Right Kind of Wrong(31)
“Your cousins also might have mentioned that it was Jack they saw in your car,” she adds, instantly relieving me of the code red protocol my body was preparing for. “So should I be expecting both of you later this week?”
I let out a small breath. “Uh, no. Jack’s family lives in Little Vail so I’m just dropping him off on my way home.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, clearly not believing me. “Well I’m just glad you’re not alone. I hope your day on the road goes smoothly. Call me tomorrow?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I will. Love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, baby.”
Our call ends and I put my phone away, wondering if an hour of tense silence qualifies as “going smoothly.” It’s certainly better than an hour of fighting or having sex… okay, it’s not better than an hour of sex. But really, what is better than an hour of sex? Nothing, that’s what. Except maybe two hours of sex. And wow, I need to start thinking about something else.
“How’s your grandma?” Jack asks.
“She’s doing good,” I say, pulling my hair back and stacking it on my head. After my shower last night, I let it air-dry so now it’s a mess of thick black waves that insist on sticking to my skin. “She’s glad that I’m coming home.”
He nods. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back.”
“Yeah. Almost a year and half.” The breeze from the air conditioner pleasantly cools the back of my neck. “But you’ve been gone even longer than me. You were in Arizona way before I was so you haven’t been home for at least…” I do the math in my head. “Two years?”
“Three,” he says.
I lift my brow. “Wow. This thing with Drew must be serious.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
His shoulders tense with his casual words, giving him away, and worry trickles through my veins. If he’s worried, I’m worried. That’s just how it always is with me when it comes to Jack.
I watch his big fingers, loosely wrapped around the steering wheel, and follow the curves of his scarred knuckles. Jack has lots of scars. Not so many that it’s alarming, but enough to elicit questions from anyone who might study his skin for longer than a few seconds. I’ve studied his skin before. All of it. Questions sat on my tongue, but I never asked them.
My eyes trail over the lines of dark ink that lick out from his sleeves of tattoos, barely reaching the backside of his hands. The licks tangle up into more intricate patterns of design on his thick forearms, shifting with his muscles when he grips the steering wheel or makes a turn. But his large forearms are nothing compared to his even larger biceps, which are nothing compared to his great shoulders. The designs twist into even more detailed images as they climb up his arm and disappear under the sleeve of his black shirt, but I know underneath are dozens more tattoos that probably tell stories about Jack that no one has ever heard.
That’s what tattoos are: storytellers. Not always, but most of the time. Some stories we tell with our tongues, in words and kisses and sometimes even the food we make for others. Other stories are just for ourselves and are told in tattoos and scars and the shields we erect around our hearts.
Jack has many stories. Maybe even more than me.
We stop for lunch somewhere in the middle of Texas and eat in silence at a run-down café. After lunch, we switch places and I take over the steering wheel while Jack sleeps in the passenger seat. At least, I think he’s sleeping. He pulled a hat from his bag and set it over his face so I can’t see his eyes, which is just as well.
My stomach is in knots and my heart unsettled. I feel like I’m at war with myself and losing on both sides. The heavier my soul gets the more I want to be home.
Somewhere around four p.m., Jack pulls his hat off and sits up. We manage to have a civil conversation about where to stay for the night and how best to get there. I stop for gas and Jack pays. We look at each other twice when we’re back on the road, but otherwise we keep our eyes out the windows.
The knots in my stomach loosen a bit and soon my soul feels less heavy. I’m not sure why. Maybe just because we’re not snapping at each other. But then sexual tension dawns with the setting sun and suddenly the car feels small and cramped.
Nothing happened or changed to bring my dark desires to life. It’s just the idea that the bright light of day will soon be gone again and the soft light of night will wrap around us that has me thinking and wanting naughty things.
Jack has me pull over so he can drive, and after we switch places, I try to do what he did—pretend to sleep. I can hear him breathing. I can hear the sound of his rough hands sliding over the steering wheel. I can hear all the pieces of Jack, alive and awake next to me, and I know sleep will be impossible.