Page 49 of Inevitably Yours

John didn’t remember ever beingthis nervous before. But then again, he had never felt such a burning desire to make another person happy for the sole purpose of seeing them smile.

He waited for the out of control feeling to come, but it didn’t. It felt like a freedom he had never experienced before. It was ironic, finding freedom in getting tied up in a relationship—freedom to be himself, even if that wasn’t a claimer or flirt or a cupcake.

Augusta doesn’t need me to slap her ass and kiss her silly in front of everyone, as long I do behind closed doors, she’ll know she is loved.The realization that love didn’t have to look like gooey-eyed Hugh Grant on the big screen was a relief. If Augusta was right for him, and he thought just maybe she was, he would be enough.

They had been friends for what seemed like a lifetime. Augusta knew him better than everyone alive except Stacy. And, now, she’d said she loved him, even after he made love to her, so it’s not like she doesn’t know who he is as a lover, too.

A sliver of doubt crept in. Maybe she didn’t really know what she was in for. He had dialed his desires back because of her pregnancy. Would his intensity in the bedroom scare her? A knock at the door derailed his train of thought.

“I’ll get it.” January bounced to the door, humming an infectious tune the whole way. John had heard it before but couldn’t put his finger on it. He started humming it too, hoping it would come to him eventually. It would drive him nuts until he grasped it.

His light mood didn’t last long. The voice at the door grated on his nerves. Jimmy or Jerry or something. “Hi, I’m Jesse.”

Jesse, that was it.

“I know Augusta isn’t home yet, I’m actually on my way to drop off some paperwork to her. Anyway, here.” John heard him rambling and wanted to see what “here” meant. Maybe, just maybe, a bit of him was a claimer. Because he also wanted to let Jesse know his “here” wasn’t needed.

“Oh,” he heard January say, like he had handed her a twenty-pound bag of potatoes. John came around the open door to find the biggest vase of flowers he had ever seen. Poor January struggled under the weight.

“Those are for Augusta.” The uh sound died on his lips when John hoisted the monstrosity from January, and Jesse noticed him. He swallowed so hard, John had to wonder if he sucked back a few of his molars. John puffed up. January backhanded his chest. Good, if she noticed, so did Jesse.

John was stunned and a little ashamed of his own behavior. Here he was, acting like a chump and trying to intimidate a kid half his age. Properly scolded, by himself and Augusta’s little sister, he turned and took the flowers to the counter. They were obnoxious; the kid must have spent three hundred dollars or more. The card caught John’s eye. Glancing toward the door and seeing January still chatting with the little asshole, John made a choice—one he would have never expected to make in a million years. He snatched the card from the spike and pulled it from the miniature envelope.

Dearest Augusta,

I had a lovely evening with you, and when you’re ready, I anxiously await the pleasure of your company.

Spending time with you is my newest obsession…but not in a creeper way.

Yours,

Jesse

January came up behind him tsking. “Well, look at that.” John spun, trying to hide the card like she didn’t already know. “What do you have there, big guy?” Her arms were folded and eyebrows raised.

Screw it, he brandished the card her way. “Who writes like this? What year does that punk think this is?” He was flustered, so before he could ask any more stupid questions, he settled on the one he really needed an answer to. “Is this what Augusta wants? A guy who sends her a half a week’s pay of flowers? Who writes sappy shit on a card? Borderline creepy, but sappy.”

Resolved, John returned the card to its envelope and to the spike in the center of the arrangement. He turned back and spoke from a place of defeat. “I can’t be like him, January. I don’t do syrupy cards or flowery words. She’ll never get a metric ass-ton of petals or sonnets about her beauty from me.” John glanced at the refrigerator where the bouquet he got her sat. It was nowhere near as big and consisted of pineapple and strawberries and other fruits that she liked.

“What she’ll get from me is a private pilot who lives paycheck to paycheck. Who isn’t big on public displays. A man who is a hell of a lot older than that guy and way more jaded. What if that’s not enough? Augusta deserves to be with someone who will do that for her, and that’s not me.”

For someone who was riding high earlier, he sure felt low now. Like a Frank Sinatra song. He needed to think and couldn’t do that looking at Jesse’s flowers, taunting him with everything he’s not. More than anything, he hated the insecurity; it went hand and hand with control.

John had always been a self-assured person, some might have gone as far as to call him cocky, but right now, he felt neither of those things, and he hated it. He hated questioning what Augusta needed, and he hated himself a bit too. This is exactly why control is important.People in control do not act untried, unsure…unmanly. “Oh, my Lord, now I’m questioning ridiculous shit.”

“Excuse me?” Thank the stars she hadn’t heard him at the most indecisive moment in his life.

“I’ll just finish up here, then head next door to get everything flowing. After that, well, I think I’ll let Augusta settle in tonight. Maybe call her tomorrow.”

January seemed genuinely shocked. “Wow, after everything Augusta told me, I never expected that. Then after meeting you, I damn sure didn’t, but here you are, running away. The stoic and quietly commanding John, afraid of some roses and a kid who still remembers what his mom’s snatch smells like.”

“It’s not like that. It’s just…I want Augusta to have what she wants, who she deserves. She should have a man who will look at her like she outshines the stars then put that into words and proclaim it to the heavens because she does. She needs—”

“Okay, let me just stop you right there. You sound like an expert on what she wants.”

“Maybe I am.” Was that response childish? Yes, it was. Did he give a shit? No, he didn’t.

“Then by your own admission, wouldn’t an expert be the right choice for the job, hmm?” It was getting increasingly hard to argue about it.

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