by Hazel James
“That’s… great, Grandpa.” Jack nodded to make up for the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “But isn’t it kind of late?”
Grandpa waved his hand in the air and made a Psssh noise. “Not tonight. For her Christmas trip. She’s spending a week at her daughter’s house. Karen was going to drive out here and pick up Elaine and her dog, but I offered to drive her inst—” Grandpa stopped mid-sentence and pointed at the plaque to his right. “Is his name really Mike Rowe?”
Jack
I helped Tuesday out of my car and tightened the knot on my scarf, which was doubling as her blindfold, because it was Christmas morning and I didn’t trust her to follow directions. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Fourteen.”
“Excellent. But keep your eyes closed just in case. I don’t want any peeking until it’s time.”
“That’s not hard to do. I’m so tired I could fall asleep standing up. I can’t wait until I have more seniority at work.”
Now I was even more glad I’d driven her home after her shift at Channel 3. “Give me five more minutes, and then you can pass out.”
“Five minutes? Where are we, anyway?” she asked through a yawn. “Nothing’s open today.”
“You’ll see.” I navigated us down the sidewalk and up to her front door, unlocking it with the key I borrowed from Selena. Once we’d cleared the entryway, I toed the door closed and led her into the living room. “Okay, no pressure, but I really hope you like this because I can’t take it back.” I stepped to the side so I could see her reaction when I pulled the scarf off her head and tossed it on the coffee table.
She blinked a few times and then bent in a fit of laughter. The longer I waited for her to catch her breath and say something—anything—the more my stomach twisted. I should’ve just gone with something from the list Diego sent me. As far as I knew, women didn’t chortle at blankets, candles, or gift certificates for massages. I sighed and squeezed the back of my neck. “I was only kidding about the not taking it back part. I can have this out of here in about twenty minutes. I just have to get my tools.”
I turned for the door when her hand shot out and latched onto my arm. “Wait.” She pulled in a few deep breaths and wiped her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I laughed because I’m deliriously tired and because Taylor’s favorite activity when I’m getting ready for work is sitting in my sink. Now she has one of her own, which is hilarious. The real Taylor Swift’s cats probably don’t have one of their own. My Taylor will be the envy of cats everywhere.”
My next breath came a little easier. “So you don’t think it’s ridiculous?”
Tuesday stepped into my arms and hugged me. “It’s literally the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. I’m also curious as to how you pulled it off. There’s no way you bought this.”
“I built it,” I said, chest ballooning with pride as I led the way to the cat condo. “Grandpa helped, and I used the stuff you said Taylor liked. Each stair on the staircase has a different texture,”—I pointed to the carpeting, fuzzy rug, wood laminate, and burlap—“and the platforms are made with a drawer, a basket, and of course, the pièce de résistance.”
She giggled again when I Vanna-White-gestured to the sink. “How’d you get it in here?”
I fished her housekey from my pocket and passed it back to her. “I asked Selena for help during the Christmas party. She offered to let me borrow that so I could put it up while you were at work.”
“Which explains why you wanted to drop me off last night and pick me up this morning.”
“I figured it was less creepy than already being inside when you got home. Getting to spend a couple of extra hours with you made up for the early wakeup call.”
Tuesday ran her fingers over the drawer with its canvas bag liner. “This must have taken forever to make.”
“Just a few weeks. I started by doing research at the pet store. Turns out when you say, ‘I’m building a custom condo for my girlfriend’s cat,’ the salespeople get all gooey-eyed and hook you up with stuff. There’s a few bags of treats in the pantry from them.”
“Just what she needs,” Tuesday said with a laugh. “Has she been out here yet?”
“She investigated when I first got here but must have gotten bored while I was setting everything up. I haven’t seen her in a few hours.”
“I’ll find her in a minute, but first…” She wrapped her arms around me again. “Thank you. It’s perfect… aside from the fact that now my present to you pales in comparison.”
“I doubt that.”
“Hold your optimism.” She walked to the Christmas tree and returned with a small box covered in reindeer paper. “I thought about getting you a shirt or cologne, or even a first-edition book, but I ultimately decided to make you something too.”
“You made me brownies?” I held the package to my nose and sniffed. “Dammit. So disappointing, Collins.” I playfully rolled my eyes as I slid my fingers under the tape and peeled off the paper. “At least you get an A-plus on the wrapping. My presents end up looking like they were wrapped by a one-armed blind man.”
Tuesday scrunched her nose. “My gift for you looks like it was made by a one-armed blind man.”
I lifted the lid and removed a wad of tissue paper to reveal a keychain attached to a wooden microphone. It looked like the ones reporters used with the station logo around the top of the handle, but instead, she’d burned one word on each side of the little square.
YOU. GOT. THIS. JACK.
“I ordered the supplies online and did the carving, sanding, and woodburning myself. It’ll actually be part of my last Try It Tuesday blog post for the year. I know it’s nowhere near as awesome as a custom cat condo. I just wanted to combine something you taught me with how amazing I think you are and how much I believe—”
“I love you.”
“—in you,” she finished in a whisper.
I didn’t mean to blurt it out, but even that was kind of ironic. I’d spent the majority of my life practically forcing words out of my mouth and these tumbled out like they were the easiest ones I’d ever said. In a way, I suppose they were. Neither of us spoke in the seconds that followed my confession. I used that time to catalogue the slight flush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, and the upward curve of her lips as she grinned back at me.
“You love me?” she finally asked.
“Yep. And you’re wrong—your present is so much more awesome than a cat condo.”
Her brows knitted together. “How so?”
“Because building things and working with wood is what I’ve done since I was a kid. You not only took time to make something for me, but you went completely out of your comfort zone to do it. It may be a small object in size, but not in meaning.”
Tuesday snaked her arms around my waist and brushed her lips against mine. “Well I happen to think your cat condo is the winner in today’s present challenge, but I’m glad you love your keychain. I figured since I can’t be at your speech, you could put it in your pocket and have a little piece of me there cheering for you.”
“I’d rather have you in my pocket, but the world’s best Christmas present is a decent substitute.”
“I wish I could be there.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I still feel terrible about the timing.”
“Nope. No feeling terrible allowed.” I lifted her chin and gave her my best stern expression until the line between her brow softened. “You’re going to kick so much ass at that event that they’ll have no choice but to immediately hire you as a reporter.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Tuesday studied me for moment, eyes darting between mine like she was searching for any hint of doubt. That was fine. She could look all day and still come up empty because I was as sure of her abilities as I was that the sun would set in the west tonight.
Slowly, she inched up on her toes and brushed a kiss over my lips. “I think this is the part where I get to say, ‘I
love you too.’”
Another ball of paper sailed through the air and landed inside the trash can. It’s a good thing sports came naturally to me or Cara wouldn’t be able to make it through the minefield to her desk. I glanced at the clock. Was one-thirty in the afternoon too early to drink? I could start a new weekly session called Drunk History: Librarian Edition where I’d read passages from non-fiction books after drowning my sorrows in liquor.
Okay, I only had two sorrows, and neither of them were long-term. The first would be over in exactly two weeks and the second would end whenever the hell Mother Nature decided to quit dumping snow on Idaho. Until then, I was staring down the barrel of a nationally broadcasted public speech and a dwindling snow removal budget. What I wouldn’t give to be a librarian in the South right now. They didn’t worry about a flat roof collapsing under the weight of snow and ice. Then again, I didn’t worry about hurricanes and tornados ripping my roof off.
It was too bad I couldn’t reschedule this week’s snowstorm for January twenty-seventh. I’d still be dealing with the snow issue, but at least the speech would be canceled. I sighed and pressed the tip of my ballpoint pen to a fresh page in my spiralbound notebook. I’d switched to paper a couple of days ago when I got tired of seeing the cursor mock me. Each blink became a cadence of you suck, you suck, which didn’t help my writing progress. Of course, the good ol’ fashioned way wasn’t working either, based on the status of my trashcan.
Me: I need inspiration. Can you send nudes?
Tuesday: How would nudes help inspire you?
Me: Everyone always says to picture the audience naked, so…
Tuesday: Standby.
My eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Was she serious? I stared at my screen as my conscience warred with itself. The horny man side said Tuesday was a grown woman who could make her own decisions. The nice guy side said I’d be an asshole if I didn’t clarify my intentions.
Horny side: WE WANT BOOBS.
Nice guy side: Not by pressuring her.
Jesus, I was losing my mind. Before it was too late, I tapped out a quick reply.
Me: I was only joking. You don’t have to send anything.
There. I could sleep easy tonight.
Tuesday: That’s sweet, but I’m all about supporting you. One sec.
Holy shit, this was happening. Abandoning my pen and notebook, I leaned back in my chair to give my dick some room to breathe. Wait, if she was sending a picture, should I send one too? A little tit-for-tat was only fair, right? Based on the tightening in my suit pants, I was already halfway ready.
Tuesday: I’ve never texted a picture of a naked pussy before, but…
A second later, the image of a hairless cat licking its privates filled my screen. I busted out laughing, causing my chair to pitch backward at a dangerous angle. An unmasculine yelp immediately followed as my left leg shot out for balance and my right hand—the one not holding my phone—frantically gripped the edge of my desk. That’s how Cara found me when she rushed in from the checkout counter.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep, everything’s fine.” I righted myself in my chair and rested both elbows on the armrests. I was the picture of a successful, professional librarian. Nothing to see here.
She eyed me like I’d possibly done drugs at lunch. “Why do you look like you’re hiding something?”
“I’m not. Just lost my balance is all.” I locked my phone in case her glasses were for distance.
Her expression told me she wasn’t buying any of it, but she left me alone nonetheless. As soon as the office door closed, I pulled up the internet browser on my phone and saved a photo of my own.
Me: Since you showed me yours…
I attached a point-of-view picture of a man gripping a veiny sweet potato next to his crotch and pressed send. She responded with a gif of SpongeBob SquarePants burying himself (#Dead) and then my screen switched to an incoming FaceTime call.
“Touché,” she said, shoulders bouncing with laughter.
“I’d like to point out that you said ‘pussy.’ My no-naughty-words girlfriend has become quite the little vixen today.”
Her eyes rolled but she still looked rather proud of herself. “I didn’t say it, I just typed it.”
“Same difference.”
Tuesday propped her phone against something and went back to pulling stuff out of cardboard boxes with the Cleopatra’s logo on the side. “I take it you haven’t made any progress on your speech?”
“Nope. I thought I was off to a good start last night but when I re-read it this morning, it sounded like shit so I scrapped it. Then I started looking at my budget because of the snowstorm on Thursday. I don’t have any reserve funding left for snow removal so it’ll have to come out of my book-buying fund. Now my brain’s a mush of words and numbers, and I have nothing to show for it.” I hated that I sounded like a whiner, but facts were facts.
“So let’s recap. You’re giving a speech in two weeks but you haven’t written it, which means you can’t practice, and you’re dealing with budgetary constraints related to snow.”
“Exactly.”
“Will you be able to come up with more money for snow removal?”
“Not in enough time to help for this snowstorm.”
“So forget about that for the time being. Focus on your speech.”
“Easier said than done. How about you write it for me?” I gave her my best puppy eyes, but Tuesday was immune. Probably because she was a cat person.
“You can do this. Who’s your audience?”
“Um… the people in the seats?”
“Wrong. Well, technically you’re right, but I mean who do you want to speak to? Who do you want to hear your words and advice? Sometimes defining your audience can help you figure out what to talk about.”
I wrote Define my audience on the top of my notebook page. “What else?”
“Have you ever heard of the Pomodoro technique?”
“Sounds like a sexual thing.”
“Eyes on the prize, Jack. It’s a time management thing. I’ve been using it for my Shredder research. You divide your work into twenty-five minute segments followed by a five-minute break. It’s supposed to help you stay focused. You could probably knock out three or four Pomodoros before the end of the day.”
I added Pomodoro to my paper. “Thanks for the ideas. I guess I should let you get back to work.”
“How about some incentive while you write?” She disappeared from view and returned with something black and lacy on a pink hanger.
My dick stirred. “What’s that?”
“A new teddy that just came in. If you can have at least half of your speech done by tonight, I’ll wear this for you.”
“Yep. Gotta go. I have a speech to write. See you tonight!” I ended the call and set the timer on my phone for twenty-five minutes.
Snow had a way of bringing out my violent side.
Despite being grateful for the dozen people who showed up on a Sunday to shovel the results of Idaho’s second blizzard of the month, all I wanted to do was find the person who designed a sixteen thousand square foot library with a flat roof and punch them in the face.
Diego and I were taking a break after an hour of shoveling said roof. From the looks of it, we’d be here all fucking day, but at least the damn thing wouldn’t collapse. Thank God everyone else was on hand to get the sidewalks and walkways.
Diego pulled his gloves off and sat down on the other end of the wooden bench under the library’s portico. Why do you look so pissed?
I hate the snow, I signed after yanking off my own gloves.
Diego’s eyebrow inched up his forehead. You sure it has nothing to do with Tuesday leaving tomorrow to play in the snow with Dickface?
I fucking hated that too. Picturing them being in close quarters for three days made my jaw clench so hard it was a wonder my teeth didn’t crack.
Are you going to tell her who he really is?
I sighed and shook my head. I don’t want to screw up her chances at work.
But he knows you two are dating. I wonder if he’ll keep his mouth shut about everything.
He has so far. I don’t think that’s out of maturity though. More like it’s part of whatever fucked up plan he’s concocting. I have a feeling it’s not if she finds out, but when.
Then maybe you should tell her. That way she’ll have the truth before she hears any of his bullshit.
He had a point. But on the flip side, she was trained to get the full story. Even if she heard his side first, I know she’d still listen to mine. Hell, she’d been listening to it the whole time; the only difference was she didn’t know about the connection between Blaine and Dicky.
You think she’ll be mad if I don’t tell her and she finds out from him? I asked, suddenly unsure of my plan.
Nah, I think she’ll understand. You have a solid reason for not saying anything.
Christ, I hoped he was right.
Tuesday
Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I ran my hands down the pink cashmere sweater I bought for the trip. The suitcase on my bed was stuffed with the rest of my purchases from yesterday’s mad dash through the mall after my double shift at Cleopatra’s. My boss, JoAnna, has been more than accommodating for my changeup to this week’s schedule. She’s told me eleventy hundred times that if things at Channel 3 don’t work out, she’d happily give me my full-time job back.
“You’re the most organized employee I have and you make the customers feel so comfortable,” she reminded me as much as she could. I didn’t feel guilty for pursuing my dreams of working in the television news industry, but I did feel a little bad for being out the rest of the week, hence the voluntary double shift yesterday.
Satisfied with my reflection, I rolled my suitcase to the entryway under the watchful (and judgmental) eye of Taylor. She’d been sitting in her cat condo sink since she saw me pull my suitcase out of my closet. Along with being comfortable, it gave her the best vantage point to look down her little kitty nose at me for having the audacity to leave her. I reminded her that she went much longer than three days without seeing me when I was in college, but it didn’t matter. Jack would be her new favorite by the time I came home.
