Outside the Lines (26 page)

The door swung open and David’s eyes fluttered. There was his daughter, standing in the doorway. Her mouth was open like she was screaming but he couldn’t hear a sound. He blinked heavily, slowly, and there was his daughter rushing toward him, slipping in a puddle of his blood. His eyes closed again and the last thing he felt before everything went dark was his daughter’s arms around him, cradling his head, sobs racking her body as she began to watch him die.

Waking up naked with Jack curled around me was surprising to say the least. I rarely slept well with another person in my bed—something my past boyfriends had complained about when they found me on the couch the mornings after they stayed over. I didn’t readily share my sleeping space with a man and when I did, I knew I’d be in for a long, uncomfortable night.

But the morning after I invited him home, there Jack and I lay, on our sides with him tucked snugly behind me. His left arm was slung over my waist with his hand resting on one of my breasts. Jasper lay splayed on the floor, snoring peacefully. I sucked in my stomach, self-conscious about the small belly roll Jack’s forearm rested upon. He shifted when I moved and nuzzled his nose into my neck.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

I scooted a few inches away from him and shifted over onto my back, looking at him. His dark hair was mussed and the olive-toned skin of his face was creased from sleep.

It was still fairly dark outside, probably no later than seven o’clock. I didn’t know for sure; the alarm clock had landed on the floor sometime last night. I smiled and tried not to exhale what I was afraid might be my fiendish morning breath at him. “Good morning.”

He leaned over and kissed me, apparently unconcerned with the breath issue. I let myself be taken in by his touch, his fingers trailing along my sides as they had the night before. Images of our bodies pressed together flashed in my mind and I felt a pulling, aching sensation between my legs.
Oh god. Am I remembering correctly? Did we really do all of that?
I pushed him gently away.

“You’ll be late for work,” I said with a smile.

He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned, showing off his slightly crooked front teeth. “I’m the boss. I can be late if I want.” His eyes traveled the length of my body. “I might even take the day off. You’re not working, right?”

“No, I’m not.” I did my best to resist the urge to yank the blanket up and cover myself. If he wanted to look, let him look. If there was something he didn’t like, better I know it now so we could both be on our merry ways.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he said, and I felt myself blush to the tips of my toes. I wasn’t used to this kind of adoration. I had a hard time taking it in.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to breathe normally. “You’re very kind.”

“Just honest,” he said, and he kissed me again.

“I don’t normally invite boys over for sleepovers, you know.”

He chuckled. “Oh, really? I should consider myself lucky, then?”

“No. I just didn’t want you to think this is something I do all the time.” I did reach for the covers then, pulling the sheet up to cover my breasts.

“Eden,” he said gently, “I didn’t think that.”

“What did you think, then?” I asked, unsure if I really wanted to hear his answer.

He leaned over with his face less than an inch from my own. His breath was warm on my skin. “Wow,” he breathed.

“Wow?” I repeated.

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Last week, last night. That was the word that came to mind whenever I got to spend time with you.”

To my horror, my eyes filled and I fought not to cry in front of this man yet again. What amazed me wasn’t that he said it; what amazed me was the fact that I believed he meant every word. I had a pretty decent bullshit detector and there was not an ounce of insincerity in his voice, no falter in his gaze. I swallowed back the tears and gave him a big smile. “Well,” I said, more than a little flustered, “that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

If he saw the tears, he decided not to say anything. All the more reason to like him. He sat up and patted my hip. “Can I make you some coffee?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, spinning to sit on the edge of the bed. I reached for my sweats and pulled them on. “It’s my house, I’ll make you coffee. And breakfast, too. I need to feed Jasper anyway.” At the sound of his name, Jasper lifted his head and stood, wagging his tail expectantly.

“Can I hop in the shower?” Jack asked.

“Of course. There should be fresh towels on the shelf.”

“Thanks.” He came around the bed and put his arms around me, kissing me again.

I groaned. “I’ll never get breakfast made if we keep this up.”

“It’s already up,” he half growled, pushing himself against me.

I laughed. “I can see that. Or feel it, as the case may be.” Jasper whimpered by the door. “I need to feed the pup. I’ll take care of you later, sir.”

“Oooh. Bossy.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. “I like it.”

He let me go and went into the bathroom while I put on a bra and a T-shirt and practically skipped out to the kitchen. After Jasper returned from his morning trip to the backyard, I gave him his scoop of dry food with a capsule of fish oil drizzled on it for his aging joints. While he ate, I started the coffee and pulled out the eggs to make a quick veggie-and-cheese frittata. I didn’t have to work that day, but I knew it was a rare thing for Jack to take time off.

“You don’t have to spend the day here,” I said when he crossed the threshold into the kitchen after his shower. “If you don’t want to.” He had put on his jeans from the night before but nothing else. I resisted the urge to run my fingers across his bare chest. He wasn’t in perfect shape, but the lines of his body were definitely appealing. I wanted to memorize them.

He dropped into one of my kitchen chairs, picked up the mug of coffee, and eyed the slice of frittata I’d set out for him. “Now, why would you say something like that?” he asked. “Like you assume I feel obligated to hang out with you.”

I shrugged and felt a twinge of regret in my gut. Not that he was here, not that I’d invited him home with me, but that I hadn’t revealed how truly twisted I was when it came to relationships. I’d joked about it, sure, but he had no idea just how deep my fears went. I had no idea how to make it clear without his running from the room like I’d lit him on fire.

He took a sip of the coffee and stared at me with clear green eyes. They seemed to pierce right through to the most vulnerable space inside me.

“What?” I said. I busied myself with putting dirty dishes in the sink. “You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re not used to having someone love you, is that it?” He didn’t look away.

Love? Did he just use the word “love”?
Panic ignited in my chest.

He sighed and set his mug down on the table. “Repeat after me,” he said. “I, Eden West, do solemnly swear to let Jack Baker get to know me.” He waited. “G’head. Repeat it.”

I smiled at his silliness. “Okay, okay,” I said, holding my hands up in mock surrender. “I get it. I’m sorry.” I went over to stand next to him and he pulled me to him. I kissed the top of his head. “You’re right, you know.”

He squeezed me around my waist, pressing his face into my stomach. “Right about what?” His words vibrated against my flesh.

“I’m not used to having someone love me,” I said, making my voice as small and quiet as possible. This small revelation felt huge to me. I didn’t normally share that kind of truth.

“Why not?” he asked. He looked up as he spoke, setting his chin against me. I had to look away.

“Too scared, I guess. I don’t let them.” I held my breath and looked back at him, wanting to see what Jack would do with my confessed vulnerability.

“I can relate to that,” he said. “What else are you scared to do?”

I hesitated, wondering just how willing I was to open up to him. He waited, his gaze never leaving my face. “I’m scared to go through my dad’s things,” I finally said. “I’m afraid of what I might find.”

“I’ll help, if you want,” he said. His hands rubbed my back in a soothing circular motion. “Unless it’s something you need to do alone.”

I shook my head. “I do too many things alone.”

“Me too.” A strange look passed over his face, an expression I might have called grief had it not disappeared so quickly.

I leaned down to kiss him, my hands cupped on his cheeks. “C’mon,” I said. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

We both ate and after that he threw on a shirt and very graciously offered to take Jasper for a walk while I took a shower. When they returned, I was in the spare bedroom staring at my father’s belongings. Jasper trotted over to me and circled three times before lying down next to the bed. He let out a guttural sigh as he rested his chin on his front paws and closed his eyes. Jack followed him into the room and stood next to me, taking my hand in his.

“What do you want to look through first?” he asked. “The paintings or the box?”

I took a deep breath and let it out before responding. “The box, I think. It’s more of the unknown.” I really didn’t know what I expected to find. A map leading me to where he might have gone, where he lived the past ten years? A phone number? I realized what scared me most was the possibility I wouldn’t find answers, only more questions.

“Okay,” Jack said, letting my hand go and stepping over to the bed. He carefully rested the stack of paintings against the wall, which left plenty of room for the two of us to sit down. I opened the box and reached inside. I pulled out a couple of old crewneck sweaters with horrid geometric shapes and held them up for Jack’s appraisal.

He cringed. “Um, 1984 called and wants its sweaters back.”

I laughed. “So he wasn’t a fashion plate. He didn’t need to be. He was an artist.”

“Aren’t artists supposed to have an eye for what looks good?”

“He subscribed to the philosophy that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“It sure is.” He reached over and caressed my cheek with the tips of his fingers, staring at me intently.

I flushed pink with pleasure. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my friend.” I pulled out a couple of books,
Moby Dick
and
The Catcher in the Rye
. There were a few pairs of paint-splattered jeans and some CDs: Talking Heads, Nirvana, Etta James. My dad always did have eclectic musical taste. I looked inside the box and beneath another sweater, I saw the edges of some paper. I pushed the sweater out of the way and found a small stack of letters, yellowed with age and tied with a silky brown ribbon. I pulled at the ribbon and squinted at the print on the first envelope. My mouth dropped open.

“What?” Jack asked, seeing the expression on my face. “What is it?”

“They’re addressed to me.” I pointed to the envelope. “And look at the postmark. July 1989.” I flipped through the next few letters in the stack. “August 1989. September, October, and November.” I looked over at Jack, whose eyebrows were pulled together, creating a deep furrow in his forehead. “Five letters.”

“Sorry, am I missing something?”

“I didn’t hear from my dad until after I was out of high school,” I explained, my heart rate rising. “He found my address when I moved out of my mom’s house and sent me two letters when I was twenty. Which I never responded to. These,” I said, holding up the stack and shaking them in the air, “were all addressed to me at our old house, right after he left when I was ten. The one I lived in with him.”

Jack stared at the envelopes again. “They’re marked ‘Return to Sender.’” Understanding crept across his face. “Your mom didn’t give them to you.”

“Apparently not.” I felt the anger mount in my body, blossoming across my cheeks in a bright red flood. She lied to me. She told me he never wrote. That he never called. I asked her over and over again if he wanted to see me and she told me no. I cried night after night and she just let me suffer. I tore the first letter from the stack, opened it, and read it quickly to myself.

July 8, 1989

I dropped the letter onto the bed and wiped away the tears that rolled down my cheeks. “I can’t believe my mother lied to me. Why would she
do
that?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said gently. “Maybe she thought she was protecting you.”

“From what? Knowing my father loved me? That he didn’t actually abandon me for all those years? That he tried to stay in contact with me?” My breath was tight in my chest. I was trying hard not to lose it completely.

“She must have thought she was doing the right thing at the time,” Jack said. He reached over and stroked my hair.

“Well, she was wrong.” I pulled away from his touch and he looked hurt. I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m just kind of overwhelmed right now.”
And pissed off. Really, really pissed off. How dare my mother not tell me about these letters? What else is she hiding? Did she know where he was all this time? Does she know where he is now?