Fall Into Forever (14 page)

“Sure, no problem. Where’s your car?”

“Over in Lot C.”

The one good thing about my car having been in the shop getting fixed is that it’s clean now. They washed it and vacuumed the carpets.

Soon, we’re winding through campus and Jon’s driving. “That way you can look for good places to take pictures without worrying about the road.” I just think he likes to be the one behind the wheel.

We stop at Coffee Addicts to get something for the road. Since we just ate, I assume we’re only ordering drinks, but Jon gets a mocha with whipped cream
and
a muffin. I must have an incredulous look on my face or something, because he feels the need to explain himself. “If you don’t grab the lemon-blueberry ones when they have them, all day, you’ll be wishing you had.”

“They’re that good?” I ask.

“Here, have a bite.” He breaks off a piece and offers it to me, but I puff up my cheeks, indicating I’m still stuffed from breakfast. He laughs and pops it into his mouth.

We climb back into my car and head down the road. I’m sipping on my sugar-free Red Bull Italian soda. Raspberry. My favorite.

“See? Aren’t you glad we took my car? You wouldn’t have been able to get anything to eat if we’d taken the motorcycle.”

“True.” He takes a bite of his muffin, then glances at the crumbs in his lap. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting it to be so crumbly.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Can you hold onto this for a sec?”

“Sure.” I stretch out my hand, thinking he means the muffin.

“No. Steer.”

Take the wheel? While we’re driving? I glance nervously at the road in front of us. It’s empty, and we’re not going very fast, but…

Without waiting for a
yes
, he starts picking the crumbs from his lap.

My heart slams in my chest. I grab the wheel and white-knuckle it, keeping my eyes glued to the road.
Don’t cross the yellow line in the center. Don’t hit the white line on the shoulder.

I make minor jerky adjustments to keep it in the center of the lane.
Not too far right. Or left. Keep it straight down the middle. Crap. That’s too far over.

It takes me a moment to realize the car is slowing down. I glance at Jon. His hand is on the bottom of the wheel. Has it been there this whole time? There’s a rigid expression on his face as he pulls to the side of the road and stops the car. Without a word, he gets out, brushes off the rest of the crumbs, then gets back inside.

“There.” His tone is clipped. He’s pissed, or at least irritated.

Even though I didn’t say anything—at least I don’t remember that I did—it’s obvious he noticed my overreaction. I sit back in my seat, readjust my shoulder strap, and stare out the windshield. A piece of paper, buffeted by the wind, flits past the front of my car. I track it to the warehouse parking lot to my right, where it lodges against the side of the building.

“Ivy?”

I look over at him. He’s frowning. My first thought is to apologize. I’ve made him mad. It’s my fault.

He puts a finger to my lips. “That was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

I’m confused. He’s sorry?

“Not long after you tell me about the car accident that almost took your life, I’m telling you to hold the wheel while I brush crumbs off my lap. I just wasn’t thinking.”

He’s pissed, but at himself? I wasn’t expecting that. I give him a little smile. “That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

With College View behind us, we head toward the coast, Douglas fir trees a blur on either side of the road. The radio reception is terrible, so we’ve got my phone plugged in and I’m scrolling through my playlists.

“Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?” Over breakfast, he asked so many questions about me and yet I still don’t know that much about him.

He grips the steering wheel with a casualness that makes my POS car seem cooler than it is. “I was an only child—it was just me and my mom, although I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I’ve got some half-siblings out there somewhere.”

Was?
I wonder what happened to his parents. “Why do you think you could have a half brother or sister? Wouldn’t you know if you did?”

He stares straight ahead. “When your dad fucks around as much as mine does, anything’s possible.”

Present tense. So his dad is alive. I wonder if he cheated on his mom before she died or if he started fucking around a lot afterward?

From the way Jon said it, I’m guessing it happened before she died. I sit back, not sure how to respond. My dad can be a jerk, but I’m pretty sure he’s never done anything like that. I can’t imagine how Jon must feel. Betrayed? Angry? Unimportant?

“I don’t know him anyway, so it’s not a big deal.”

I glance over, trying to decide whether or not he means it, but his expression is unreadable. “He sounds like a major douche bag.”

“He is.”

“And who needs
that
in your life, anyway?”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes and imagine us driving away and never coming back, far from the toxic people in our lives. Sipping strawberry daiquiris on a beach somewhere. Holding hands as we play in the surf.

We exit the highway and pull into a cute little beach community. All the houses are decorated with fishing nets, glass balls, and buoys. At the end of the road, Jon pulls into the driveway of a small gray house with white shutters. As we walk to the front door, I notice that the flowerbeds on either side of the walk are filled with crushed white oyster shells. Jon knocks. It takes a few moments until we hear footsteps inside.

The door swings open, revealing a slim, white-haired woman wearing a red gingham apron. Her whole face lights up. “Jon! And you brought a young lady with you. Bless your heart.”

Jon smirks.

I bite my lip.

“This is my friend Ivy,” he says. “Ivy, this is Stella Sinclair.”

Stella? Isn’t that the name of the woman he got into the fight about? Something to do with weed?

The old woman grabs my hands, and I can’t help noticing how gnarled her fingers are. It has to be painful.

“Jon’s never brought a girl to meet me before. This is such a treat. Please, come in.” She steps aside and we walk in. “I hope you’re hungry, Ivy. When I know Jon’s coming, I make lots of food.”

“And I appreciate it.” Jon gives her a kiss on the cheek, then turns back to me. “Stella is the best cook. Everything she makes is awesome.”

Neither of us mentions that we just ate a huge breakfast.

She slaps his arm, but I can tell she loves the compliment. “Anything has to be better than what a houseful of young men can cook up. It’s really not a testament to my cooking at all. He’s got nothing good to compare it to.”

“When the guys know I’ve been here,” Jon says, “they descend on the leftovers like a pack of vultures.”

We follow her through the foyer, down a short hall dotted with family pictures, and into a cheery kitchen.

She motions for us to sit down, then proceeds to fuss over us. Soon I’ve got a glass of iced tea in front of me, along with a fragrant bowl of chicken soup. In the center of the table, Stella sets down a plate stacked with triangle sandwiches. I haven’t had a sandwich cut that way since I was a kid.

“Please, don’t wait for me,” she says. “I want you to eat before the soup gets cold. I’ve got to get these cookies out of the oven.”

I take a sandwich and bite into it. Oh my God. It’s tuna salad on steroids. “This is sooo good.”

“Told you.” Jon reaches for a second one. What the heck. I do, too.

“What’s in it, Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Please, call me Stella.” She sits across from Jon and folds a napkin over her lap. “I start with all the normal ingredients. Mayo, salt and pepper, pickles, a little dill weed. But I also add chopped jalapeños and pepperoncinis from a jar.”

I would never have thought to add all that stuff. “No wonder it’s so good.”

“How was the garage sale?” Jon asks.

She waves a hand in front of her face like she’s batting away a fly. “Just a few people showed up. I sat out there all morning and hardly sold a thing.”

I take a sip of my iced tea. Peach, I think. “If you decide to do another one, let me know. Back home, my mom, my aunt, and I used to go garage-saling all the time. I’ve helped my mom organize a few that have been pretty successful.”

“So you’re a bargain shopper,” Jon says, nodding his head. “I didn’t know that about you.”

There’s a lot he doesn’t know about me. “Yep. Flea markets. Antique shops. Love it all.”

Stella dabs her mouth with her napkin. “It just so happens, I used to own an antique shop in town. You should see my attic. It’s overflowing with all sorts of things I’ve collected over the years.”

After lunch, Jon tries to help with the cleanup, but Stella shoos him away. “I don’t get to fuss over young people much anymore, so don’t take this little pleasure away from me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon says with a grin. “I’ll go check on your plants. Ivy, you okay for a few minutes?”

“Um, sure.”

His footsteps echo down the hall, then a door opens and closes.

Stella dries her hands on a dishtowel. “Just so you know, I grow medical cannabis. It’s the only thing I’ve found that helps with my arthritis pain.”

Cannabis? As in weed? This sweet, little old lady is a stoner? If she told me she was dating Bradley Cooper, I seriously wouldn’t be more surprised.

“Henry Senior would roll over in his grave if he knew what I was doing. He was a juvenile court judge before he retired, so he knew plenty of kids who used it. And their parents. But he’s pushing daisies and I’m here with these blasted hands and hips. Not much he can do about it now, is there?”

“How…how did you think to try it?”

“Jon was the one who suggested it. He lived with me for a short time after his mother passed. I found a pipe and some marijuana in his things and confronted him about it. He said he got it to give to me because it was supposed to help with arthritis.”

“And you believed him?”

“Oh honey, I knew he was feeding me a load of horse manure, but what can I say? I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for that young man. He’s been through a lot. So I went along with him and made him show me how to smoke it. Boy, was I surprised when the pain in my hands lessened. Not completely, but enough that I was able to start knitting again and join the ladies at the club for the daily walking sessions.”

The talk shifts to yarn shops and knitting, much more normal topics to discuss with her, and for that, I’m grateful. Until she gets up, opens a cupboard near the sink, and pulls out a Mason jar filled with tightly packed green buds. “Would you like some to take back with you? I’ve got plenty.”

I almost spit out my iced tea. “Um, no, thank you. I’m good.”

After I help her with the dishes, she empties the leftover soup into a plastic container for Jon and offers me some as well, but I tell her I don’t have a microwave in my room.

I sit back down as Stella puts another batch of cookies into the oven. “So how did you know Jon’s mom? He tells me you were friends.”

“A beautiful girl,” she says wistfully, touching her white curls. “She used to do my hair. I felt so bad for Jon, shuffled off to various foster homes after she was gone.”

My heart lurches in my chest. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for him. Not only losing his mom, but then having to live in a strange home with people he didn’t know. “No family members could take him in? What about his father?”

Stella clucks her tongue and makes a face. “That good-for-nothing piece of— Pardon my language. I know it’s not very Christian, but that man gets no sympathy from me. At all.”

“Who doesn’t?” Jon asks, striding back into the kitchen.

Stella flicks her hand as if to brush away his question. “We’re just chatting about this and that. I was telling Ivy— Oh, son, what’s all over your hands? They’re filthy.” She hands him a kitchen towel and ushers him to the sink. “Careful, I just mopped these floors. What in heaven’s name were you doing out there?”

“I noticed the gutter on the corner of the garage was clogged, so I climbed up and pulled out a bunch of leaves. There’s still a lot more gunk in there, so I’ll need to come back and get the rest of it cleaned out.”

“Thank you,” Stella says gratefully, as he washes his hands. “But you don’t need to come back to do that. You already do so much around here. Henry’s supposed to stop by this week, so I’ll see if he can clean them out for me.”

Jon shrugs. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind. Let me know if he doesn’t.”

We follow her into the living room where plastic runners cover the high traffic areas of her carpet. She wants to show me pictures of her antique shop that she keeps in a photo album on the coffee table. I stop in front of a glass curio cabinet.

“Are those Hummels?” I ask, pointing to several dozen painted figurines on the top two shelves.

Stella’s eyes light up. “Yes! You’re familiar with them?”

“My grandmother used to collect them.”

Stella opens the glass door and starts to explain the history of a few of the pieces, where she bought them and how rare they are. I glance over at Jon, expecting to see him bored out of his mind, but he’s listening and nodding his head as if he’s just as interested as I am. He even asks her a few questions.