Loved Bayou (Martin Family Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter 10

Jacob and I mostly just sat there and ate our dinner without making too much small talk. I had the tendency to ramble a little bit when I was nervous, so in the interest of not overwhelming him, I made an effort not to mention every thought that crossed my mind.

"When'd you get into working with wood?" I asked, after letting him eat most of his food in silence.

"My parents used to send me to about three different camps every summer," he said. "That's where I met your cousins."

I nodded since I already knew that, and he continued.

"One of them was a month-long woodworking camp at a college in Kentucky. I was fourteen."

"Were you fourteen when you made that stool?" I asked in shock. I knew I wouldn't be taking it home with me if it was something he had been holding onto for that long.

"No," he said. "I made bowls and spoons first. I didn't make that stool till I was fifteen or sixteen."

I gasped. "You can't give me that," I said. "Just let me order one off your website or whatever."

Jacob reached out and pinched my ribs, causing me to recoil and giggle. "It's mine," he said. "I can give it to you if I want."

He was still serious, but there is such a sweetness and tenderness to his voice that it made my heart swell. Plus, that pinch (fleeting, though it might have been) was the first sign of any playfulness out of him, which added to my feeling of elation. I had to work not to have a smile completely plastered on my face. I grinned shyly as if he was being sweet by saying he'd give it to me, but I figured when it came down to it, I wouldn't be able to take it. I would definitely be purchasing some of his creations, though. I couldn't wait to see what else he had.

"What's your sister studying?" he asked, drawing me from my thoughts.

"Music," I said. "She's got a band over there. They're pretty popular—around here, at least. Her friend Claire goes to UL with her. She's in the band, too."

"What about you?" he asked. "Are you in the band?"

I let out a laugh at the thought. "Yeah, no. I'm not a musician at all. Pretty much terrified of being on stage. I love to listen to music, but that's about it. How about you?" I looked at him as I pushed my half-eaten plate away from me.

"Music?" he asked.

I nodded, which made him shrug.

"It was one of the things my parents made me do as a kid," he said. "I'm not great or anything, but I can make my way around a guitar and a piano. I thought about building a guitar. I think that'd be fun."

"You should do it," I said. "If somebody builds them, then they can be built, right?"

"Right," he agreed. "How about you?" he asked. "If it's not music, what is it?"

I shrugged. "I'm sort of just doing the family business," I said. "I studied business in school, but I probably could have just learned from my dad. I'll end up taking over with Cam and Cole once our dads retire."

"And you like it?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, I really do. I make my own hours, and it gives me an excuse to drive up to the city a few times a week. It's perfect. It keeps me busy but not stressed out." I paused and tilted my head at him. "Have you been up to New Orleans?" I asked.

"Several times in the past, but not since I moved here. I always liked it when I came before. That's probably what made me think of it when I decided to move."

"Do you plan on going up there, or are you just gonna sort of stay out here?"

Jacob's eyebrows lifted at little at my question. "Just because I don't want people coming out and bothering me on my property doesn't mean I'm never gonna go out in public again."

"Do people recognize you when you do?" I asked, not addressing the whole
bothering me on my property
statement.

"Not really," he said. "Especially if I have on a cap and sunglasses."

We sat in silence for a few seconds while he took the last bite of his food, which happened to be the remains of a boudin ball.

"Those are so good," he said, leaning back and touching his hand to his stomach, which I could tell was lean and muscular under his shirt.

The word CRUSH flashed across my mind in bubble letters when I caught myself daydreaming about what may or may not be under that shirt.

I must have smiled at the thought, because Jacob said, "What?"

"Boudin balls," I said. "They're so good."

"I'm glad you came by," he said.

If he had delivered that statement just the right way, it would've basically said 'goodbye'. But he didn't say it that way. The way he said it was more like he was just a little surprised about being glad I came over, and he wanted to share.

"I'm glad I came by, too," I said. "We're having a big end of summer picnic next weekend," I added, since I didn't want it to be too long before I saw him again.

"I said I didn't mind going out in public, but I didn't mean to things like picnics. Those are just the type of places I'm trying to avoid. It's probably at a church, isn't it?"

I cringed a little as I nodded.

He shook his head. "Yeah, that's definitely the exact place I'm not going."

I sighed. "Don't say that."

"Then don't invite me to church picnics," he said, shrugging. "You should have known better."

I felt a nagging in my chest at the thought that he wanted nothing to do with the church, even for a picnic, but again, something was telling me he wasn't as far gone as he wanted me to believe. Maybe I was way off, but there was an underlying doubtfulness to his bitterness that gave me hope.

"Maybe the picnic's a bit much," I said. I shrugged. "I probably just want to hang out again."

"It's not gonna happen at a church picnic, I'll tell you that."

I changed the subject. I wanted to say something to restore his hope in people or in God, but I didn't have the right words. I opted for subjects that weren't so sensitive. We talked about fishing, and life in Louisiana for the next little while. Each of us told a few stories from our past, and several times during our conversation, Jacob shared more than just surface level things with me. I felt oddly honored that he let me in the way he did.

We'd been sitting there talking for what must have been an hour when I looked over Jacob's shoulder at the little seating area in the corner of the living room. I had already noticed a turntable and speakers sitting on the entertainment center but hadn't mentioned it.

"Is that a record player?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, without turning around to see what I was talking about.

"My grandparents used to have one of those in their spare bedroom," I said. "We used to go in there and have dance parties while our parents were visiting. They had the soundtrack from the movie Grease, and I used to make everyone act it out." I stared into space, remembering those times. "I think they got rid of it when they downsized," I added. "I should have taken it, but I didn't think about it."

"You can just buy a new one, they're not expensive."

"What about records?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"Where do you even get them?"

"A record store. I'm sure New Orleans has some good ones. Or online, like anything else. They're making a lot of new albums on vinyl. It's cool again."

"Does that record player work on the old ones, too?" I asked.

He nodded. "They're all the same. Most of my collection is vintage stuff."

"Can I check it out?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It might not be stuff you'd like, but I guess so."

"Can I play something?" I asked.

He shrugged again, which I took as a yes.

I smiled and stood up instantly to cross to the sound system.

"You have to turn on the power to the receiver and the turntable. The on-switches should be self-explanatory."

"Is there something special with the needle, or do I just pick it up and put it on the record like I did at my grandma's?"

"It's just like your grandma's," he said, leaning back in his barstool as if he enjoyed watching me try to figure it out.

Larry decided he wanted to see what I was doing, too, so he followed me over there. I smiled down at him once I got over to the entertainment system. "What's you're favorite?" I asked him before staring at the stack of records Jacob had lined up near the turntable.

I thumbed through a few of them before coming up with one titled Otis Blue by Otis Redding. It was a familiar name that I thought might sound good on a record player. I looked at the back of the album and realized there was a song called
My Girl
, and since that was a familiar song title, I decided to go for it.

I slid the record out of its sleeve and carefully placed it on the turntable. I had to open the lid first, which was tricky with my hands full, but I made it happen. I switched on the power to the receiver and turntable just like Jacob instructed me, and the record started spinning.

I glanced back at Jacob, smiling from ear to ear. "So, I just put the needle right on it?" I asked.

He smiled and nodded once.

He smiled.

I repeat; he smiled.

It wasn't gigantic, but it was there. It was the best one I'd seen out of him yet. It might have been the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. It completely changed his face. If I thought serious Jacob was irresistible, then you can imagine how I felt about smiling Jacob.

I made an uncontrollable silly, wide-eyed expression once I had my back to him. I tried to be gentle, but the needle made a brief, record-scratching sound when I first put it onto the spinning disc. I instinctually glanced behind me with a regretful expression, but Jacob just shook his head to tell me not to worry about it. The song I wanted was in the middle of the record, so I did my best to set the needle down on the correct line. In spite of my best efforts, that didn't work out. It ended up landing somewhere near the beginning of the song, but I thought that was good enough.

I turned it up before facing him with a smile and a shrug saying I had done my best, and he gave me a nod of approval.

"When it's cold outside," Otis sang. "I got the month of May."

It was so soulful that I couldn't stop my shoulders from swaying. I could hear the snap, crackle, pop sounds under the music, and it made me smile. Jacob and I held eye contact from across the living room as I smiled and swayed to the music. I crooked my finger, telling him to join me. I was hoping he would jump up and run over there, but he just stayed where he was, shaking his head at me like there was no chance in the world he would do it.

I continued to smile as I scurried over to the island where he was sitting. "Come on," I said. His hand was resting on his leg and I reached out and took it.

"I'm not dancing," he said.

"Please." I said. "Just for a second. It's good for you. It's just like an extended hug—with cardio."

He shook his head. "I'm definitely not cardio-dancing."

That made me giggle. "Come on," I said. "Don't leave me hanging."

He was reluctant, but I pulled him to his feet and fell into his arms in a waltz position. I put one hand on his shoulder, and held his hand in my other. Jacob must have danced like this before, because he rested his right hand around my back just like he should.

We moved to the music—a little stiffly at first, but we quickly settled into the rhythm.

Chapter 11

Jacob and I swayed to the warm, crackly vinyl sounds of Otis Redding singing
My Girl
. I was so swept away by the nerves and adrenaline of making physical contact with Jacob that it seemed like the song was ending only seconds after it began. It was so fast that I honestly thought the record had skipped ahead.

Jacob's grip on me loosened as if he thought the end of the song meant the end of our dance, but I held him there as the next song began. There was the sound of some horns playing an intro and Otis started singing about not knowing much about history, or biology, or other various school subjects.

We weren't swaying anymore. We were just standing there with our arms locked in the dance position. I just wanted to stand there and hold him and move to a slow song, but this one had a faster, somewhat awkward tempo for dancing. I didn't care; I just held him there with no intention of ending our contact that soon. I leaned in, resting my head on his chest as I began moving as well as I could to the rhythm. To my delight, he went along with it, holding me close and moving in sync with me.

We didn't say a word to each other as we danced. I couldn't get over the way he affected me physically. I felt alive—like all this time, I had just been living, and now I was
alive
. I had a new awareness of my sense of touch.

I knew, based on our conversation and the way he held me close, that I had somehow managed to penetrate the wall he had been so carefully constructing (even if it was the outermost layer), and I felt the oddest sense of euphoria because of it. Maybe the euphoria was caused from being in his arms, but either way, in those moments, I felt like I was in heaven.

Which was why I was so shocked when it came crashing to an end. The song about
what a wonderful world it would be
ended, and there was a brief pause. I held onto him, assuming that we would dance a little longer, and he went along with it.

The next song began with a sultry guitar intro that was perfect for swaying with a partner. I held him close, letting my body feel the beat. It was an easy song to dance to, and I made little swaying motions as I rolled my shoulders. I let the rhythm sink into my bones. Otis started saying something about,
rock me baby
, and I smiled against Jacob's chest, thinking about how much I loved the blues. I was lost for a several seconds in the sublime feeling of being held by this man while dancing to an old record.

"You should go," Jacob said, abruptly pulling back and letting go of me. The record continued to play, but it might as well have screeched to a halt when he let go of me—that's how unexpected it was. He stepped back and stared at me with a serious but otherwise unreadable expression. "You should leave," he repeated.

As usual, he was completely serious, but I couldn't help but smile at how unexpected his this was. "Really?" I asked, smiling at him cautiously.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I wasn't even expecting you to come in here," he said. He gestured to the bar. "Then we eat, and we're talking, and then you come over here and get into my records, and then…" he hesitated, shaking his head a little as he regarded me. "It's too much," he said. "I didn't sign up for all this." He just stood there, looking at me like he expected me to say something or make the next move.

"So, you want me to leave?" I asked, my voice betraying me by cracking a little.

"Yes," he said.

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"Okaaay," I said awkwardly.

I took off toward the kitchen to grab my purse. I really did think Jacob would reconsider and say something to stop me, but that didn't happen. He just stood there and watched me retrieve my bag and cross the room, headed for the door. I grew more and more angry and humiliated as I got closer to the exit. I honestly thought we had bonded during our conversation over dinner, and I couldn't believe he was tossing me out again. I opened the door, and started to walk out, but I turned to face him before leaving. "Just so you know, I didn't sign up for this, either," I said, praying I could keep from crying as I spoke. "We're not
signed up
for anything. We were just hanging out. I was just being friendly."

I planned on slamming the door behind me right when I finished saying it, but I couldn't do it right away. It was during this brief hesitation that he said, "I wasn't."

I had already started the motion of closing the door when the words left his mouth. I watched him say it, and then the door closed, leaving me standing on the front porch in a dazed whirlwind of emotions.

"I wasn't," he said.

What did that mean?
I tried to remember what I said before that, and thought it was that
I was trying to be friendly
. Was he saying he wasn't trying to be friendly, and if so, what did he mean by that? It could be taken two different ways, and they basically meant the opposite of each other. I thought about opening the door to ask him, but I was way too proud to do that after being tossed out again.

I walked down the stairs, crossed to the driveway, started my car, and drove away, feeling like I was in some sort of alternate reality. I had been right in the middle of thinking about how epic and wonderful the night had been when Jacob must have been thinking the exact opposite.

I wish I could say I didn't cry, but that would be lying. I cried a good bit on the way home, and even a little once I got there. I didn't mean to let my heart get set on Jacob Fox; it just sort of happened without my consent.

Thankfully, I left the next morning and headed to Lafayette with my sister. She was renting a house near campus with a few of her friends, and I couch-surfed for a couple of nights so I could help them get settled. We went to the store to stock up on things like dish-soap, toilet paper, and frozen burritos.

The house needed some cleaning, so my time there went by quickly, and the next thing I knew, it was Wednesday afternoon, and I was on my way back home.

I'll remember that three-hour drive for the rest of my life.

I started feeling bad after breakfast that day, and by the time I left that afternoon, I was sick. I didn't know if it was a stomach bug or food poisoning, but my whole torso was cramping, and I was extremely nauseated when I headed home.

I made it past Morgan City before I had to pull over to the side of the road and puke. I felt a little better for a few minutes after that, but then it started all over, building in intensity until I had to pull over again. I had never felt so sick in my life. All I wanted was to be in bed, and I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, Louisiana, having to drive myself home. It was terrible. I felt so bad that I almost stopped and called my dad to come get me. I knew that would just take longer for me to make it to my bed, so I continued driving even though I was completely out of it and (in hindsight) probably a danger to myself and others.

I don't even know what time it was when I got home. I barely remember getting there. One minute, I was staring at the road, praying that God would help me get home safely, and the next, I was loosing my lunch again, only this time I had my head in my own toilet.

That was one of the roughest nights of my life. I was up for most of it, getting sick even though I had nothing left in my system. I slept a little on and off, but the whole evening was a blur.

I called my mom earlier in the evening just to let her know what was going on. She came by to check on me, and I think she might have stayed a little while and maybe even straightened my house a little, but it's hard to say. I was miserable.

I woke up the next morning, feeling slightly less terrible, but not by much. As instructed, I text my mom to let her know I made it through the night, and planned on staying home until I felt better. She answered back, saying I should try to stay hydrated and that she'd come by later today to check on me and bring me some soup.

I brought a blanket onto the couch and turned on the TV, hoping that if I got lost in it, I could forget about my stomachache for a few seconds. It was almost 10AM when my cousin, Cam, knocked on the door. I knew he was coming because he had texted me when he was on his way. I called for him to come in when he knocked, but he was already in the process of letting himself in—I could hear the sound of the door opening.

I saw as he came around the corner. "Mom sent this," he said, holding up a bag I knew was packed with food. "Aunt Kathy told her you were sick." He regarded me cautiously as he crossed my living room headed for the kitchen. "What, do you have the flu or something?"

I shook my head, staring dazedly in his general direction. "It's my stomach," I said. "One of Wynn's roommates cooked breakfast for us." I trailed off before adding, "Either that or the seafood we had the night before."

"You think it's food poisoning?" he asked.

I nodded even though there was no way for me to be sure.

He held up a box that he had just taken from the bag. "She sent popsicles," he said. "I'm putting these in the freezer."

"Thank you," I said. "And tell your mom thanks."

"I will," he said, closing my fridge door. "Did you throw up?" he asked, leaning on the counter and staring at me from across two rooms.

I nodded. "Not since six o'clock this morning, but about twenty times before that."

"The worst is probably over, then," he said.

"I breathed a humorless laugh. "Let's hope so," I said. "I'm not sure how much I have left in me."

He clapped his hands together with the confidence of a coach. "You'll be feeling better in no time," he said. He came out of the kitchen but stopped before he got to the front door. "Do you need me to do anything while I’m here? You want me to hand you one of those popsicles or anything?"

I shook my head and pulled the covers up to my chin. "No thanks," I said. "Just tell your mama thank you for me."

Cam waved and smiled on his way out.

It was roughly five minutes later when there came another knock on my door. The first thing that came to mind was that Cam left something in my house. I expected that the sound of my door opening would follow soon after the knocks, but it didn't. There came another set of knocks.

"Come in!" I yelled since I did not feel like getting up. My voice wasn't very strong, and I was almost certain the person at the door couldn't hear me. I was correct in that assumption because a few seconds later, there was a third set of knocks. I groaned, thinking it was so rude of anyone to come over when I felt like this. I figured if I just lay there and stayed quiet, they would go away. I almost did that, but curiosity got the best of me, even in my horrible condition. Any part of my family would have just walked in the door if they saw my car was in the driveway.

I opened the door to find someone walking down my front steps. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard the sound of the door, and my heart skipped a beat when I realized it was Jacob.

He was literally the last person I expected to see there. Maybe someone like Mike Tyson would have shocked me more, but I was honestly shocked to see Jacob. I had no time to pay attention to my own shock or the butterflies in my stomach because a wave of nausea hit me. I closed my eyes, letting the worst of it pass.

"Are you okay?" I heard him ask. I also heard the sounds of his footsteps coming up the steps toward me.

I was in the middle of saying, "I'm fine," when I opened my eyes to find that he was standing a few feet in front of me, holding the stool from the other night.

In spite of being sick I wanted to smile at the sight of him and that stool, but I didn't let myself. I spent the last three days feeling angry that I was infatuated with someone who could care less about me.

"You need to leave," I said, much the same way he said to me a few nights before.

I had brought my blanket with me, and I shrugged, adjusting it on my shoulders as I stared at him with a completely serious look on my face.

He shot me a confused, concerned expression. "Are you okay?" he asked, setting the stool down in front of him.

I shook my head. "Don't set it down," I said. "I want you to pick it up, turn around, and go back the way you came." It felt oddly triumphant to say the same things to him that he had said to me, and because of not feeling well, I was able to do it with a convincingly straight face.

"Alex, are you feeling okay?" he asked.

"No, I'm not, Jacob. I'm sick as a dog. I was up puking all night, and the last thing I need is for you to come over here, smelling good and bringing stools you made when you were fifteen. I don't want it. I am in
no mood
to have my heart trampled by you again."

That last part might have come out a little more dramatic than I intended, but I didn't really have enough energy to care. He took a step toward me instead of away. "Can I come in if I promise not to trample anything?"

I shook my head with a serious expression as I stepped back inside, letting the screen door close between us. Jacob reached out to stop it from closing, holding it open with one hand while he picked up the stool with the other. "Please," he said. "Just for a minute."