Page 17 of Mom-Com
The doorbell rang out, startling me. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I approached the door slowly and looked out the peephole. It was dirty and therefore hard to see out, considering I hadn’t cleaned the peephole in—well, never. But even through a film of filth, it looked like Jameson on my doorstep.
I swung the door open and gave him a genuine smile. After our dinner, I decided I liked the guy. Yeah, he was awkward, but he was a nice person and our boys seemed to get along. And he was even a smidge good-looking underneath all those grandpa sweaters.
“Jameson! Come on in.” I pulled back and let him pass, taking the moment to check out the crease in his slacks as he walked by. Damn, he must have an industrial strength iron.
He twirled around and flashed his teeth in an easy smile. He had a nice one. His expression could be on the harsh side most of the time, so when he smiled, it practically transformed his face.
“Sorry to drop in uninvited, but I thought we should hash out the carpool plan for the week ahead. I would have called, but then I realized I don’t have your number.” His gaze dropped and he shifted, leaning one shoulder against the wall, suddenly very invested as to what was in his pockets.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good idea.” I walked ahead of him into the kitchenette area where my sewing machine was set up and where I’d left my cell phone. I could swear I felt his gaze traveling along the back of my bare legs. My cheeks flushed as I remembered I had on the skirt I was making. Probably looked a little weird with the T-shirt I had on.
His throat cleared behind me. “Is that, um, a new skirt? It looks lovely.”
I grabbed my phone and spun around, flattered by his compliment but still uncomfortable in this weird outfit. My skirt wasn’t ready for its debut into the world. I guess Jameson would be its trial run.
“Thanks. I just made it this afternoon. Still have some finishing things to do to it.” I trailed off, out of breath now that I had to hold my stomach in with the tight material pressing into my belly.
“Wow. You made it yourself? That’s impressive. I can’t even make toast without burning it. I can’t imagine making my own clothes.” Jameson smiled warmly, and despite my doubts, I started to feel beautiful under his gaze.
“Thanks,” I gushed again. Great, now I was repeating myself. I unlocked my phone and pulled up a new contact. “Okay, what’s your number?”
He gave it to me and I called it so he had my number too. Something about giving him my phone number felt intimate. Maybe it was the compliment stacked on top of it. We were just parents working together to give rides to our kids, but it felt like there was more to getting my number than the carpool idea.
His face turned into a harsh frown and dashed my hope that he was wanting my number so he could call me. I was oddly unsettled, way too excited for even just a moment about this virtual stranger calling me.
“Did you hurt yourself?” He reached out and brushed his fingertips over the hand holding my phone. I felt the touch to the tips of my toes, but ignored that feeling to focus on the conversation.
“Yeah, just a pinprick from sewing.” I shrugged like it was nothing, because it really was.
“Better get a new Band-Aid. Looks like it’s bleeding through.”
The blood drained from my head and I swayed as I stood there. “Really?”
He looked up at me, then back down at my finger. “Really.” Then back up at me. “Are you okay?”
My eyes glazed over. “I really hate blood.”
He straightened off the wall. “Tell me where the Band-Aids are. I’ll change it out for you.”
As much as that sounded like exactly what I needed, I couldn’t let him deal with my bloody Band-Aid. That was just gross.
“Oh no, that’s a kind offer, but I got it.” I walked toward the bathroom, still not looking down at my finger. Even in my freaked-out haze, I could hear Jameson trailing behind me. It was more comforting than annoying to have him there to witness my ridiculousness. Like I could just sense that he’d take care of me if I let him.
When I reached the bathroom and pulled the Band-Aids out of the medicine cabinet, Jameson grabbed my hand, careful to stay away from the offending appendage. He slowly peeled off the Band-Aid and I instinctively looked away the moment I saw red. I should have pulled away and taken care of it myself, but there was something oddly addictive about someone taking care of me. He held my hand with such attentiveness I kept it there, mesmerized by his big hands engulfing mine.
I’d covered all manner of wounds with Band-Aids when my kids hurt themselves, all the while holding back my nausea and trying to get it over with as soon as possible. Not Jameson. He moved with precision, taking his time to get it right. His eyebrows pinched together as he examined my finger. Not only did he smooth a new Band-Aid in place, but he put a dot of ointment on the Band-Aid in case of infection. All without conversation. Just touch.
I suddenly felt guilty for all the times I’d hurriedly bandaged my kiddos and sent them off before I passed out. I wondered if they’d felt the care and attention I felt in this heady moment.
Like a lightbulb suddenly illuminating the conflicting emotions racing through my system, I realized the list was finally working! It said to wear a Band-Aid so the gentlemen ask you about it. Probably to drum up conversation, but to also evoke sympathy. Honestly, it sounded insane when I read it, but hot damn, it was the only thing that seemed to have worked so far. And boy, did it work.
Jameson cleared his throat again and stepped back, his hands dropping mine slowly. He straightened up and nodded quickly before spinning around and walking back to my living room. I took a deep breath and pressed my newly bandaged hand to my stomach before following him.
“Thank you. I really don’t do so well with blood.” My voice rang out loudly in the room, like even the walls were startled we were back to talking, not touching.
A small smile slid across his lips. “No problem at all.”
So, here’s a small detail about me that really only Gabby knows. When I get flustered, I also get a little weird. Like my brain short-circuits and I engage in all manner of weird acts with clearly no forethought. Like a newborn foal trying to walk for the first time, all limbs and jerky, uncoordinated movements. I explain all this so you understand my quirkiness and perhaps extend a little more forgiveness when I do stupid things.
