I Made You My First (4 page)

As I felt Judy’s eyes on me, she said quite seriously, “Do you think if I hadn’t come home when I did, that you would have...done it?”

Was she a mind-reader now?  I pulled away from her stare and looked at the sky, focusing on a beautiful cluster of clouds shaped like circus animals.

“I don’t know, Judy, I
really
...don’t know.  I might have.”  That was all I could think to say.  I wasn’t feeling good about myself at that moment, and I sure couldn’t blame it on the alcohol.

Chapter Three

 
                   As the water pounded on my skin in the shower, I tried to justify my actions with Irish on the patio yesterday.  He was the type of guy that all women were attracted to like magnets to iron filings.  He was a perfect picture: golden brown hair with sun-kissed blond highlights, honest blue eyes, and soft full lips.  He also had the face of an angel, one that any woman would trust.  It was as if his smile spoke directly to my heart.  He could surly make any girl want to take off her clothes.  And it wasn’t only his looks, but something special and almost mysterious, that I couldn’t yet put my finger on, but it was there.  As I wiped the fog from the mirror, I stared, looking at myself, judging. I grabbed my brush, still thinking about Irish. I was sure that if such a thing were achievable, he’d have a black belt in womanizing. He’d as much as warned me.
He didn’t do
girlfriends.
 If I was smart, I wouldn’t let myself become emotionally involved. My heart
would
be broken.  He’d said so in a few words.

I was here on vacation but I’d been a native,
 I’d moved to North Carolina two and a half years before to help take care of my aunt.  She’d been my mother’s favorite sister and best friend for as long as I could remember.  They’d spoken on the phone everyday at least once, sometimes more often. I can still picture my mother’s face, her laughing and giggling while talking to her sister on the phone.  When my parents were killed in an automobile accident three years ago, my aunt was the only family member who helped my brother and me. 

When she’d had to return home, I promised her I’d call every day, and I did; only it was more like every other day.
 During one of my calls, Uncle Clay had answered the phone and announced that my aunt Jean couldn’t come to the phone because she was too ill.  When I pressed the issue a little, he explained that she’d been sick off and on for a month or so and they were going to request nursing care because he was no longer able to tend to her by himself.  After that phone call, I decided I needed to be there.  It was something I knew my mother would want me to do.  Judy and another friend, Kerry, helped me box my belongings and I rented a local storage unit
.  I could put my life on hold for a while
, I’d told myself, but how long that would be was anyone’s guess.  I flew east within a week of my phone conversation with Uncle Clay.  It was the right thing to do.

My brother had decided, for both of us, to sell my parents’ house,
my
house.  He justified it by saying I could never afford to pay the bills for its upkeep.  He just didn’t want to be bothered.  He had his life and didn’t want to be responsible for watching over me, or a big house, and all the upkeep that came along with it.  John was ten years older and moved out of our family home when I was eight.  We didn’t really know each other.  When we were forced to deal with something together, he seemed to go out of his way to remind me he saw me as nothing more than a child.  That attitude got old for me fast.  

I’d
barely turned twenty-two when my parents were killed.  I was now twenty-four and my brother and I were still no closer.  While making our parents’ funeral arrangements, we disagreed about everything.  I felt I knew what they’d want way more than he would.  After all, I’d lived with them; he’d barely called or visited.  When it came to the music or the clothes my mother would wear, I dug my heels in and didn’t allow him to dismiss me like a child.  Thank goodness Aunt Jean came to my rescue.  When John lost patience with me, he’d point his finger and preach like a minister during a hell-fire and brimstone sermon, “You’re a spoiled child, Jurnee, and stubborn.  Those two combined do not make you an adult.”

I must’ve heard that speech a hundred times, and I always knew when it was coming.
  Overhearing it one day as we argued about the funeral details, my aunt piped up, and standing smack in the middle of John and me, said, “John, she isn’t stubborn.  She’s just passionately adhering to her opinion.  That’s definitely an adult trait.”  He stopped his finger pointing and walked away.  I smiled at her, thinking to myself,
I must remember that
, and I have.

“Everything happens for a reason, Jurnee, although we may not understand it at the time; if you hang in there, all the pieces eventually fall into place” was her advice.
 

I appreciated her positive message,
 but if she meant my relationship with John would somehow mend itself, I had strong doubts.  We were just too far apart.  I’d chosen my friends and they were my family now.  Other than my aunt, my friends were really all I had.  It was sometimes unsettling and even scary when my thoughts wandered to what would become of me when something happened to Aunt Jean.  I’d be alone and homeless.  Living with my brother wasn’t an option.  He’d never offer and I’d sure as hell
never
ask.

Jude told me when I first left California to help Auntie that best friends are always there for you whenever, wherever, however, and most important, forever.
 They’d understand you and not pass judgment.  She swore an oath that when the time came for me to return to California, I’d have a home with her.  I loved her like a sister.  Whether or not it ever came to that, it had felt good hearing her say those words.  It got me through many homesick days.  After my first six months in North Carolina, Auntie began encouraging me to visit my friends.  She knew how close we were.  After that first trip, she encouraged me to go again, every few months.  I gladly took her up on it but usually waited about four months before I actually went.  These get-away trips were called my
sanity vacations
.  Leaving her this time was difficult. I knew this trip might be my last before she passed away. While I was sitting on the plane, waiting to take off and thinking about something really happening to her scared me, maybe more than I could admit. I decided not to think about it.  Not until it was necessary.  That was my way.  I hadn’t even called her since I’d arrived at Judy’s.  I opened my phone to find three missed messages from yesterday.  Two were from Judy and one was from Aunt Jean’s house.  I quickly dialed the number.  What was wrong with me? 

 
           “Hello,” I heard an unfamiliar older voice say.  

“Hello, this is Jurnee.
  May I speak to Aunt Jean or Uncle Clay, please?”  It had to be a new nurse who’d answered.  Four nurses were coming throughout the day, all of whom I dearly loved.

“This is Hazel, dear, and both your aunt and uncle are resting right now, but your aunt has been asking about you.”
 

My thoughts drifted as I figured out the best thing to do.
 “Please tell her that I arrived safely and I’ll call her tomorrow.”  Seconds ticked by while I waited for her reply.  “Yes, child, I’ll tell her you called as soon as she’s awake.  Bye now.”  
Click
!

Nice talking to you too, Hazel.
  She’d hung up.  I was disappointed in myself.
No matter what’s going on here, I’ll call her tomorrow.
  I tied my hair back quickly and headed for the living room to find Judy.  She was in the kitchen dropping chicken breasts into a large casserole dish that was filled with herbs and spices.

“What’re you doing?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm that she ignored.
 

“Well, I thought we’d have chicken and salad for dinner tonight.
 Sound good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you call Irish?” she asked, sliding the casserole dish into the refrigerator.

“Um, not yet, but I was just about to,” I lied.
 

“I’m just not really sure what to say,” I confessed, sitting on the counter.
 She gathered salad veggies from the fridge and began setting them in the sink to be washed.

“Just start with
thank you for the flowers
and let him take the conversation from there.  Remember, less is more, J.C., or something like that,” she grinned.  

I laughed at her, even though she was right.
 But if this conversation with Irish was going to get at all awkward as I thought it might, I’d rather do it outside, without an audience.  I jumped off the counter, leaving Judy to prepare the salad.  I sat down in a patio chair and with a deep breath punched in his number.  It was ringing and already I was starting to feel anxious and warm.

After four rings his voicemail started, “
Hey, this is Irish.  Leave a message and I’ll get back with ya.
” 

Okay.
 Now what?  
Beep
.  I hung up. 
Well you handled that really well, Jurnee,
I thought. 
Deep breath
.
I can do this
and punched re-dial.  One ring, two rings.

“Hello.”
  Son of a gun, he answered.

“Hello?”
  I took another deep breath.  “Hello, Irish?”

“Yes, speaking,” he stifled a giggle.

“Thank you for the flowers.”  Silence, then more silence. Now it was just plain awkward.

“Jurnee, hi, did you say something about flowers?”
 I contemplated closing the phone.

“Ugh,” I groaned.

“Really, you’re going to pretend you didn’t send flowers this morning?” I asked, icicles dangling from my words.  I was now feeling really irritated.  This was difficult enough without him making a game of it too.  Please, please don’t let him bring up anything that happened on the patio.

“Oh, Jurnee,” and I swear I
 could picture him smirking.  “Is this the girl I picked up at the airport yesterday?”

“Dude, seriously?” I scoffed as I felt my eyes close.  “No, I’m sorry.
  You know, sir, I’m sorry to have bothered you.  I must have dialed the wrong number.”  Click!  I disconnected the call, smiled, and lit a cigarette.  

Seconds later my phone beeped.
 It was a text:
I love the way you say my name.

What did that mean?
 How do I say his name?  I listened to myself as I said his name.  
What does that mean?
 I replied, with another text.  With phone in hand, I waited.  

Beep.
   
With that little southern drawl
, he said.

I don’t have a southern drawl
, I assured myself.  
Do I
? 
Where are you?
 I typed quickly.

 
A couple of seconds passed and my phone beeped.

The text read:
Call me, please.

Okay I’d call him.
 He did say please.  He picked up after the first ring.

“I’m so glad you got the flowers.
 So do you like them?”  His voice was sweet and sincere this time.

“Yes, they’re beautiful.
 What’s the occasion?  It’s not my birthday, or wait, is it?” I teased.

“No, they weren’t for your birthday.
 That’s not for another ten days now, isn’t it?”

Shut up,
I thought. 
How could he know that?
 My mind searched every conversation we’d had so far. There was just no way.  My birth date had never come up.  He hadn’t even known my name until I put it in his phone.  I couldn’t move. I was unconsciously holding my breath and finally let it out.

“Are you still there?” he asked.
 

My mind wouldn’t focus.
  Finally I found my words, “Yeah, I’m still here.”  I wasn’t sure what else to say.  My mind was still searching for
any
explanation. 

“So what’re you doing today?
  Any plans?”  I barely heard him.

“Um, I’m not really sure yet.
 Why?”

“No reason really, I was hoping to see you again, that’s all.”

I pulled the phone from my ear as if it would somehow help me concentrate better as I searched the living room for Judy.  

“Hey Irish, can I call you back in a few minutes?” I finally asked.

“Sure,” he said.  “Oh, and I sent the flowers so that hopefully they’d make you think about me as much as I’ve been thinking about you.  I just wanted you to know. Give me a call later if you want.” Then we were disconnected.  

I jumped out of my chair and headed for the house.
 
Judy must have spoken to Irish while I was in the shower
, I thought.  Now I was becoming obsessed. Less freaked out than when I first heard him say my birth date, but still obsessed.  I really needed to know how he knew.  Judy was in her room making the bed.  I stood in the doorway, watching her tuck the sheets neatly under the mattress.  I noticed she was lost in her own thoughts.