have time to figure out why anyone would have dirty shoes.
“What?” He asks, equally confused.
“If they were dirty I would either clean them or replace them. I don’t have dirty shoes.”
“Don’t you ever walk through the fields around here?”
“Rarely anymore.”
Jason considers my statements. I assume most of the girls he hangs out with have dirty shoes. For some reason, out of all the differences in our lives, this distinction makes me insecure. Not enough to own dirty shoes, but it’s an odd longing.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, and he walks out the door. I run after him.
“Jason!” He turns to me, halfway to his truck already. “Call me if something comes up.” He’s never called me. How is it possible in the past month he has never called, never texted, not once? Jason walks back, his gray eyes lit; they are almost blue in the morning sunlight.
“Are you concerned I never call you?” No, I’m concerned you always know what I’m thinking. “Because there’s no need to call you.”
“What if something happens? Things do happen.”
“Nothing will happen. If I say I’m going to be here, I’ll be here.” Right .
* * *
I stress about dirty shoes all day. Surely, in the wake of my parents’ tragic death, I could find something else to stress about. Even beyond my own personal strife there’s world hunger, terrorist organizations, and ship hijacking. All kinds of screwed-up stuff, but nooo, it’s dirty shoes that occupy my mind.
I settle on a white eyelet dress. It’s a tank top with a full skirt that hits mid-calf. It will hopefully hide the green Hunter boots I’m sporting beneath it. In the mirror it’s fine. The dress is so pretty it draws the eye up, but my reflection is funny. And I know it. These boots can survive just about anything, though. They can get as dirty as he wants. That idea gets me hot. I finish brushing my teeth as I hear his truck door close. He appears in my bedroom doorway as I’m looking for my denim jacket in my closet. I don’t think I took it to Rutgers.
“Hey,” I say, and hold my breath. I defiantly let it out. These boots are only going to work if I force them to.
“Hey yourself. You ready to go?” he asks.
“Where are we going?”
“A Jackpot. Out by the Harrison farm,” he says, and begins to study the pictures on my dresser. Most of them are from high school. He pauses at a picture of Margo and me from a swim meet. We’re in our swimsuits and caps and hugging each other as if the end of time is near. “How come you didn’t swim in college?” I stop searching, but don’t turn to him. “You’re picture was always in the paper for winning.”
“Did you like those? Was it the sexy suit or the goggles?” I ask, blushing from his memories.
“You didn’t answer me.” I hate you sometimes .
“Can we talk about something else?” Jason moves from my dresser to stand directly in front of me. He’s close and I reach out to him from habit. The habit of wanting.
“There’s nothing you can’t say to me,” he says, and I feel the truth of his words in my bones. He grabs my wrists and I wince at the cutting pain. He freezes and examines each one as he rubs his thumbs over them. They are red and bruised and my right one has a small blister on it. Jason’s face is stricken.
“It’s not about not telling you. I’m pretty clear on your complete lack of boundaries.” He brings each wrist to his lips and kisses them, running his lips back and forth over them. I watch in awe as the chill runs through me.
“Never again,” he says.
“It was the opposite of hurting me.” I see my denim jacket hanging out of the corner of the blanket chest at the end of my bed. I pass Jason, expecting him to stop me and force a response from me regarding the swim team, but he lets me go. I grab the jacket and walk out of my room.
Jason follows me to his truck and passes me right before I reach the passenger door. He opens it
“What?” He asks, equally confused.
“If they were dirty I would either clean them or replace them. I don’t have dirty shoes.”
“Don’t you ever walk through the fields around here?”
“Rarely anymore.”
Jason considers my statements. I assume most of the girls he hangs out with have dirty shoes. For some reason, out of all the differences in our lives, this distinction makes me insecure. Not enough to own dirty shoes, but it’s an odd longing.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, and he walks out the door. I run after him.
“Jason!” He turns to me, halfway to his truck already. “Call me if something comes up.” He’s never called me. How is it possible in the past month he has never called, never texted, not once? Jason walks back, his gray eyes lit; they are almost blue in the morning sunlight.
“Are you concerned I never call you?” No, I’m concerned you always know what I’m thinking. “Because there’s no need to call you.”
“What if something happens? Things do happen.”
“Nothing will happen. If I say I’m going to be here, I’ll be here.” Right .
* * *
I stress about dirty shoes all day. Surely, in the wake of my parents’ tragic death, I could find something else to stress about. Even beyond my own personal strife there’s world hunger, terrorist organizations, and ship hijacking. All kinds of screwed-up stuff, but nooo, it’s dirty shoes that occupy my mind.
I settle on a white eyelet dress. It’s a tank top with a full skirt that hits mid-calf. It will hopefully hide the green Hunter boots I’m sporting beneath it. In the mirror it’s fine. The dress is so pretty it draws the eye up, but my reflection is funny. And I know it. These boots can survive just about anything, though. They can get as dirty as he wants. That idea gets me hot. I finish brushing my teeth as I hear his truck door close. He appears in my bedroom doorway as I’m looking for my denim jacket in my closet. I don’t think I took it to Rutgers.
“Hey,” I say, and hold my breath. I defiantly let it out. These boots are only going to work if I force them to.
“Hey yourself. You ready to go?” he asks.
“Where are we going?”
“A Jackpot. Out by the Harrison farm,” he says, and begins to study the pictures on my dresser. Most of them are from high school. He pauses at a picture of Margo and me from a swim meet. We’re in our swimsuits and caps and hugging each other as if the end of time is near. “How come you didn’t swim in college?” I stop searching, but don’t turn to him. “You’re picture was always in the paper for winning.”
“Did you like those? Was it the sexy suit or the goggles?” I ask, blushing from his memories.
“You didn’t answer me.” I hate you sometimes .
“Can we talk about something else?” Jason moves from my dresser to stand directly in front of me. He’s close and I reach out to him from habit. The habit of wanting.
“There’s nothing you can’t say to me,” he says, and I feel the truth of his words in my bones. He grabs my wrists and I wince at the cutting pain. He freezes and examines each one as he rubs his thumbs over them. They are red and bruised and my right one has a small blister on it. Jason’s face is stricken.
“It’s not about not telling you. I’m pretty clear on your complete lack of boundaries.” He brings each wrist to his lips and kisses them, running his lips back and forth over them. I watch in awe as the chill runs through me.
“Never again,” he says.
“It was the opposite of hurting me.” I see my denim jacket hanging out of the corner of the blanket chest at the end of my bed. I pass Jason, expecting him to stop me and force a response from me regarding the swim team, but he lets me go. I grab the jacket and walk out of my room.
Jason follows me to his truck and passes me right before I reach the passenger door. He opens it
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