after tonight, I think she probably won’t in the foreseeable future. It’ll be better this way. Better I decided to stay in Wenatchee for Thanksgiving and found out now that all our intimate time together could never be for him what it has been for me. I just didn’t know it would go as far as him being ashamed of me.

CHAPTER 30

Jesse

Iamneedy, and I don’t care. As soon as Murph opens the door to his house, I’m all over him. Why did he even bother locking it? He had to have known I’d be over after I left Thanksgiving dinner. That was our plan, right?

I get him backed up halfway to the couch in his living room when I realize something is off. It’s like I’m kissing a wall. A wall with a beard, but a wall, nonetheless.

“Is this a playing-hard-to-get game?” I tease when he braces my arms and draws back.

“No. It’s, um, a not-tonight game.”

He turns and trods to the sofa, flopping down in channel surfer pose.

Okay, I don’t know when or where he got that ABBA t-shirt, but it needs to go. Those sweatpants, however, well, that’s a look I can get on board with. How are sweatpants so hot?

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