Jesse keeps talking to Christopher about comic books, which is keeping the tears under control for the moment. I step back again, giving them space. At the same time, I look around for Thor, wondering if he’s still lurking under the cat tree.
He is, but in the process of checking up on him, I notice something else. There are a few pictures on the mantel above the fireplace, but they’re all of an older couple—I assume Jesse’s parents—and of Jesse himself. I don’t see any pictures that look like they could be his sister. There’s one tacked to the refrigerator door that I think might be her, but that’s it. It looks to me like the cat isn’t the only one who’s not dealing well with the mourning process.
“I’ll go get you a comic book, okay?” Jesse says, and gets up. I turn just in time to see Christopher fling himself bodily onto the floor, screaming and thumping the carpet with his fists. I can’t make any sense out of what he’s saying, but it’s something to do with the kitty, Spider-Man, and the little girl, Rosa, who he was playing with at the party.
“Woah,” says Jesse. “What did I do?”
I sigh. “Nothing. You were fine. He’s just tired and probably over stimulated.” I go to kneel next to him, rubbing his back. “Christopher, calm down. It’s okay.”
“Kitty!” The word is followed by more incomprehensible words at high volume. I resist the temptation to yell at him, because it won’t do any good.
“Would you mind going for a drive?” I ask Jesse. “He needs to sleep, and I don’t think he’s going to calm down just from us talking to him.”
He looks skeptical. “Do you think it’s a good idea for me to come with?”
“It might be easier if there’s one person to drive and one person to help calm Christopher down.”
He nods. “All right. Let me get my jacket.”
It’s a bit of a struggle to get Christopher into his car seat. He wants to go back to the party, but he doesn’t want to go anywhere else, and I think he’s figured out that going back to the party isn’t one of the options. He arches his back and screams and smacks me in the face a couple of times. Jesse stands by, looking on with an expression on his face that’s a mix of bemused and terrified. It would be hilarious if I weren’t so busy getting beaten up by my own kid.
Suddenly, though, Jesse moves forward. “Hey, Christopher.” He says it in a normal tone. I’m grateful for this. A lot of people would just start yelling right away, but he seems to understand that’s not the direction I want to go. “You want to see the fire station? If you’ll sit still and let your mom buckle you up, we can go see the trucks.”
I toss him a grateful look. It’s bribery, sure, but it’s harmless bribery, not like offering him candy or ice cream or something that’s not only bad for him but that would likely make everything worse.
“Trucks?” Christopher asks. His face is tear-streaked and red, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so exhausted in his entire short life.
“Yeah. Big red fire trucks.” Jesse glances at me, eyebrows raised in question, and I nod. “You like fire trucks?”
“Like trucks.”
He calms down a little, his breath still hitching but the sobbing starting to fade. I take the opportunity to click the car seat buckles into place. “Great,” I tell him, forcing praise into my voice. “Let’s go. I bet the trucks are really cool.”
I make sure everything is secure then round the car to the driver’s seat, mouthing, “Thank you,” at Jesse as I go.
He waves urgently and says quietly, “Let me drive. That way you can keep an eye on him.”
It’s not a bad idea. I head the opposite direction, toward the passenger side, and hand him my keys when we meet in the middle.
He still looks bemused as he turns the key in the ignition. He’s probably never dealt with a little kid before. They can be confusing creatures, that’s for sure.
“Trucks,” says Christopher as we start down the street. “Where trucks?”
At first I’m afraid the question’s going to lead to another meltdown, but he’s put too much energy into resisting the seat belt. We haven’t driven quite a quarter of a mile before his eyelids start to droop. He fights it for a minute or two, little sobs of protest bursting out of him, but then his breathing settles into that slow, quiet rhythm that makes it clear he’s finally succumbed.
Jesse glances at him in the rearview mirror. “Is he out?” he whispers.
“I think so.” I don’t whisper, but I do keep my voice down. No point tempting fate. I turn to look out the front window. I’m not entirely sure where we are at this point, since I haven’t been paying attention. “Don’t feel obligated to go to the fire station.”
He nods. “Was I wrong to ask him that?”
“No. It was fine.” I smile. “Stroke of genius, actually.”
His eyes meet mine and he returns the smile. It’s a moment. A nice moment. It lasts long enough I’m afraid he’s going to wreck the car, so I break eye contact first. He turns his attention back to the street and clears his throat.
We’re both quiet for a time, the only sound the deep whoosh of Christopher’s breathing and an occasional sleepy whimper. Jesse takes a turn I’m not familiar with, and I realize we’re going uphill. I’d ask him where we’re going, but I realize I don’t care. I know I’m safe with him. It’s a nice feeling.
He finally turns off onto a side road and parks. Again, I’m not sure where we are, but the headlights are glinting off water, and when he rolls the windows down I can hear the ripple of waves. A soft breeze moves through the car, tinted with salt. I take a long, slow breath, letting my body relax. I hadn’t realized how tense I was.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “Or do I need to keep driving?”
I glance back at Christopher. He’s still out like a light. “I think it’s okay.”
Jesse nods, and again there’s a long silence. I start to tense up again. I’m thinking too much. Why is he doing this? Why am I so willing to let him?
He looks at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“Who says I’m thinking?”
“I can hear things grinding inside your head.”
I can’t help but chuckle a little. I’ve been told my “thinking face” looks like I’m plotting an assassination. I like Jesse’s description better.
The amusement dies, though, as my thoughts shift to wondering if I want to tell him what’s grinding in my head. “Nothing. Not really.”
“C’mon. You look like it was super serious.”
I sigh. I don’t want to hash this out with him. There’s no point. We’ll do our thing with the fake dating, then he’ll be off on his own and I’ll be by myself again. Muddying the waters right now will just make it weird, and all I really want is to convince Mom and Dad to cosign my loan for vet school. I don’t want to end up with a real boyfriend. Or end up mourning a breakup with a fake one.
His face is so open, though, eyebrows raised like he really wants to know. Finally I tell him, “I was just wondering why you’re even doing this.”
“Doing what? Sitting in your car?”
“No.” I turn to look out the front window, out over the expanse of water leading to the ocean. It’s black and rippled, moonlight and streetlights casting diamond sparkles. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“But why would you? You don’t need to work so hard to make things seem real.”
He seems so close all of a sudden, although neither of us has moved. I can almost feel his heat there next to me. “I’m not working at anything.”
I feel suddenly trapped, like he’s cornered me. My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t inhale past the block to draw in air. I swallow hard and finally manage to say, “This isn’t funny, Jesse.”
“What isn’t funny?” He’s closer. I can feel the waft of his breath on my face.
I close my eyes, open them again, and shift back as far as I can in the seat. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Jesse.” Much to my surprise, my voice is firm. “You know it’s not real. You’re just pretending. We both are. You have no interest in a real relationship.”
“I don’t?” There’s a sultry layer to his voice that’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before from him or anyone else. My body’s starting to tingle. Parts of it are starting to burn.
“Of course you don’t. Especially not with me. I’m not kidding myself here. I know I’m not your type.”
“Yes, you are.”
Why does he keep doing that? It’s infuriating, especially when my hands want nothing more than to grab him and drag his mouth down to mine.
“I’m a geeky weirdo, and you’re a…hot fireman.” The last words come out with a bit of a squeak, because I realize what I’m saying right as I say it, and it’s not the kind of thing I wanted to admit to him. He doesn’t need to know I think he’s handsome, especially when I know there’s no way he’s interested. I force my voice to come out more firmly. “Also, I have a kid, and everybody knows single moms are dating suicide. So just quit playing games. I don’t appreciate it.”