by Jiffy Kate
“Sure,” I say, nodding. “You gonna be okay while I’m gone?”
“Yeah, I’ll just call Sharon if I need anything.”
Of course you will.
When I get out on the sidewalk, I take a deep breath in an effort to clear my mind and regroup. If I don’t let this shit with Graham go, we’ll be at each other’s throats for the next month. I had hoped this would bring us closer, help us remember what’s important. Hopefully, now that everything is out in the open, we can begin to work through it.
Hopefully.
I exhale a heavy breath, willing myself to believe it.
Standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change, I feel the vibration from my phone in my pocket and pull it out to check the incoming message.
Micah: In your absence, I’ve taken over the role of family photographer.
I glance up to see the light has changed and it’s now safe to cross. After I’m on the other side, I open up the message and see the picture attached. It’s of Deacon and he’s sleeping with his mouth open and drool on his chin. I laugh out loud and text back a laughing emoticon with tears coming from its eyes.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes again.
Micah: Hope NYC is treating you well. If not, La will gladly take you back. ;)
Sheridan
THINGS BETWEEN GRAHAM AND ME have calmed down. We haven’t argued anymore, but we also haven’t talked much, either. I get him what he needs and help him when he needs me, but other than that, we’re just sharing space. Instead of this bringing us closer, I feel like we’re drifting further apart.
Other than a few phone calls from Piper, my texts with Micah are the highlights of my days.
Me: How’s the party?
Micah: Deke and Tucker are doing drunk karaoke, and the dogs just swiped a plate of pork off the table. Mama has declared the party “utter chaos” and is searching for more wine.
Me: Sounds like fun to me.
Micah: Yep, just a typical Friday at the Landry Plantation. Too bad you can’t put that in your article.
Me: I could make a last minute change.
Micah: I’d hate for you to compromise your integrity. It’s really something you should experience firsthand.
Me: Wow, you sound . . . sober.
Micah: Autocorrect is a great thing, Dani.
Me: LOL. Happy birthday, Micah.
Micah: Night, Chuck.
Sheridan
GRAHAM’S PHYSICAL THERAPIST STOPPED BY yesterday and introduced herself as Kaitlyn Thomas. She was a younger woman, pretty, with long dark hair, almond-shaped dark brown eyes. I groan, knowing the flirting won’t stop when Nurse Sharon is out of the picture.
Couldn’t they have sent some big, burly dude to be his physical therapist?
Kaitlyn is supposed to start with some simple exercises at the beginning of next week. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll have his cast off in four more weeks, and that should be the same time he’ll start the more intense physical therapy.
We’ve only been at this for two weeks, but I’m already counting down the days. I’m not cut out for the nursing field. Luckily, Micah is never too far from his phone. I tap out a text, realizing just how much I count on him to keep me sane.
Me: So glad I didn’t go into the medical field.
Micah: Being a nurse ain’t your thing, I take it?
Me: Definitely not. I’m not sure whether it’s me or the patient, though.
Micah: How’s what’s-his-face doing?
Me: Graham is as grumpy as ever.
Micah: You know I’ll gladly kick his ass for you, right?
Me: It’s not quite that bad. I won’t deny dreaming about hiding his wire hanger so he can’t scratch his leg, though.
Micah: Damn, you’re meaner than I realized. I like it.
Sheridan
SAUSAGE.
Oil.
Flour.
Milk.
I check to make sure I have all the ingredients to make my granny’s recipe for sausage gravy. This morning, I woke up craving it. Maybe I really need her, or the memory of her—regardless, some serious breakfast cooking is about to go down in my kitchen.
I take out my granny’s old cast iron skillet and pile the ingredients on the counter beside the stove. Graham is preoccupied with Nurse Sharon, who brought him a chocolate croissant and an Americano for breakfast. She didn’t ask me if I wanted anything. Come to think of it, she pretty much acts like I’m not even here. But that’s okay. Croissants are great, but nothing beats my granny’s gravy.
I overhear Sharon telling Graham he no longer needs to use the sling for his arm, which makes him happy and more mobile. He’s starting to go stir crazy, but I can’t blame him. I mean, at least I get to go out and run errands. He’s stuck in that bed. I help him change positions as frequently as possible, but there’s only so much you can do when your leg must remain completely immobile.
To save time, I pop open a can of biscuits and place them on a baking sheet.
“Hush, Granny.” I smile to myself, knowing she probably wants to march down here, scold me for using biscuits out of a can, and make her famous cathead biscuits, which gained their name from literally being the size of a cat’s head. “I don’t have time, nor enough flour,” I mutter, bending down to make sure I have the flame just right before pouring a little cooking oil into my skillet.
As I slice off half the roll of sausage and get ready to put it into the hot skillet, I hear her voice in my ear.
“Now, sister, what have I told you about the sausage?”
“The more sausage, the more flour I’ll have to use. And the more flour I use, the more milk.”
“With that much sausage, you’ll have enough gravy to feed an army.”
I smirk, knowing she’s right. I pinch off half of what I was originally going to use and put it in the skillet. When the sausage is nice and browned, I begin spooning in a little flour, eyeballing it just like she would. The smell filling my kitchen is also filling my heart. I can feel her here with me, and it’s just what I need after the week I’ve had.
Soon, the flour and sausage are a perfect shade of brown, so I begin to stir in the milk. I watch as the few simple ingredients meld together to make something so delicious. The timer on the oven and the correct thickness of the gravy coincide with Sharon’s departure. I pop my head into the living room and ask Graham if he’s still hungry.
“What are you cooking?”
“Gravy and biscuits,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows with excitement.
“Ew. No thanks. I’ve never liked that stuff.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, laughing. “What’s not to like about biscuits and gravy?”
“I guess it’s a texture thing.”
I shake my head at him. “Have you tried it in the last ten years? Your taste buds change, you know.”
He smirks up at me and shakes his head. “No, but I’m full from the breakfast Sharon brought.”
I turn around and huff out my frustration, walking back to the kitchen to make myself a bowl of delicious breakfast goodness.
As I take a second to enjoy the masterpiece, I’m suddenly very aware of how Graham never seems to appreciate anything I do these days.
Before I take a bite, I snap a quick picture and text it to someone who I know will appreciate this moment with me.
Before I can bring my fork to my mouth for another bite, my phone dings with an incoming text.
Micah: Are you sexting me now?
Me: What?
I laugh.
Me: No. I’m not sexting you.
Micah: Yeah, you are. That’s food porn. It’s considered sexting. Stop it.
Me: Well, congratulations. You’re my first.
Micah: Good to know. ;) Looks delicious! I’ll be over in ten minutes.
Me: There’s plenty!
Micah: Don’t tease me like that, woman. You better hope my mama made breakfast.
Me: Channeling my i
nner granny.
Micah: She’d be proud. :) Cooking for the boyfriend, I assume?
Me: Nope, just me. The boyfriend doesn’t like biscuits and gravy. “It’s a texture thing.”
Micah: *rolls eyes* Who doesn’t like biscuits and gravy? Are you sure he’s not a Communist?
I laugh and begin to cough, choking on a mouthful of my breakfast.
“What’s so funny?” Graham asks when I walk back into the living room and curl up in the chair with my bowl.
“Oh, um, Piper just sent me a funny picture.”
He grunts and rolls his eyes. He and Piper have never really seen eye to eye. According to her, he’s too serious. According to him, she’s too flighty.
After breakfast, I clean up the kitchen and put on some soup I know Graham likes. More than anything, cooking keeps me from going stir crazy. Sitting around this apartment makes me miss Louisiana. At least I still have a few photos to edit from the plantation shoot. I’ve spent quite a bit of time looking through them and getting lost in the images. Yesterday, I picked out a few of the ones Micah had said were his favorites and sent off an order to be printed. I also added in a couple I know Annie will enjoy. I thought about mentioning the pictures in one of our text messages, but decided I’d rather it be a surprise.
“I’m going to call a few of the magazines and newspapers you gave me numbers for,” I tell Graham, knowing it will make him happy. “I figure if I put my name and application out there now, I should have a new job by the time you’re back on your feet.” It’s not what I want to do, but it’s something, and who knows? Maybe I’ll find something that inspires me like the plantation did.
“That’s really great, Dani,” he says, sounding enthusiastic about something I’ve said for the first time since I’ve been back home.
I sigh, my mind immediately drifting to lush green grass, trees, blue skies . . . blue eyes. I shake my head to redirect my thoughts.
“Hey, we should watch a movie or something,” Graham suggests. I look up to see him propped up on his good elbow, smiling over at me. “I wish I could take you on a date to thank you for all you’re doing for me right now, but . . .” he hesitates, pointing down to his leg, “unless you’ve got a wheelchair and you want to wheel me down the sidewalk . . .”
“Uh, no. Your ass is staying in that bed until Nurse Sharon says otherwise.” I smile back at him, enjoying the easiness. “We could have a date here. I’ll even change out of these sweats.” I pull at the baggy sweatpants I’ve been wearing since yesterday.
“Oooh, really? Are you going to put on a pair of those yoga pants?”
“Maybe. If you’re lucky.”
“I’m feelin’ lucky.” He winks.
“You weren’t feelin’ so lucky a couple weeks ago, were you, buddy?” I tease, walking over to check his bandages and make sure his bag doesn’t need to be emptied.
So romantic.
After I’ve made sure everything is good, I give him the bowl of soup and set him up with a tray before going to take a shower.
“I’ll be right out,” I tell him, glancing back over my shoulder.
The way he smiles back at me reminds me of better times, better days. Maybe everything isn’t lost. Maybe this last ditch effort will work after all.
After a shower and a change of clothes, I feel like a new person. Sometimes it’s the little things.
I pop a bowl of popcorn and move the big chair closer to his hospital bed. Holding up a couple DVDs, I ask, “Tommy Boy or Black Sheep?” Both are two of our favorites from our college days. We’ve watched them a hundred times and still laugh every single time.
“Black Sheep,” he says.
Falling comfortably into the world of Chris Farley and David Spade is easy and familiar, like an old pair of worn jeans. I lean my head back on the chair, getting comfortable. Graham reaches over with his good arm and runs his fingers through my still damp hair. Normally, it would put me right to sleep, but I can’t keep from laughing at the idiots on the television. Hearing Graham’s snort behind me makes me laugh even harder.
My side aches, my cheeks hurt, and it just feels good.
When the movie is over, we put Tommy Boy in, deciding to make it a marathon. The more we laugh, the more the funk we’ve been in seems to dissipate. Graham continues to stroke my hair and rub my shoulder. I intertwine my fingers with his and give them a light squeeze. For the first time in a long time, it feels good to be with him.
“I missed you, D.”
“I missed you, too, Graham.” It’s the truth. Despite the hurt and disappointment, I missed him—I missed this.
Sheridan
AFTER MAKING SOME CALLS AND emailing my résumé to a few newspapers and magazines, I was relieved to get some callbacks. While the nurse and physical therapist are here today, I’m going to a couple of interviews and will hopefully land a job, which will get Graham off my back and get me out of this apartment for more than a grocery shopping trip or food run. I’m thankful that Graham is improving and needing me less and less, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
As I’m dressing for my interview and trying to figure out which skirt to wear, my phone buzzes from the dresser. I’m guessing it’s another text from Piper. I put her down as a reference and she’s been texting or calling every time a newspaper contacts her, letting me know how it went and what she thinks about them.
Southern Style was so pleased with my work on the Landry Plantation article, they’re considering the idea I pitched to Piper a week or so ago about roadside diners. Piper thought it would make a fantastic spread for the first fall issue in September, but if that’s going to happen, I’d have to start working on it within the next month or so, since it’s already June. Though, until I know for sure, I have to keep looking for something else.
Just thinking about the article hitting the shelves next month makes my stomach feel like birds are taking flight. I’m equally scared to death that it won’t be as good as it needs to be and over-the-top excited that something I created is going to be in a publication like Southern Style. It’s a dream come true. The fact that the success of that article will determine whether or not I get more opportunities like that makes me nervous. I want that. I want to feel inspired and do what I love. I want it so bad.
Grabbing my phone and bag off the bed, I try not to think about the what-ifs and focus on what I have to do today. That’s pretty much been my motto these last three weeks: one day at a time.
When I walk into the living room, Nurse Sharon is already fussing over Graham, so I say my goodbyes and head out to the elevator. I push the button for the first floor and look down at my phone to shoot Piper a quick text back, but it wasn’t her after all.
Micah: I’m bored. Let’s play a game.
Me: I’m headed out to an interview. Can I have a rain check?
Micah: An interview, huh? Does this mean you’re out of the freelance game?
Me: No, but I have to keep looking. I’ll be living off Top Ramen if I don’t get a job soon. LOL
Micah: I’m sure you could come up with lots of good ways to make noodles.
Me: Subject for another cookbook.
Micah: Now, that’s what I’m talking about! How’s that going, by the way?
Me: Still on the back burner.
Micah: I think you need to bring it to the front, let it come to a boil. ;)
Me: Maybe someday. Right now, I’m about to get my ass run over by a taxi. Gotta go!
Micah: Be careful! Good luck on the interview!
Me: How about that game?
Micah: How’d the interview go?
Me: Okay, I guess. Not really what I want to do, but it’ll pay the bills. IF I get it.
Micah: Well, I hope you find something perfect for you. Nothing but the best for Sheridan Reed!
Me: The game?
Micah: Oh, right. The game. You ready?
Me: Yes, but I have to tell you, I could go pro with my pinochle skills.
&n
bsp; Micah: Duly noted. How about 20 Questions?
Me: Sure. Are you a person, place, or thing?
Micah: What? No, not that 20 Questions.
Me: There’s more than one version of 20 Questions?
Micah: Holy hell, woman. I just meant we should ask each other questions to learn more about each other.
Me: Oh, well, that’s not really a game. That’s called getting to know each other.
Micah: Are you always a pain in the ass?
Me: Is that your first question?
Micah: You’re lucky you’re hot.
Me: You think I’m hot?
Micah: Is that your first question for me?
Me: Maybe.
Micah: Then my answer is yes.
Sheridan
GRAHAM’S LIGHT SNORES FROM HIS bed make me look up from the television show I’ve been zoning out on for the past hour. I don’t even know what I’m watching, some survivor show on Discovery. I yawn and consider closing my eyes. Watching Graham sleep makes me tired, even though I shouldn’t be. I haven’t done shit today.
The nurse came earlier this morning and helped Graham shower . . . well, I guess she just supported his leg while he showered himself. Then Kaitlyn came by for his physical therapy session. So, I guess technically, Graham has been the more productive one today. Although, while he was doing his PT, I did run down to the store to grab a few things for nachos later, so I wasn’t a total bum.
When another loud snore erupts from Graham’s sleeping form, I glare at him, willing him to stop breathing.
Everything he does lately annoys the shit out of me. He smacks when he eats. He breathes heavily. He snores. He also does this weird hacking thing all the time. And hearing him whine about not being able to work or go do his guy things makes me want to stab my eardrums. He should’ve kept his ass at home and we wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Maybe it’s me?
Maybe I need out of this apartment.
Maybe it’s time for Aunt Flo to visit. I think, counting back days since my last period. I don’t really keep track of it since my sex life has been non-existent.
