Read Online Someone Else's Love Story by Joshilyn Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joshilyn Jackson
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tried to tell, saying only that my son felt like a miracle. Some man of God he turned out to be; he actually made a pooh-pooh noise, blowing out air in two fat, dismissive pops. So I sat on his flowered sofa and agreed with whatever words his mouth made until our time was up. At the end, he told me I’d have trust issues with men and gave me a book called Godly Wifehood . Dad sent me to a shrink, and it was much the same. Dr. Fleiss told me I’d have control issues with sex and gave me a scrip for the pill.
I refused to go back to either one of them, ever, but I threw the book away and filled the prescription. Score one for Judaism.
Now, with Natty tucked so close I didn’t know whose scared heartbeat I felt pounding through me, his or mine, I was filled with crazy regret. That night, this child—they were connected. I looked at my lovely boy, and for the first time, I admitted I had no idea where he’d gotten that wide mouth, his stompy walk, his boxy little shoulders. I’d always thought of these things as purely his, afraid that if I didn’t, then I couldn’t love him. Oh but how foolish! How small-minded! I loved him now, so hard, inside this Circle K, that I would die to keep him safe. I loved every single piece, no matter where it came from. That had always been true, but I had been too cowardly to know it.
Now I understood exactly how a baby started knitting himself together inside me, how he got born a full year and seventeen days before Walcott finally popped my cherry, and nothing about the way I loved him changed.
I couldn’t die here, though. I had no story in place to protect my son from the truth I’d just acknowledged. Unthinkable, that Natty could grow up without me there to tell him that I loved his every cell, always, no matter what.
I had to get at that file cabinet. I had to get that gun. I would shoot Stevie a hundred times and end this, and then I would take Natty outside into the sunshine where Walcott was waiting to drive us to Atlanta. I could almost see an alternate version of me, some superhero girl, bold and unmerciful, fixing everything. But I kept on sitting on my ass, holding Natty, and not being her. Guns might be powerful, might be fearless, but I wasn’t.
The sirens stopped. Whoever had been coming, they were here. Stevie stood by the wall, his tantrum spent, panting. His eyes looked wild and there was spit on his bottom lip, making it look glossy and girlish in spite of his soul-patch beard.
We all sat, me pickling myself sour in my own helplessness, waiting to see what the police would do. Waiting to see what Stevie would do. He chose pacing, close up under the windows, twitchy and jerky.
“Shut up and let me think,” Stevie yelled, though none of us had spoken. He sounded angry and scared.
Then the phone rang.
It was a cordless phone in a wall charger hanging above the desk. It made Stevie jump and swing the gun toward it. I jumped, too, and Natty jumped, and the clerk made a gasping noise. It rang again.
“Should I get that?” Stevie asked. He jammed his empty hand up under his cap and scratched savagely at his head.
None of us answered. He asked again, this time looking directly at the clerk. She was the one who had answered his last question, but she sat weeping, fat tears plopping endlessly onto her jeans.
It rang five times, and then I guess it went to voice mail.
Stevie gave up on her and glared from one of us to another, spook-eyed, like a panicked horse. An endless thirty seconds passed.
The phone rang again.
“Shit!” Stevie said, between the next two rings.
Thor spoke then, and his voice was low and so calm I felt it like a soothing herbal wrap. “You should answer it.” He sounded very sure.
Stevie started toward the phone, then stopped, uncertain. He waffled, and it rang for the fifth time. It stopped again.
“Next time,” Thor said, calm. “They’ll call again.”
Stevie looked at him, then nodded.
We waited, but the phone didn’t
I refused to go back to either one of them, ever, but I threw the book away and filled the prescription. Score one for Judaism.
Now, with Natty tucked so close I didn’t know whose scared heartbeat I felt pounding through me, his or mine, I was filled with crazy regret. That night, this child—they were connected. I looked at my lovely boy, and for the first time, I admitted I had no idea where he’d gotten that wide mouth, his stompy walk, his boxy little shoulders. I’d always thought of these things as purely his, afraid that if I didn’t, then I couldn’t love him. Oh but how foolish! How small-minded! I loved him now, so hard, inside this Circle K, that I would die to keep him safe. I loved every single piece, no matter where it came from. That had always been true, but I had been too cowardly to know it.
Now I understood exactly how a baby started knitting himself together inside me, how he got born a full year and seventeen days before Walcott finally popped my cherry, and nothing about the way I loved him changed.
I couldn’t die here, though. I had no story in place to protect my son from the truth I’d just acknowledged. Unthinkable, that Natty could grow up without me there to tell him that I loved his every cell, always, no matter what.
I had to get at that file cabinet. I had to get that gun. I would shoot Stevie a hundred times and end this, and then I would take Natty outside into the sunshine where Walcott was waiting to drive us to Atlanta. I could almost see an alternate version of me, some superhero girl, bold and unmerciful, fixing everything. But I kept on sitting on my ass, holding Natty, and not being her. Guns might be powerful, might be fearless, but I wasn’t.
The sirens stopped. Whoever had been coming, they were here. Stevie stood by the wall, his tantrum spent, panting. His eyes looked wild and there was spit on his bottom lip, making it look glossy and girlish in spite of his soul-patch beard.
We all sat, me pickling myself sour in my own helplessness, waiting to see what the police would do. Waiting to see what Stevie would do. He chose pacing, close up under the windows, twitchy and jerky.
“Shut up and let me think,” Stevie yelled, though none of us had spoken. He sounded angry and scared.
Then the phone rang.
It was a cordless phone in a wall charger hanging above the desk. It made Stevie jump and swing the gun toward it. I jumped, too, and Natty jumped, and the clerk made a gasping noise. It rang again.
“Should I get that?” Stevie asked. He jammed his empty hand up under his cap and scratched savagely at his head.
None of us answered. He asked again, this time looking directly at the clerk. She was the one who had answered his last question, but she sat weeping, fat tears plopping endlessly onto her jeans.
It rang five times, and then I guess it went to voice mail.
Stevie gave up on her and glared from one of us to another, spook-eyed, like a panicked horse. An endless thirty seconds passed.
The phone rang again.
“Shit!” Stevie said, between the next two rings.
Thor spoke then, and his voice was low and so calm I felt it like a soothing herbal wrap. “You should answer it.” He sounded very sure.
Stevie started toward the phone, then stopped, uncertain. He waffled, and it rang for the fifth time. It stopped again.
“Next time,” Thor said, calm. “They’ll call again.”
Stevie looked at him, then nodded.
We waited, but the phone didn’t
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