Page 10 of Told You So
She takes the dude by the hand and I stand there dumbly, watching as they disappear into the throng of people.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt used by a girl before, but I think I just got played.
Crushing my empty cup in my hand, I head for the keg.
Fuck this.
Four Months After New Year’s
One
Bethany
Present Day
“Come on, Jesse! I’m so serious right now. Wecannotbe late,” I call up the stairs. My professor is going to drop me from his class if he doesn’t think I’m taking it seriously.Another late arrival or absence might throw him over the edge, and I’m so close to graduating, I can almost taste the effervescent splendor of freedom.
I plop down on the overstuffed couch in the living room and pull on my black leather boots. Just as I finish zipping them up my calf, there’s a crash upstairs. “Jesse?” I hold my breath a moment. “Shit.”
Jumping to my feet, I take the stairs two at a time to the landing and hurry two doors past mine, into his bedroom. “Are you al—”
“I spilled the water,” he says, frantically wiping at the floor. A glass rolls on its side over the hardwood. “I just—I can’t find my shirt—it’s myfavoriteone,” he reminds me. “It was on the chair, where I always leave it, but I can’t find it—”
“Hey,” I say calmly and crouch down beside him. I place one hand on his shoulder and hand him one of his dirty socks to wipe up the spill. “It’s okay. I put your Jurassic Park shirt in the dryer last night. I’ll go get it, all right? No need to panic.”
His agitationwith himself disallows him to think of anything other than the droplets of water beaded up on the floor, and my chest tightens a little. This is when it’s the hardest, when he’s so riled up. I worry he might lash out and hurt himself.
“Jesse,” I say softly and reach for his hand to ground him. He stares at our fingers and I squeeze a little in reassurance. “It’s okay. I know exactly where your shirt is, and the floor will be fine. See—” I motion to the bare wood between his organized piles of laundry and toy figurines. “They’re cleaner now than they were a minute ago.” Standing, I nod to the doorway. “Come on, let’s get your shirt out of the dryer and get you to school in time for that field trip. The Exploratorium is super cool, you’re going to love it. Aren’t you excited?”
He taps his fingers on the floor, finally pausing long enough to nod.
“Then, let’s go. Your lunch is on the countertop. Grab your jacket, and I’ll bring you your shirt.”
Jesse climbs to his feet, which is all the answer I need. I rumple his hair and nod toward the bedroom door. “Your breakfast is in the toaster, okay?”
“Kay,” he mutters and reaches for his backpack.
Exhaling, I try to will the tension twisted in my neck and shoulders away, and I hurry back down the stairs, toward the laundry room. I pull his shirt out of the dryer and give it a once-over. Knowing how upset Jesse is when he can’t find his favorite shirt, I worry what will happen when it becomes threadbare after another ten washes.
“Focus, Beth,” I tell myself. The shirt is a worry for another day.
Walking into the kitchen, I nearly run into my mom. “Careful,” she says, almost regal in her skirt suit, in an ice queen sort of way. She walks over to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup.
I ignore her and hand Jesse his shirt. His anxiety dissolves the instant it’s in his hands, and his red cheeks twitch in an almost-smile as he pulls his shirt over his head.
“That thing is still around, I see,” my mom says, and though I know she understands why and accepts Jesse for how he is—unlike my dad—sometimes she sounds too much like him, and it scares me.
I push the prickly words that itch on my tongue away, sparing Jesse from having to listen to us bicker. Hurrying over to my bag, I ensure I have the books I need for my classes today.
“Have you had breakfast yet, Jesse?” my mom asks. They are the words of a doting mother, but it’s more of a pleasantry—a routine request—than an actual question.
“It’s in the toaster,” he tells her, smoothing his hands over his shirt.
She smiles at him, if a little stiffly, and wraps his strawberry Pop-Tart in a paper towel and hands it to him. When was the last time she made breakfast, or even put his Pop-Tart in for him? I’m not even sure how long it’s been since she’s stopped to have an actual conversation with either one of us. Conference calls and meetings with her design clients are in the forefront of her mind, most of the time.
“We gotta go, like”—I glance up at the oversized, whitewashed wall clock, hanging in the living room—“crap, likenow.” Donning my coat, I look at my mom. “Can you pour me a cup, please?” I ask her, nodding to my travel mug by the coffee pot.
She tops her cup off and then fills my mug. The sound of coffee being poured in the morning is like music to my ears. It’s calming and promises the energy I need to get through the day. I take my travel mug with a quick thanks and doctor it up into yummy, caffeinated goodness, since she has zero idea how I like it, nor did she bother to ask.
