by Faith Potts
Drake. A name I wouldn’t care if I never heard again. But Joe is right…I’ve been afraid to reach out to anyone since then.
I let myself smile, laying my head on his shoulder. “He is good for me. I…I’m happy around him. I don’t feel like I have to try to be someone I’m not. It’s like he knows me on a deeper level than most people except for…”
“Me?”
I laugh, nodding. “You and Aunt Gloria.”
“Is that wrong, though?” I ask, my voice growing softer. “If I am viewing him as a project like you said? I don’t want to be that way. Mom refers to the guys you mentor as projects, but I know you don’t see them as such.” I don’t want to treat James like something that needs me for what I can do for him. He’s too special to be thought of as less-than.
“Are you wanting advice?” Joe questions after a moment. He knows me too well.
“Yes, please.”
“Just don’t think of him too much like something that’s broken, something that you’re trying to fix. Not only would you find yourself unhappy when he moves on, but I don’t think that young man would appreciate you seeing your relationship in that light.”
I bite my lip, trying to determine what he means by the line about my relationship with ‘that young man.’
“Because you can’t fix him anyway—only God can. Let yourself care and leave the rest up to the Lord.”
I smile, sticking my face in his shoulder and reaching over to hug him. “I love you, Uncle Joe.”
He laughs, a joyous sound that reaches deep into my still-healing heart. “Love you, too, girl. Always.”
Squinting, I prop my head on his shoulder and gaze across the lawn in the fading twilight. “Now I need one last line of advice.”
“Name it.”
“How should I treat him?” I ask quietly. “Like a big brother?”
The squeaking clink of the chains suspending the porch swing are the only sound I hear as Uncle Joe sets it to swaying with a push of his toe.
“Do you think of him as another big brother?” he finally asks.
I wince—I should’ve known to be expecting the dreaded question. Because the answer is no, I don’t. I don’t see him as a big brother at all.
A light chuckle meets my ears when I prolong answering. “I thought so. Be honest with him, sweetie. That’s the only advice I have.”
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
On my eighth day of praying fervently for James, myself, and our potential relationship—if you could even call it that—I stop by the apartments.
It’s Saturday morning, meaning the guys have probably made an absolute mess of the kitchen and then left for their day’s activities, abandoning dirty dishes all over the place. Hanging out to offer a hand and help with the ministry wherever needed isn’t exactly uncommon, although I haven’t had much time to lately. But with the fundraiser quickly gaining ground on us, I’ll be around more—a thought that brings a smile to my face.
When I park in front of the main apartments, I spot James on the sidewalk between his place and Uncle Joe’s corner, headed my way.
“Good morning,” I call as I hop out of the truck and start toward him.
“Morning.” He smiles as I join him on the sidewalk. “I’m just heading back after asking your uncle if he needs my help with anything for next weekend’s event.”
“What did he say?” I take a step back and let him open the door to the apartment for me.
James winks as I pass. “That he and Mrs. Gloria have everything under control, and we should take the day off.”
I laugh as I deposit my keys and phone on the dining room table, visible from the foyer to the right. This three-bedroom apartment is identical to the one next door, and I know them like the back of my hand, having lived here nearly as much as I lived at home throughout my growing-up years. Especially during and after my parents’ divorce.
“So you’re going to, like, totally take advantage of the time and clean house, right?”
James stops, giving me ‘the look.’ The look that says I must be crazy to even suggest a thing. “Not what I had in mind, but…”
I twist on my heel from his confusion to the kitchen. Borderline disgusting, just as I expected. “I’ll make you a deal. You clean the bathroom and your room, and I’ll try to help out this poor kitchen. And then I might consider giving you ice cream as a reward. Real ice cream this time.”
Feigning disinterest, he starts off toward the stairs. “Yes, mother.”
Grinning, I hustle into the kitchen and get started right away. I make quick work of the table and counters and settle in on the massive stack of dishes. Uncle Joe really needs to invest in dishwashers for these apartments.
Just as soon as I’m elbow-deep in hot, sudsy water, my phone decides to ring. Mumbling under my breath, I rinse and dry my hands and snatch it up.
Mom. I take the call with an ounce and a half of reluctance. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, Alexandria. How are you?”
“Fine.” I adjust the speaker volume, and wedge my phone between the toaster and the shelf above.
“Alexandria, I’m calling about that ensemble you wore to church last Sunday.”
I struggle to contain a sigh as I plunge my arms back into the sink. Denim capris and a nice blouse can hardly be called an ensemble. But I don’t even try to answer her; she’s not done yet.
“My dear, don’t you have any nicer clothes? How will you ever catch a man dressed like that?”
Catch a man? Silently fuming, I scrub vigorously across the end of a spatula and try to think of a response to the jabs at my wardrobe.
“Speaking of which,” Mom continues without even waiting for an answer. Maybe she knows better than to expect a quick one. “Who was that disabled guy I saw you with?”
I turn my head toward the phone to speak. “That was James. You sort of met him at the hospital that day back in January. He’s the one I told you about who—”
“Let me guess, he’s another one of your uncle’s projects? I know you don’t enjoy listening to me, but I am your mother. And I say stay away from him. I didn’t like the way he was eyeing you.”
Projects? Eyeing me? I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, hoping against hope that no one heard her heartless words. Lester and Brian are probably in the den on the opposite side of the foyer. It appears I’m alone, so I turn back to the phone.
“Uh, Mom, I’m actually at the complex right now helping out.”
“I thought I heard background noise.”
“And my phone is lying on the shelf next to me on speaker, so I would really appreciate it if you would speak nicer.” There. That was polite enough, wasn’t it?
A moment of silence. An exaggerated huff. “Let’s talk about your clothing then, okay? Do you want to go shopping soon?
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
|| James
After picking up scattered clothes from my room and giving the upstairs bathroom a lick and a promise, I hobble back down the stairs. As I near the kitchen, helping Alex with the dishes the only thing on my mind, I hear a voice I don’t recognize.
“You’re too pretty of a girl to not be taking advantage of it.”
I peek around the corner and spot Alex, hip leaned against the counter and arms crossed. Nose scrunched up, she glares down at the phone lying on the counter—from which the voice is originating.
“Alexandria? Are you listening?”
“Yes, Mother,” Alex says in a tone that tells me she’s striving to not blow her top.
A long, drawn-out sigh drifts through the phone line. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“Why?” The girl isn’t going to be had.
“We’ll go to the mall. Maybe get our nails done, too. I found this cute little boutique out on North Main.”
“Mom, I—”
“Don’t give me the can’t-afford-it excuse. This will be my treat. We need to spend more time together, you know.”
Mentally debating
as to what I should do now, I back up a few steps, then walk straight into the kitchen as if I hadn’t heard a thing.
Alex glances up when I enter. “Actually, Mom, I just remembered something I have to do. Talk later?”
With an exaggerated sigh, her mother gives in and hangs up.
Sticking her phone in her pocket, Alex turns back to me. “Thanks for unintentionally saving me from that.”
Unintentionally? It’s fine by me if she thinks that. I just smile and nod, ambling over to the dish drainer.
“I try to respect her, but she really pushes my limits sometimes.”
“From what I’ve seen, you do all right.”
She just smiles and dumps dual handfuls of silverware on the counter before me. “This is your domain. Organize them and put them away, please.”
So now she’s going to pull the bossy stunt? Grinning, I yank open the drawer under where she dropped the clattering pile. With one quick, effective swipe I knock all of the spoons and forks into the drawer and slam it closed. “How’s that, Miss Lorance?”
Jaw dropped, she looks from me to the drawer and back again. “You are preposterous! Don’t y’all have one of those separated tray things?”
I shrug, rounding the counter to sit atop one of the bar stools. “There was probably one around here sometime. But why bother? You can find them just as easily without it.”
“I doubt that,” she mumbles. With her back to me, she kneels on the floor and begins rummaging through a low cabinet.
Since I can’t very easily dry dishes with one hand—and I don’t even want to find out what she’s doing—I select an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it as I observe her.
Bangs and clatters resound from across the kitchen. Just when I’m beginning to think I might have to make an inquiry into this desperate search, she surfaces.
Silverware tray in hand, Alex jumps to her feet and grins at me. “Found it.”
I can’t help but grin back at her. “So? I’m not arranging them in that thing.”
Without a comeback—unusual—she empties the drawer haphazardly into the tray, and sets it on the counter across from me. Boosting herself up, she takes a seat on the countertop, one leg bent under her knee. And she begins organizing the silverware.
As if this is ordinary. As if that’s a normal spot for a human to sit down for such a task. As if she belongs right there on that slab of granite. Or maybe she does.
“Um, what exactly are you doing?”
She barely glances my way, five mismatched spoons in hand. “What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re sitting on my counter, but I could be wrong.”
Rolling her eyes, the silverware clatter resumes. “If you’re going to get smart, I can get technical and remind you that this is actually my uncle’s counter.”
Ehh, so much for that tactic. “Forget it.”
She laughs, dropping the last butter knives into place. “You don’t always give in so easy, Semper Fi.”
Sliding off the counter (my counter, Joe’s counter, random-kid-down-the-street’s counter—I don't care anymore), she turns to smile at me before carrying the tray back to the drawer. “There’s something else on your mind, isn’t there?”
Am I that readable? “Actually, yes.”
She closes the drawer, grabs a dishtowel, and begins drying the remaining items— but I know she’s still listening to me as she works.
I stand and walk around the counter, tossing my apple core in the trash. Leaning against the adjacent counter, I watch her and try to come up with the right words.
“Joe says it’s good for me to talk more about what I feel. I’m pretty sure this isn’t what he meant, but…” I swallow, suddenly nervous. “I really had a good time the other day.”
She grins over her shoulder at me as she stands on tiptoes to put a stack of plates in a top cabinet. She’s forgetting we usually leave them down for Lester, but I’m not going to correct her on it right now. “You mean at Walmart?”
“And DQ. You were right, every time I go out it gets easier.”
Pausing mid-dish, she stops and turns to look at me. Really looks. “I’m glad, James. Truly.”
Truly? Who even says that? Noting my sidetracked state, I absentmindedly rub my stump as she continues her work.
“So… I was thinking. I’d like to go out this afternoon, just walk around town or something. Would you—would you like to go with me? I mean, if you’re not busy?” I inwardly cringe at how pathetic I sound. The old James was full of confidence, but looking back, maybe that wasn’t altogether a good thing.
Without answering, she crams the dish towel inside a glass, twists it to catch the water droplets, and pulls it free again. Once the glass is on the shelf and the towel is hooked through her belt loop, she plants her hands on her hips and turns to face me.
“On one condition.”
Oh gracious… I stare past her to a robin pecking around outside the window. “Okay.”
“Wear shorts.”
My gaze bounces from the window to her eyes. She meets me, head on, serious as can be.
“Why?”
“Because you always wear jeans in public.” She shrugs. “That’s not totally opening yourself up. I think it will do you good to be completely open. You know what I’m saying?”
Unfortunately, yes. I sigh and nod. “Okay. I’ll go change and you lose the Jazz rag.”
“What?” she exclaims after I’ve left the room. “I wanted to wear it to town!”
When I return downstairs a few minutes later, Alex is waiting near the door with her phone in hand and sunglasses on.
“You took long enough.”
“Grouchy.” I wink as I approach her…and take a deep breath to steady my nerves. Outside I’m joking, but inside I’m all shook up and I don’t even want to think about why.
I pause at the mirror behind the entryway table, studying the visible prosthesis in my reflection.
“You can do this.” Alex appears at me side, reaching out and squeezing my arm.
How does she always know just what to say? “Okay…” I exhale nervously and nod at her reflection in the mirror. “Okay.”
Holding the door, I let her pass through first. At the concerned look she gives me, I know I’m going to have to do something to get the cheerful sarcasm back. “You’re about to be seen in public with a decapitated, suicidal Marine. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
She just laughs and starts across the parking lot ahead of me. “Come on, Mr. Decapitated. I’m going to show you the most awesome ice cream spot around.”
“It better not be DQ.”
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
|| Alex
I glance over at James as we lumber down the sidewalk, getting closer and closer to the center of town.
He’s staring straight ahead, single hand at his side, avoiding eye contact with the few people we have passed.
“Hey, you okay?”
He looks my way and flashes me a fleeting smile. “Yeah, fine.”
He’s obviously not fine, but if he wants to assure me of the validity of an obvious not-truth, that’s his problem.
We reach the crosswalk at the first intersection. I stop and press the button for a signal, but James keeps walking.
“Hey!” I sprint forward and—being that I’m on his left side—grab a hunk of his shirt, halting him just before he steps out into the road. “We have to wait for a walk light.”
He scoffs and steps back onto the curb beside me, wobbling with his weight on his prosthetic leg. “There’s nothing coming. We can just go now.”
“No, we cannot,” I argue back, pointing down the quiet, residential street. “Someone could come barreling through here and hit us, and it would be our fault.”
“City girl,” he grumbles.
I laugh. “Just because I know how to act at a traffic light doesn’t mean I’m a city girl. Now just sit tight; it won’t be long.”
Huffing at
my sassiness, James crosses his one arm across his chest and grabs his stump. He pins me with a glare, his stance intimidating…or, at least, it’s supposed to be.
A tattoo peeks out from under his t-shirt, and I realize I’ve never noticed it before.
“What’s that?” I ask, blurting out my thoughts like I’m so good at doing.
“This is a revised version of crossing your arms, dear.”
He does look odd—one arm crossing horizontally and ending at nothing. But that isn’t what I was referring too.
“I…was asking about that drawing on your bicep.” Something else he said snags in my mind, and I add, “Did you just call me dear?”
“It’s a tattoo. And no, I most certainly did not.”
I shoot him a saucy grin. “I think you did.”
James looks away from me and off to his right. “Light’s green. Better go before someone honks at you.”
“Not funny.” I look up and see the walk sign, signaling that it’s safe for us to cross. “Well, come on.”
I grab him by the arm and start across the street, ignoring the way he watches my hands on him.
“Why are you hanging off my arm?”
“I’m not.”
“Um, yeah, you kind of are.”
“I’m just making sure you don’t take off into traffic.” I smirk, pleased with my quickness to come up with a comeback.
We reach the opposite side, and I silently note the way his hand slides down into mine when we approach and step up onto the opposite curb. My heart begins to pound.
We pause a few feet away from the road, and James’s gaze drifts down to our joined hands.
“My, uh, my balance isn’t so good with steps.”
“Liar. Your balance has improved a lot in the last two weeks.”
He grins and releases my fingers, rubbing his hand through his hair. “Maybe I should just be honest and admit I wanted to hold your hand.”
“Maybe you should.” I smile and start down the street, the breeze teasing my loose hair. My sandals smack against the cement—lonely footsteps.
