Blind Date(16)

I snort. Lena is kind like that. Every time she bakes, she brings me something, I guess she brings him some, too.

Smothering a laugh, I say, "Well, it wouldn't have killed you to come and say hello to me, or hell, just a nod would have been nice."

He makes a grumbling sound, and wiggles the milk jug a little, as if trying to bring my attention to it. "Still going on about that?"

Hmmm. He's right. I really need to let it go.

I cross my arms. "I told you I wasn't going to lend you milk, or sugar … " 

The muscle in his jaw jumps. "Well, I'm askin' you to borrow some. Are you going to give it to me, or do I have to go back and tell my mom, who drove twelve hours to see me, that my neighbor didn't want to lend me milk because I didn't say hello to her?"

Smart-ass.

* * *

Damn him. I can't deny his poor mother, even if I want to throttle him.

"I'm sure your mother would be appalled by your lack of manners. I'm very certain if I told her how rude you are, she'd probably give you a stern talking to."

He grunts. "Are you this annoying to everyone you meet, or am I just lucky enough to get all of it?"

I raise my brows. "Do you want that milk or not?"

There goes that jaw muscle again. "You know how far the store is from here, so that would be a yes. I didn't come here to chat."

"That's obvious," I mutter. "You could, at the very least, say please."

He inhales through his nose, and then bites out a "Please."

"There now," I say, snatching the jug out of his hand. "That wasn't so hard."

I turn and strut into my apartment, feeling pretty good about my little remark. Taylor wiggles her brows as I go past, a cheeky grin on her face. "That was kind of funny. I didn't know you two even spoke."

I shrug. "We don't. I've just called him rude, on more than one occasion."

"You didn't share this with me!" she whisper-yells.

"Soon," I whisper-yell back. "He needs milk."

I get him his milk, and then close the fridge, walking back to the door where he's still standing, staring through the space and into my apartment. I thrust the jug at him and look at him expectantly when he takes it from my hands. "You should really get your locks changed, they're terrible. And that back window is flimsy. An old woman could break into it. You might want to look into that."

With that, he turns and strides off down the hall.

"You're welcome!" I call out after him.

I could swear he raises his hand and wiggles his fingers just slightly, but I'm probably imagining things. The man doesn't have manners. I close the door and turn back to Taylor, who is pretty much standing on top of me, peering over my shoulder where Ace just disappeared to.

"That man is so damn fine. Have you taken a look at his ass?"

I turn around and shoot her a look.

"What?" she says innocently, batting her eyelashes. "I'm just saying."

"I have not looked at his ass. I'm too busy studying his rude, jerky face."

I lied. I have totally looked at his ass.

More than once.

"You're a terrible liar," she laughs. "Now come and tell me more about Jacob. I want to know all the juicy details."

We sit on the sofa, and I spend the next few hours telling her about Jacob.

And all the juicy details.

* * *

I stare at the item of clothing, holding it in my hand for a long, long moment. So long I could swear my fingers go numb. I just look down at it. It's so familiar. I should know because he used to wear it every Sunday when we'd watch football together. It was his favorite. We brought it when we went on a vacation to Thailand. The old, gray T-shirt is more than familiar to me.

What I don't understand is why it's sitting on my kitchen table.

It's early morning, just past eight, and I woke to find the shirt just draped over the table, like it had been placed there. Raymond's items have been boxed up since about six months after he passed, sitting in my spare room until I can bring myself to either put them in storage or finally part with them. I taped those boxes closed. I'm sure I did.


      ///
       
         
       
        

Shaking my head, I walk down the hall, the shirt still gripped tightly in my fingers, and I push open the door to my spare room. I walk over to the box labeled CLOTHING and I study it. Sealed shut. It doesn't even look like it has been tampered with. Maybe I didn't pack this shirt? I rack my brain trying to remember if I put it in, but I don't remember. It was an emotional day packing away all his belongings, I don't recall any particular moments like that.