True Divide (20 page)

Jake leans against the counter and eats, sighing when he gets a few sizeable bites in.

I finish chewing and tap his leg gently with my foot. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Is it dirty?”

“No.”

He frowns. “Is it something that could be made dirty?”

“No.”

“Will I like it?”

I shrug and take another bite. “I don't know.” A pause, three beats or so, just for effect. “How do you feel about babies?”

It was cruel, I know that. I do.

But alluding to babies without first making it clear that the baby in question did not have anything to do with the commingling of our respective DNA was also amusing. Right up until Jake started to choke a little on the rice he inhaled when I said it. I had to pat him on the back a few times until he was able to breathe again. With both of our eyes watering, mine in laughter and his at the aftermath of his episode, I told him to relax because I was only asking in reference to babysitting my nephew.

Even now, as we stand on Kate and Trevor's porch, Jake still looks a little panicked. Men who aren't fathers can be an odd mix with babies, you never quite know how they feel about each other until everyone's in the same room. But based on the way Jake keeps distractedly scratching the back of his neck and tapping his foot anxiously, it seems he's not one of those guys who thinks kids are neat-o. I raise my hand up in a gesture to knock on the door but pause when he takes a visible preparatory inhale.

“Calm down. It's four hours. Kate and Trevor need to head into Langston for a bit and this is their first time leaving him with someone else, so it would be nice if you didn't look so tortured. Won't exactly set them at ease.”

“Hey. I'm an only child with nearly no extended family to speak of. Kids are like alien life-forms to me. They make me nervous. Also, I offered to stay back at your place and fix whatever needed fixing while you were over here.
You
insisted I come along. I could be cleaning gutters right now. And your gutters need cleaning.”

The front door swings open and before I can prod him into explaining how anyone might choose to clean gutters over spending a few hours with an innocent tiny person—who will likely coo and giggle adorably at some point—Trevor waves us in, his coat already on and an uneasy look on his face.

“Not sure if you guys are standing out here fighting or whatever, but I also don't much give a fuck. We're about three minutes away from Kate abandoning this plan. I can feel it.”

Jake's eyes actually perk a bit at the idea we might end up off the hook and I poke him in the side when I see it. He flinches but doesn't move off the porch to follow me in.

“Oh my God. Get in here.”

Just inside the front door, Kate has Nic in one arm and is trying to slip her coat on the other. It's not working too well. Or at all. Trevor swoops in and gathers up Nic, only pausing long enough to hand the baby off to me. Nic's wearing the sweet little blue romper I got him that has whales on it, with a hood that is currently up over his head, covering his fuzz of blond hair. He still has his bright newborn blues, and it's obvious he's fresh from a bath, smelling of that wonderfully clean baby scent. I kind of want to wander over to where Jake is lingering near the door and lift Nic right into his sight line, insist he take a good look and a long inhale, then explain how in the world this could possibly make him nervous.

But I don't. For Kate and Trevor's sake.

“OK, then. Here we go.” Kate has her coat on now, fingers not-so-adeptly working to zip it up. She looks over my shoulder at Jake. “Is there a reason Jake won't come farther into the house?”

“Apparently kids make him nervous. Because this little menace”—I put a small kiss to Nic's forehead—“is clearly capable of bringing a grown man to his knees.”

“Dude, he doesn't even have teeth yet. You got this.” Trevor slips past Jake, slapping him on the shoulder as he does. “Katie, baby, let's go.”

Thankfully, Trevor's lack of patience serves everyone well in this situation. They're out the door before Jake or Kate can announce what a terrible idea they think this is.

Jake finally starts to relax after an hour or so, seeming to realize this won't be nearly as dramatic as he's imagined. If anything, it's almost boring. I've watched Nic play under the brightly colored activity gym in the middle of the living room, completed a couple of very exciting rounds of peekaboo, and bestowed a few raspberries that got me the smile I wanted. Now, I've settled on the floor with my back against the couch, reading aloud from a tiny picture book with bunnies on the cover. Jake is on the couch, slouched down lazily with one arm thrown over the back. When I turn to check on him, he's watching me with a soft smile on his face and his eyes halfway shut. It's the first smile of the day from him, so it's a welcome sight.

“You're good with him.”

“He isn't exactly difficult.” I toss the book on the ground and lift Nic up a bit. “You want to hold him? I swear, it's a life-affirming experience.”

“Absolutely not.” Jake shakes his head. “He's breakable. And he belongs to
Trax
. I can't even tell you how much I never, ever want to fuck up anything Trax holds dear.”

“But you're so good at fixing things.”

“Not squishy things. I'm good with wood and metal. Durable shit.”

Nic's eyes have started to glaze a little, and I take a peek at the clock on the wall. Nap time, according to Kate's instructions. Glancing at Jake, I see he's decided the same, head back against the couch and eyes closed.

Wandering back out to the living room, baby monitor in hand, I find Jake awake and standing in front of the fireplace mantel, peering at the photos displayed there. He doesn't turn to see me but points at a framed picture on the end.

“Must be so weird for Trevor.”

“What's that?” I flop down on one end of the couch and stretch my legs out.

“These pictures of Kate and her first husband being out here. Seeing her with him like that.”

I furrow up my brow. “Why?”

“I don't know. I wouldn't want to see pictures of you and Dusty up everywhere.”

“That's different. James
died
.” I emphasize the last word. “She shouldn't have to pretend he didn't exist. Everyone has a past, right?”

When Jake shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away, I realize we've never talked about this. The ghosts of exes past and all that. Now is as good a time as ever, I guess.

“I mean, you know about Dusty, but I'm sure you haven't been celibate all these years. If so, you've come out swinging. Just a wild guess, but I'd assume you honed those sexing skills somewhere along the way.”

A raise of his brows suggests he doesn't know what to say for a moment. “Is that a question? It sounded a little like you want to have that conversation.”

I shrug my shoulders. Do I? Do you ever really want to know? You think you do, the irrational intrigued part of your brain tells you that you do, but you probably don't. Jake clears his throat, and when I raise my eyes to his, I realize he's waiting for me to respond. I nod.

“Erika. She's the only one worth mentioning. We lived together for a year. Her dad owned a hunting lodge up in Alaska and I did a bunch of flights for his clients when I was up there.”

He stops. That can't be the end. Not exactly a dossier of info there. He needs to describe this Erika character. How did their relationship end? Who ended it? Was she tall or short? Blonde or brunette? Was she prettier than me? Important crap I need to know and will most definitely regret somehow.

“That's it? Erika. Alaska. One year of your life, and that's all you have to say about her?” I flip my hair over one shoulder in an attempt to look only mildly interested.

Jake sighs. “She's a good-hearted, nice, half-Inuit girl who will make a great wife for someone someday. She'll be a great mom. She can cook. Whoever she marries will end up fat but happy.”

My lip curls up. Yup, regretting asking already. Jake continues. “She's also . . . natural. As in, underarm shaving was optional and dressing up meant she put on a pair of jeans instead of the carpenter pants she usually preferred. That's kind of the norm in rural Alaska, though. Definitely nobody who looks like you up that way.”

The tone he uses doesn't tell me if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I wait to see if he'll say more, but he doesn't. I let out a little snort.

“Erika sounds really, annoyingly, low-maintenance and sweet.”

“Yup.”

Jesus, don't bother acknowledging the obvious jealous snarl in my voice or anything. Just agree with me. God forbid he temper his description of the glorious angel he used to be with by telling me she also had a penchant for cocaine or perhaps scales all over her body. Maybe she also kicked kittens occasionally. That might make her seem a bit less than perfect.

“Did she darn your socks, too? Because I won't do that. I can't cook. I'm not natural or particularly nice. Or good-hearted. I wouldn't be caught dead in a pair of carpenter pants. You noticed all of that, right? Because if you want an Erika, I'm not it.”

Silence. I look up from the spot on the couch where I've been picking at string that's peeking out from the edge of one seam. Jake has his arms crossed over his chest.

“If I wanted an Erika, I would have stayed with the one I had. Do you want a Dusty? If so, let's state the obvious: I'm. Not. It.”

This is why smart people avoid this conversation. It's nearly impossible to have it with any levelheadedness. If only human beings weren't so damn inquisitive. That's where we get ourselves in trouble.

“No. I don't.” I consider the decision to say more. But if I leave that statement there without saying what I do want, things may turn sour simply from the ambiguity. “I don't want a Dusty. I want a Jake.”

At the utterance, I have to resist the urge to grab a throw pillow and bury my face in it. We haven't really talked about whatever it is we're doing. What it means, where it's going, or added labels that might make it all clear from a distance. Dating. Seeing each other. Keeping in touch. We haven't done anything but agree that Gerard is the only one around when he isn't. Not exactly a declaration of our long-term intentions.

Jake's arms flop down to hang at his sides. “I know you can't cook, Lacey. But short of wanting you to hit the store and stock up on supplies before I get here, I don't give a shit. I also know you're the opposite of low-maintenance. And I love that. I love those highlights in your hair and the fact you wear tight-ass dresses and boots you probably paid way too much money for, in a place like Crowell. Where no one appreciates the look. I really love that your skin is crazy smooth.
Everywhere.
Including your underarms.”

The throw-pillow-face-plummet instinct is still there, but for different reasons now. Jake finally crosses the room and drops onto his knees next to the couch, tugging on my arm until I've turned to face him.