by Neal, Xavier
“Jaye,” Archer starts and slips his fingers with mine. “I can't live in this room. I can't live in Chris' shadow. I'm sorry.”
“But...but you're not.”
“Babe, you've done a remarkable job moving forward,” he starts. “It's more than obvious you r 're confidence is back. That you're doing the things you wanna do for you-”
“All proof I've moved past Chris' death-”
“Not exactly.” There's a small squeeze of my hands. “Yes. You've began to put him behind you. You were okay with his things in the garage being fixed. You put away his office. You've changed the contents of your kitchen. Added a collection of movies to your living room, but look at this room babe and tell me you've moved forward.”
I let my eyes scan around it, scrunching my face at the color of the walls knowing it's one I hate. Next I spot the paintings of cityscapes I never had a fondness of. Before I know it my eyes land on the closet I know is still filled with his clothes, the wicker chair he bought because it reminded him of his grandmother, and the sheets I can't stand on a bed I let him pick out.
When my eyes meet Archer's once more he shrugs. “And under the sink in the bathroom. His shaving kit. The soap. What I can only assume is his favorite towel. They're all there. Put away nice and neat like you believe one day he's just going walk back into that bathroom and use them.” Before I can object he says, “I don't mind being with you while you go through this process, Jaye, but I can't live in the shell of another man.”
Disbelief pushes my back against the wooden frame. “I wanted a canopy bed.”
With a puzzled look Archer tilts his head.
“And I wanted photographs of old books,” I continue staring off in front of me. “Did you know I hate white sheets?”
He sighs, “I did. It was one of the first things I learned about you.”
My head turns to look at him. “I don't wanna live in the shell of him either, Archer.” As if surprised by my words his eyebrows lift. “So, I'm asking you to move into this room with me and make it something new. Not something I want. Not something you want. But something we want.”
His legs lift to a bend and he drapes his arms over them. “And you're sure you're ready for that?”
Slowly I reach my hand across to stroke his cheek. “Definitely...”
And I am. I really am.
Archer
Stacking another taped box in the back of the moving truck I try to refrain from yelling at her. “I know that, Jaye.”
She folds her arms firmly against her chest. “Then I vote we wait.”
I walk to the the edge of the truck and sit down. “This is not a voting situation.”
Don't call me a dick for having a back bone.
“Look, I know these hours are going to suck. I know waiting for you to pick me up isn't going to be ideal, but this is the first job offer I've had in years.”
“You'll get another,” she pouts.
“Jaye,” my voice firmly states. “I need this.”
Her father kept his word. He called in a few favors and managed to get me a job unloading the truck and loading the shelves at Harry's hardware. Does it pay the best? No. Is it hard labor? Absolutely. Can I handle it? You bet your ass. So what's got my girl all grumpy? The hours are Mon through Fri 6 a.m. To 3. Hey, it could be worse right?
“I don't mind getting up earlier to drop you off,” Jaye sighs. “But I hate the idea of you just waiting around in the break room anywhere from 2 to 3 hours for me to get off. What about book club nights? I mean I can rush to come get you and then rush back and-”
“One day at a time,” I interrupt. Leaning forward, I tug her between my legs and rest my hands on her hips. “I don't mind waiting. Trust me. And if it bothers you that much I can always walk home-”
“That's way too far to walk,” Jaye whines again. “Not to mention the traffic or in the dark or what about when the weather sucks? No way.”
“We can buy me a bike?” She repeats her sarcastic look. “Exactly. You don't like the alternatives and me not taking this job is not an option. So...”
“I could always buy you-”
“No,” I bark harshly. “We're not having that argument again.”
She wants to buy me a fucking car. That's the last thing I need. The debt I'm already in with her is enough to keep my self-worth at a constant question, the last thing I need is more. Fuck it. Call it my pride. I don't give a shit.
“Fine.” Jaye surrenders her hands. “Fine. Take this job and we will make it work, because that's what we do.” With a soft smile she says, “We always find a way to make it work...”
My smile is short because her lips find themselves on mine. On contact mine part to taste the sweetness lingering on her tongue. For a moment we lose ourselves in a kiss that escalates from sensual to sexual in what feels like record timing.
Before I give into the idea of pulling her into the back of this truck to listen to her moans echo in it, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway drives us apart.
At the sight of her father getting out of the car, Jaye turns around and says, “Hi, dad!”
“Hey sugar,” he replies locking the car door as he heads for our direction. “Archer.”
I nod. “Sir.”
Charles give his pants an adjustment. “You ready to start your new job, Monday?”
“Yes sir,” I answer, giving Jaye's shoulder a good squeeze. “More than ready.”
“I like that attitude, son. Keep it up.” Without further discussion on the topic, he questions, “You ready to move that mattress?”
“Yes sir.”
Jaye slides out of the way for me to get down. “Mom, didn't wanna help?”
Charles gives his daughter a sympathetic look. “Not this time, sugar.”
It's been three weeks since that abomination of a dinner and they've barely talked. Apologies were extended to both of us a few days ago, which is also when Jaye confronted her mother about what I said. Turns out I was right. While Maggie profusely expressed her remorse for her behavior at dinner, she also explained it was going to take some time for her to adjust not only to my presence in her daughter's life, but the unconventional way it happened. It's obvious she's still skeptical. The point is she's trying. We're all trying.
After we load the mattress and the remainder of the boxes, Jaye's father drives the truck while we follow behind in her car. The short drive over to the shelter that I spent more than one cold night in the beginning, is filled with tales from those days that I hadn't shared before. With every word I spew, my girlfriend's attention never wavers from the topic. She engages by asking questions, backing off when she can sense a subject too sensitive, and most importantly, expressing her support with gentle hand strokes.
Reliving some of the darkest times in my life isn't something I enjoy. But therapy has taught me the benefits, including the relief felt when letting go of some of the self-loathing. Dr. Jenny continues to lecture about how your loved ones often understand the shit you doubt they do. Best part is, Jaye doesn't make me feel like I'm a whiny asshole about it. She simply reminds me how much she values me and how important I am to her.
“I'm going to talk to the woman who runs this shelter about the benefit we're getting together and then I'll be back to help with boxes,” Jaye explains after shutting her car door.
“Sure. Sure. Run away from the heavy lifting,” her father jokes. “Teach the girl self-defense yet can't teach her to lift a box.”
“Stop it,” she giggles and bounces away, taking my attention with her.
Blame me. Look at that ass. Saturday yoga sex is now one of my favorites. Stretching her easily slips into sex with her legs wrapped around me in ways that I can't stop fucking fantasizing about.
Once we get the mattress set up where we're instructed, we begin moving the boxes that are filled with Chris' belongings.
Completely her idea. I suggested leaving them in the garage and moving the others to join them, yet Jaye was ada
mant about removing the house of almost all his things that didn't have sentimental value. What got to stay? The intricate cities in the garage. Everything else that belonged to him was out. She suggested donating anything and everything that could be used by those less fortunate to a shelter. I told her of one I used to frequent in the early days.
I turn with another box in my hand spotting a face I haven't seen in over a year. Immediately I call to him, “Barry!”
The man on the corner turns and squints.
After placing the box on the ground, I hustle down the sidewalk to where he is waiting with his cart. As I get closer the realization he probably doesn't remember who I am sets in.
Slowing my approach I lift my hands to show they're weapon free.
Trust me. It's one of a homeless person's first instincts to attack if they feel remotely threatened.
“Hey,” I calmly say, coming to a stop a few feet from him. “Barry, right?”
He twitches. His hand swats at bugs that aren't in front of him before he nods.
When I met him, he had been wandering the streets for half a decade. On a good day he could remember who I was and offer tricks for me to survive harder days, shady people to stay away from, and on his bad ones....well he was violent. Almost stabbed me. Twice. Never did confess why or how he got here. Couldn't push him. I never confessed either.
“Do you know who I am?”
The moment he shakes his head, the feeling that I'm just some random asshole in nice clothing with a better life than the one he has to call his own kicks me like a shot to the nuts.
Dr. Jenny says survivors’ guilt doesn't just come from the field. It can happen from a multitude of circumstances in life. Like being granted the chance at a better life while those you once knew continue to helplessly suffer. I shouldn't feel guilty. I know that. I just...I do.
“I just made a huge donation of new clothes to the shelter.” My head tosses to the building beside us. “There's some new bedding. Food.” His eyes light up at the last word. “I've got another box of can goods on the truck. You um...you want some?”
Barry nods rapidly yet doesn't move. Understanding his distrust, I jog back to the truck, open one of the boxes labeled accordingly and grab a few cans I assume he'll enjoy. I snag a blanket from the box I was about to carry inside and deliver them to him with caution. Barry allows me to place the objects in his cart, but makes sure to keep his weary eyes on my every move.
As soon as I'm finished I take a step back with my hands in the air, this time proving to him, I didn't steal anything.
Another constant worry. Also a valid one. I can't tell you how much shit was stolen from me.
He nods his approval.
“Take care of yourself, Barry.”
The man scratches his tangled salt and pepper beard, nods again, and begins pushing his cart around the corner.
“Archer,” Jaye calls from over my shoulder. My body angles to look at her. She's standing beside her father who is also wearing a concerned look. “Everything alright?”
No. But I know it will be and that's a lot more than I can say for others...
Archer
Wiping the sweat off my brow, I reach for my bottle of water off the break room counter, thankful the break hit when it did.
Not sure I could've made it another forty five minutes without time to stop for a damn drink. If I've learned anything over the last six weeks it's Wednesdays are the worst fucking day and the biggest shipments. The fact it's fucking hot enough to roast marshmallows on the ground before the sun is even up doesn't help either. Not complaining. It feels good to have a purpose outside the house every day. Don't worry. It didn't slow down the remodeling of the master bedroom. It's been a process, but it's finally finished. It's now a place we're both comfortable calling ours.
Doug, one of the men at the table, stops laughing and looks over his shoulder at me. “What about you Archer? You interested?”
I lean against the counter. “In what?”
“Beer and wings at The Dig after work,” he offers. “After an ass beater like this I think we earned it.”
The other guys laugh and mumble as I answer, “Um…no ride.”
“You don't have a car?” Kenneth, the red head sitting across from him questions.
“Nope.” Clearing my throat I state, “My girl drops me off in the morning and picks me up in the afternoon.”
“My woman does that too,” one of the other men whose name I don't remember says.
Doug shrugs. “I can give you a ride home.”
“I'm givin' dick breath down there a ride home,” another worker says, tilting his head at the guy whose girlfriend apparently drops him off too.
“Think you could air that truck out of yours this time? That thing wreaks of ass and old fish,” he complains, tossing the last bite of a breakfast sandwich in his mouth.
“Sorry it doesn't smell like roses for you princess,” the other guy pokes fun at him while the rest of the table laughs.
The conversation shifts focus but Doug doesn't. He stands to throw his trash away as he says, “Hey, if you don't wanna come, fuck it. But if you do I don't mind giving that ugly mug of yours a ride home.”
Still apprehensive about it, I sigh, “I've got dinner plans with my girl and her family tonight.”
He gives me a stern look. “Can the in law cook?”
“What the hell does that matter?”
“So I know whether we should encourage you to eat your body weight in wings or make sure to leave room for her cooking.” He laughs and delivers a good pop to the chest. “Fucking with ya Archer. I'll make sure to have you home for your curfew Cinderella. I'll even make sure you have both your glass slippers.”
The dick head joke is followed with another laugh before he heads out the side door for a smoke.
Having another drink of my water, I let my eyes drift down to my work boots.
This is the first time I've ever been invited to do anything. When I started they kept their distance, unsure if I would work out or not. Apparently box bitch boy has a high turnover rate. Guess now that they see I'm not going anywhere they figure what the hell. Am I really over thinking this? Why do I feel like a fucking chick?
“So you comin' or what?” Kenneth questions having another bite of his burrito. I shrug, which he takes as a yes. “Good. If I can get David just drunk enough he tells us these crazy stories about his wife and the kinky shit she wants to do. Most of the time we think he's full of shit, but it's funny as fuck.”
Not sure if I wanna hear that shit or not I simply give him a nod before taking my phone out to text Jaye.
She made me get this before I started working here. In fact the day I got the job we went out and got one. She explained that the land line couldn't come with me to work and I fucked her for being too sassy. It was a good day. I rarely use the thing other than to shoot her a message every now and again, that I'm thinking about her or checking on her day. Or...in this case...that I'm going out with co-workers. Fuck...in less than a year I've gone from suicidal to social. Huh. Crazy what a little compassion can do to a person huh?
Epilogue
Jaye
Two weeks before Christmas...
“You look handsome,” my mother coos at Archer. “But your tie is crooked.”
Instinctively he turns towards me to fix it. With a wide smile, I straighten out the black bow tie and deliver a quick peck on the lips. “All better.”
“Is everyone ready?” He warmly asks pulling his keys out of his pocket.
“How drunk am I allowed to get?” my dad asks grabbing his coat. “Archer is designated driver and every drink is for a good cause...”
“Charles,” my mother scolds him.
The yearly charity event that our school holds in the winter always raises money for a specific charity picked out by an employee. It's a combination of our Christmas party and a fundraiser. The employee’s tickets are bought and paid for along with one guest, while the pa
rents and the community are allowed to buy tickets to the silent auction, the dinner, and the cash bar. All proceeds are donated to the charity. There's also a toy drive that happens every year, despite where the cash proceeds end up. This year, I flagged Presley down early and put in my suggestion for helping the homeless. She agreed, did the research and when the time came it's the one she picked. I was so excited! Hell, I'm still excited.
“Have as many as you like sir,” Archer suggests helping me put my coat on. “That goes for everyone. Just have a good time.”
