“Jett, thank you for the drinks,” Sunday shyly says, once she makes it over to my table.
“You’re welcome. Do you want a seat?” I ask. “It’s kind of crowded here tonight.”
She pulls out a chair, and sits down so we’re able to look at one another, which is good because that means I’ll be able to hear her when she says something.
“Right? Normally I’m not up for something like this, but Bria insisted, and you know she always gets what she wants.”
I can’t help it, I start laughing, because even though they were several grades lower than I was, in this small town, everyone knows everyone else, so Bria Chandler and her escapades are well-known.
“She forced you out, huh?” I ask in response.
“Yeah, she said no one remembered what I looked like, or some shit,” she teases. “Shit, I’m sorry I swore. Dammit, I did it again.”
My laughter erupts again, because now she’s got a very becoming blush staining her cheeks. “Sunday don’t apologize for swearing. Hell, Dusty’s first word was not ‘dada’!”
Her laughter rolls through me, causing my heart to beat a little faster. I know from the newspaper articles that she was severely injured while deployed, and since she’s been home, her focus has been on getting better, so she hasn’t been out and about all that much.
“My vocabulary definitely increased significantly while I was in the military,” she confesses, grinning at me. “Not like I can be mistaken for a guy, but I was one of a handful of women in our unit, so I got used to it.”
“I hate you got hurt,” I convey. “That any of you were injured, to be honest.”
A look I can’t decipher crosses her face before she takes a deep breath and responds. “Thank God none of us were killed. I just wish we had seen the signs ahead of time.”
“From what I understand, it was your quick thinking that kept all of you from that fate.”
She shrugs, then takes another sip of her drink. “True, but even still, it’s not one of my fondest memories.”
“I can’t imagine it is. Are you okay now?”
“They’ve done all the surgeries they can to make the repairs, now, I just need it to completely heal so I can decide what to do next.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
A flush crosses her face before she replies, “I’m thinking of finding a tattoo artist to see about covering the scars. The only thing is it would be a huge piece.”
“What are you thinking about getting?” My curiosity about her is all-consuming at this point; I want to know everything about her down to the smallest detail.
Instead of answering immediately, she pulls her phone out of her pocket, and opens up her pictures before sliding it in my direction. “I was thinking about something like this,” she states, as I start flipping through her photo gallery.
“Damn, these are spectacular,” I murmur, my eyes captivated by the flowing vines and flowers. Interspersed are dog tags, denoting the others who were on the mission with her. “These are the men you were with?” I ask.
“Yeah. I wanted to turn that shit storm into something beautiful.”
“Have you reached out to the tattoo artist yet?”
“I have an appointment next week for him to see the area. I know I can’t start on it yet because the skin is still healing, but I want to know what it’s going to cost, plus he’ll have an opportunity to create the design.”
“It’s going to look awesome when it’s done.” Hearing the music change, I ask, “Would you like to dance?”
I feel like I’m in ninth grade again, waiting with bated breath for her response.
“I’m not as swift on my feet as I used to be,” she admits.
“That’s okay, I’m no Fred Astaire.”
She giggles before nodding. “Since I’m no Ginger Rogers, we should be okay then.”
Chapter Two
Jett
As I get ready for bed, I replay the rest of the evening at Ike’s. Dancing with Sunday was a fucking dream come true. Since neither of us knew the newer line dances, we stuck to the slower songs. Having her in my arms, and breathing in her light, floral scent, I knew I had to push through my baggage in an effort to be the kind of man she’d be proud to call hers.
Once I’m in my flannel lounge pants, and have brushed my teeth, I head to Dusty’s room. Walking inside, I again wonder how a mother could walk away from her child. I grin seeing him in his bed. It’s shaped like a race car, complete with racing stripes down the side, and working headlights which let off a soft glow in his room. I asked him recently if he wanted to change it up since he’s getting ready to be a preteen, but he declined since his second love is NASCAR.
“C’mon, little man, that can’t be comfortable,” I murmur, gently repositioning him on his bed, and straightening his covers. Leaning in, I lightly tussle his hair and kiss his forehead. “Love you, Dusty. Gonna keep being the best dad I know how to be for you.”
He doesn’t wake up, but I hear a slight snore come from him as he settles into his pillow.
“See you in the morning, son.”
After grabbing a bottle of water, I head back into my bedroom, and flop down onto my bed, grabbing the remote. Finding a movie that will eventually lull me to sleep, I set my alarm, then put my thoughts to Sunday.
Her years in the military have changed her, which is to be expected, of course, but it’s more than that. She’s more watchful, observing everything around her, and while she still smiles easily, it doesn’t always seem to reach her eyes.
“She’s got her own demons, apparently,” I murmur to the television, “just like I do. The question is, can we slay them together, or will I never know how my lips feel against hers?”
Shaking my head at where my thoughts have veered, I decide to focus on myself first. If Sunday and I are meant to cross paths, as more than high school acquaintances, I need to eradicate the shit that Stacey spewed. Now, that’s one woman who could be the poster child for what not to do in a relationship, that’s for sure.
“You were young, dumb, and full of come, asshole,” I grumble. “Head cheerleader and starting quarterback, you fell into all those stupid fucking cliched romances, that’s for damn sure.” I may be repeating myself but, in my mind, it definitely bears repeating. Something for me to make sure Dusty knows about when it comes to girls. Don’t let the small head do the thinking; look at the whole picture.
Grabbing the notebook, I started using as a journal of sorts, something the therapist I saw right after she left so I could get my shit straight, in order to raise Dusty suggested I do, I read over some of my ‘stinking thinking’ as it’s called.
“You’ll always be a has-been, Jett. I need more excitement in my life than you can give me. You owe it to me, dammit!”
“You could’ve been a coach for the NFL, Jett. Why did you turn it down, and take on teaching kids?”
“Look what having that brat did to my body! No one is ever going to want me like this!”