Page 39 of My Wife
12
JESS
Still in Liam’skitchen and pleased he relented, giving me the job on a trial basis, I stand poised with my bullet journal and gel pen at the ready.
I ask, “Mr. Ellis, please tell me a bit about yourself, your lifestyle, preferences, allergies, or anything that would be helpful in my assisting you.”
He stares at his empty mug.
Tough nut to crack. “For example, how do you take your coffee?”
His nostrils flare. “Black.”
Like the coal in his chest. I wrinkle my nose because I shouldn’t be thinking about his chest and how the fabric of his shirt strains against the well-defined muscles hidden underneath. He’s a dad but does not have a dad bod like Rexlan does.
“Let’s keep things to a need-to-know basis.”
I jot this down. “How about some vital statistics?”
“Why would you need those?”
“Um, you’re fit, so you must have a workout routine. Do you use protein powder? Track your macros? Micros? I can go grocery shopping for you.”
“I’m missing training as we speak.”
I gesture toward the door. “Well, by all means, go ahead.”
“I know my way to the door.” But he doesn’t move.
“I’m not keeping you here.”
His eyebrows lift. “And leave the kid with you? Not a chance.”
“He wouldn’t topple boxes on my watch.” Not that I’m volunteering to be the nanny.
“I don’t know you. Don’t trust you. Don’t particularly like you.”
Ouch. The little clouds I keep underfoot disperse and threaten to block the sun installed overhead. I peel a holographic star sticker from the sheet in the little pocket of my journal, write the wordpatience,and then apply the sticker to today’s box on my calendar.
However, he doesn’t seem to like anyone, except maybe his son. However, deep down under Liam’s grizzly bear exterior, I sense a teddy bear, begging for freedom.
Liam busies himself with washing the coffee mug. I’m accustomed to the deep chasm of disconnection, of being unwanted, but being told outright is something that’s only occurred a few times. I look through my collection of stickers for a heart. Fresh out.
I close my eyes for a beat, blinking back liquid. When I open them, Liam stares at me. I’ve backed down, shrunk, and made myself invisible so many times I’ve lost count. It’s gotten me nowhere.
Mr. Meanie will not win my day.
I press my shoulders back, and say, “I see. You don’t have to like me for my role as your personal assistant to be beneficial to you and your household.”
Before I can say more, his son rushes from his room, struggling to keep his Lego creations intact.
I flash some quick signs of excitement, relaying how much I want to see what he made with his toys.
Liam remains at a distance, watching us with dark, glassy eyes. My money is on him making sure I don’t pocket a Lego. In reality, he’s the bandit, making off with the smiles, laughter, and happiness of the innocent. Or it could be that he’s not the master of his domain. Just someone who found himself at an unexpected destination.
Relatable.
The next thirty minutes pass in a rush before the little boy yawns, possibly having a sugar crash from the cookie and in need of a nap. I ask him to show me his favorite picture book and we look at the images of people playing different sports. I sign each one and he fixates on the one with a guy in hockey gear. I signDadand he remains quiet as if he’s not entirely sure about Liam’s role.
