Page 95 of Until Now
“So, I’m supposed to just forgive him for breaking my heart because Mother blackmailed his family?”
“You are part of his family.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
I am unbelievablylate — it’s obviously going to be one of those days and it’s the worst day for it. I almost missed my first meeting, forgot half of my suitcase, and I have to drive out to Bridgeport before meeting Daddy at the airport. I forgot Alex had invited me to visit until he text me exactly forty-one minutes before I was supposed to be there. I have exactly no time to do anything before I’m supposed to be on a plane to Denver.
“Nina!” Jimmy opens the door before I even reach the top step and pulls me into a tight embrace. He looks much better than he did the last time I saw him. He’s lost some weight and he has color in his cheeks again. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“I’m happy to see you on your feet.” I pull my wool coat tight against the breeze longing to get inside, heat radiating from the open door. “I hear you’re doing four miles every morning with Alex.”
“And, it’s awful.”
“He’s not much of a morning person,” Alex says behind Jimmy. I melt into his warm embrace against the cold.
“Well, come on in. We have plenty of room,” Jimmy says and follows Alex back inside.
The warmth of the house calls to me, but my attention is on the garage across the driveway. I know he’s in there — his Mustang is parked in the driveway. It’s been a week since I stormed into Daddy’s office and as the days have gone by, I find myself dialing his number every time I need someone to talk to. But, I never hit send.
In the blink of an eye, he’s there. He stands in the door wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. We stare at one another, locked in a silent battle, but when Alex calls from inside, I finally surrender.
§
Jimmy offers some of his homemade sweet tea and I can’t resist. “Boy, you better not be spilling family secrets,” Jimmy calls from the kitchen hearing Alex whispering. I couldn’t resist when Jimmy offered some of his homemade sweet tea, but apologized because he wouldn’t be able to tell me the secret ingredient that makes it so good.
“Never.” Alex and I share a knowing smile, he had just told me the ‘secret ingredient’ was honey. He found the recipe for his father to create a healthier alternative to the loads of sugar that goes into making sweet tea. But, according to Alex, it tasted better with honey anyway!
The Davis home is much smaller than anything I’ve ever lived in, but it’s cute and cozy. An agreeable gray wall separates the living room from the eat-in kitchen. Peaking around the corner, a weathered oak four-seater sits under a chandelier, a single stack of mail in the top left-hand corner. I am a little surprised by the decor, I was expecting it to be a little more…bachelor?
Green tea, baby blue, and white accent pillows are tossed on a gray couch. A jute rug lies beneath a distressed white coffee table. To the right of the couch, a recliner that doesn’t quite fit the aesthetic, most likely a more recent addition. A wood desk chair sits next to the Austin stone fireplace, it looks like it belongs to the vintage writing desk nearby the hallway just off the front door. Two windows on either side of the fireplace overlook the sideyard — a red vintage Ford truck pulls out of the garage and takes off down the road.
A fire warms the living room, family photos sprawled out on a wood mantle. One photo, in particular, catches my eye: a young boy with a head full of dark curls and a polite smile stares into the camera. His eyes the color of whiskey, warm and charming. His arms around the neck of a twenty-something brunette with the same color eyes. She smiles brightly at the camera. I touch the face of the boy, I would recognize those eyes anywhere.
“They were best friends,” Alex swallows. “When she died, it was hard on all of us, but it was extremely hard on him. I lost my mom and I was scared I was gonna lose my brother too.” The memories swim behind his eyes, the fear still very real. “But, the shop, it gave him something to stay focused.”
“Alex—”
“Here we go,” Jimmy returns with the sweet tea. His smile falters slightly noticing the tension between us. “Everything okay?”
“Fine! Fine, I was just looking at your photos,” I glance back at the photo before excusing myself to the restroom. I need a moment to recompose myself.
“What was that about?” I hear Jimmy ask just before I close the bathroom door.
§
Leaving the bathroom, I notice the door across the hall is open. I know better than to intrude, but I’m curious. When is the next time I’ll be here? Probably never. What’s that saying about curiosity? Oh, curiosity often leads to trouble. I think Alice was on to something when she said that.
Peering inside, the room is simple and clean. If not for the large metal letter on the wall, it would look like a guest room. A person’s bedroom can tell you a lot about them — a reflection of who they are and I feel like I’m invading the deepest parts of him. The more I look, the more of him I see in everything.
A record player atop the oak dresser holds a vinyl,Boston,the self-titled debut album of one of my favorite bands. More records fill the bottom shelf of a bookcase in the far corner. I run my fingers along the worn spines of the books two shelves higher: Hemingway. Tolstoy. Fitzgerald. Crichton. Grisham. Another shelf is lined with gold-plated trophies and awards for football, baseball, and basketball.
MVP — Bridgeport High Football.
Athlete of the Year — Bridgeport High Baseball.
Heart Award — Bridgeport High Basketball.
Thirteen awards in all, not including a Salutatorian medal.