Part 40 (2/2)

He shrugged.

I shook him by the shoulders to show that his answer wasn't good enough.

Do you understand me? I demanded. I demanded.

He turned away from me and hurried back to his dresser, not looking at me.

I went after him, took him by the arm, and swung him around so he would look at me.

”No!” he exclaimed fearfully, pulling away from me, cringing as though afraid I was going to strike him.

What's wrong with you? I signed. I signed.

I can't stand it!

Stand what?

You want to have a boyfriend because you hate me!

I slowly shook my head.

It's true, he insisted in his stubborn fas.h.i.+on. he insisted in his stubborn fas.h.i.+on.

No, it isn't, I replied. I replied.

I was perfectly aware that he was using the wrong words, as he often did. It was not easy to explain to him all the many nuances of a word like ”hate.” He wasn't afraid that I would hate him. He was afraid I would stop loving him, or that we would no longer be able to spend so much time together, or that something would somehow change, or that, like his mother, I would abandon him and run off with some new love.

His hands said one thing, his eyes quite another. His eyes said he was jealous and afraid and unsure of where he might stand if there was a man in my life. They said he couldn't cope with the thought that our home would be broken up over some stranger. It was merely another replay of his underlying insecurity about life itself.

I'm lonely, I signed. I signed.

I meant to add an entire conversation about how having someone to love would make me happy, which would make him happy, and that we'd all be happy together, but I fell silent and said nothing further. I didn't have the heart or the energy to fight this battle any further.

You don't have to be afraid, I said. I said. But if you want to, go ahead. I can't stop you. I don't want to argue about this anymore, okay? I'm going to get supper ready. But if you want to, go ahead. I can't stop you. I don't want to argue about this anymore, okay? I'm going to get supper ready.

I left his room, went to the kitchen.

Instead of fixing supper, I sat down at the table and put my face in my hands.

I heard his footsteps as he came to the kitchen, stood behind me. He leaned on me, putting his arms around me, laying his head on the back of my shoulder. He was checking in. He was saying that he was still here, that it was all right, that everything was going to be fine.

58) Paging Jackson

I WORKED WORKED the express lane on the Sat.u.r.day before Noah's birthday, and was in a fairly decent mood until I saw Jackson Ledbetter getting ready to check out. Instead of coming to my lane, he went down to register 5, keeping his eyes averted as though he hadn't seen me. Jalisa checked him out, running his lunch items through her scanner, her back to me. the express lane on the Sat.u.r.day before Noah's birthday, and was in a fairly decent mood until I saw Jackson Ledbetter getting ready to check out. Instead of coming to my lane, he went down to register 5, keeping his eyes averted as though he hadn't seen me. Jalisa checked him out, running his lunch items through her scanner, her back to me.

This made me inexplicably furious.

When I finished with my customer, I picked up the phone and hit the ”page” b.u.t.ton: ”Jackson Ledbetter, your party is waiting for you at the express lane,” I said in the most bored voice I could manage. ”Jackson Ledbetter, your party....”

He glanced in my direction.

I raised my eyebrows.

After he paid his bill, he walked slowly in my direction. He was dressed in scrubs. The sight of him stirred up many feelings inside of me. l.u.s.t, of course, and desire, and longing, but also anger and hurt and confusion. I wanted to talk to him, but didn't want to talk to him. I wanted to just look at him. I wanted him to somehow understand how I felt just by looking back at me. I wanted to be mad at him, but I also wanted our problem to be fixed.

He came up to the counter, offering a hesitant smile.

There were no customers waiting for me, just him.

”You have to let someone else check you out?” I asked in a whisper, feeling hurt and jealous.

”You won't return my calls.”

”So that means I can't check you out?”

”I didn't think you wanted to.”

”I don't,” I admitted. ”I don't even want to talk to you.”

”Then why did you page me?”

”I'm so mad I want to take this phone and bash your pretty teeth in.”

”That's a little extreme.”

”That's because I love you,” I said softly.

He looked uncomfortable.

”You scared me,” I said.

”I'm sorry.”

”You really, really, really scared me.”

”I'm really, really, really sorry.”

We regarded each other for long moments.

”G.o.d, you make me so mad I could just kick your G.o.dd.a.m.n Yankee a.s.s all the way back to f.u.c.king Boston,” I said.

”I know,” he said miserably. ”I'm sorry. Let me try again. Please, Wiley, it's killing me.”

”I can't go through that again, being involved with an addict. If I'm not enough for you, then this isn't going to work. I don't want my little boy to fall in love with you and you just turn around and break his heart. We're not going to share you with a bunch of drugs.”

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