Page 20 of It's in the Contract
@CallieCarter when are you going to introduce me to your dad?
Instagram caption by @thetomsheppard.
Zeke’s caris a light blue Oldsmobile with more than a few dents and scrapes. The September air is starting to bite as I cross the school parking lot and move toward the passenger door. Gray clouds drift overhead. Zeke rushes past me to open my door. He stands there, holding the car open, gesturing inside with a hand.
“Dude. I can open my own door.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Zeke smiles that charming smile of his. “Of course you can. But my mama taught me right.”
I uncross my arms, take a seat in the car, and shove my backpack down by my feet. The interior of the car is spotless, and there’s a lemon air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
I realize that Zeke’s family might be at his house and that’s where the noise will be coming from. “So you have a big family?” I ask.
Zeke starts the car and pulls out of the school parking lot. The gray clouds overhead drop a few half-hearted raindrops on the windshield.
“Yeah, well, sort of. Big for here.”
“How big is that?”
“I have two older brothers and a little sister,” Zeke says. “My older brothers are both at college, but you’ll get to meet my little sis. She’s the loud one.”
The rain falls harder, pattering on the windshield. Outside my window, I see a few students walking home on the sidewalk, pulling their hoods up or opening umbrellas.
“Does it always rain here?” Zeke asks, stopping at a red light and turning on his signal.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “You get used to it. It rains for basically nine months out of the year. Where are you from?”
“We moved here from Kentucky,” Zeke says. “But I’m originally from Arizona. Honestly, it’s hard to call a place home since we’ve lived all over.” Bitterness tints his voice.
“That sounds really hard.”
Zeke nods. “Here we are.”
We pull into the driveway of a modest white house with brown trim and matching window shutters. It doesn’t look brand new—the paint is peeling in places and one of the shutters is lopsided—but the house is clean and looks well taken care of, like Zeke’s car. There’s a garden of orange and yellow flowers lining the front walk and a wood swing on the porch with a pile of cushions.
I move to open my door, but Zeke rushes to grab an umbrella and get out of the car. “Stay there!”
He opens my door and holds out the umbrella for me. I smile. “Thank you.”
We stand under the umbrella together, arms brushing. I never realized how close you have to stand when sharing anumbrella. I catch a whiff of Zeke’s scent again, and wow, I need to find out what he’s wearing. Zeke’s cologne is just right, subtle yet striking. Noah’s cologne punched me in the face no matter how many times I told him he sprayed it on too heavy.
Zeke opens the door, and the house is all old wood floors and family pictures. We enter a hallway that leads to a modest kitchen and living room with plush maroon couches and baby dolls and blocks scattered across a thick rug. A window with daisy-print curtains looks out into the backyard.
I’m immediately hit with sounds and smells. There’s someone screaming the high-pitched wail of a child. And a woman frantically making placating noises. A burned scent assaults my nose.
“Uh oh,” Zeke says, throwing his backpack down in the hallway and hurrying toward the kitchen.
I glance at the pictures on the hallway wall, each hung in a unique frame. There’s Zeke and two boys who I assume must be his older brothers. In one, they’re holding up a giant fish on a rowboat, and in another they’re laughing together walking down a hiking trail. There’s one where the three of them are slightly older, teenagers standing in front of the St. Louis arch. More than half of the pictures are of a little girl with mega curly black hair. She must be about three or four years old? I didn’t think that Zeke’s little sister would be so young.
I set my bookbag next to Zeke’s and enter the house, and finally the screaming stops. I enter the kitchen tentatively. There are daisy-print curtains to match the living room hanging on the window above the sink, and there are even more photos on the walls. A cute wooden sign hangs above the stove, only slightly splattered with grease, that says, “Welcome to Mama’s kitchen. Homemade with love.” The burning smell gets stronger. Zeke stands in front of the oven holding a pan of cookies with two hot pads, a triumphant smile on his face.
“I think I saved them, Mama!” He sets the smoking pan down on another hot pad on the counter.
“Oh, Zeke, thanks for trying, baby.”
A woman who I assume is Zeke’s “Mama” strides into the kitchen. I catch sight of a poof of black curls from the couch in the living room, where his sister must be sitting.
“I think it’s too late for these.” Zeke’s mom sighs over the cookies.
