Raining Down Rules (6 page)

Chapter 11

Jemma

I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life. Well, that’s not true I guess, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve just given Jordan Capshaw an ultimatum, which I really have no place to give. It has to be his choice, and I know that. But somehow I find myself unable to kick him out on the street to let him fend for himself. Maybe there is something fundamentally wrong with me. I mean, I did just sit for ten minutes staring at the grocery store. Though I do it almost every time I come here.

It’s the dumbest thing really, but I feel like everyone in there knows me, knows what happened, and only judges me. But that’s dumb, no one knows except me and it will never happen again. I won’t let it.

I grab a basket, sling it over my arm, and hurriedly gather the things we need: milk, bread, honey, and some odds and ends for dinner. The cashier, Darcy, asks how Gran is doing and I politely answer her. What else can you do but say things are good? No one wants to hear about the bad, and if you do happen to bring it up, they only tilt their heads slightly to one side and give you the sad puppy-dog eyes. So, even though things seem to be going okay with Gran, I just smile and tell her what she wants to hear.

As I near the store exit my heart begins to pound furiously in my chest—Vic is coming through the doors. It’s too late to turn the other way and I can’t just walk by without saying anything.
Quick, think of something.

“I swear you’re following me.” Okay, not the greatest line.

“Wow, three times in one day.” He smiles back. “Of course it is a small town, it was bound to happen sooner or later.” Crap. Why does he have to have dimples that are so touch-worthy? “So, your friend. How is he?”

“His hand is broken, but he’ll live.”

“So, since we keep running into each other, have you changed your mind about going out with me?”

A sigh escapes my lips before I have time to stop it. “I’m just not in a place to be dating right now. I’m really sorry.”

Vic moves closer, blocking my exit, and his proximity makes me nervous. Nervous of my desire to run my hands down his arms and feel his muscles ripple at my touch. This is so not cool.

“I’m going to wear you down,” he says as he inches closer until I can feel his warm breath tickle the skin on my neck. “Don’t make me wait too much longer.” His whispered request fills me with such primal lust it nearly knocks me over. He steps away, kills me with his smile, and tips a two-fingered salute my way. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath to try to convince myself there’s nothing I can’t handle, I walk through the doors to face the person who may or may not be in my car.

There is a good chance Jordan will either be gone, or still in my car but pissed. I would be pissed…and gone. I reach for my keys, exit the store, and try not to look at my car. I’d rather not know if he’s gone until I get into the driver’s seat. It takes all my will power not to look through the windows of my car, and when I open my door I see a pair of long legs covered in black pants seated on the passenger side.

“I need to know your decision,” I say, and then hold my breath. I hand him the milk and the two bags of groceries. “Also, they had some flip-flops, so I bought you a pair, I hope they fit.”

Jordan digs through the bags and pulls out a pair of plain navy blue flip-flops and shoves them onto his feet. They seem a little small, even though I bought him the extra-large pair.

“Thanks,” he says, and grabs his wallet from the dash. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. They were only like three bucks.”

“Okay.” He sets the groceries on the floor between his feet and sighs. “I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet. Up until thirty seconds ago I didn’t have a pair of shoes, so if I wanted to leave I really couldn’t. So, if you’ll give me one more night to really think about it, I’ll know what I want to do in the morning.”

“I can’t let you have those pills in my house,” I say cautiously.

“I’ll keep them outside then,” he says with a smile. He rolls the bottle around in his hand and then tosses them into my lap. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to relax until we get back to your house.”

“Sure. Okay.” It’s not like we’ve got that far to go, only a few miles, but I guess I didn’t expect him to just tune me out, or willingly hand me his pills.

As I park the car in front of my house, Gran slowly makes her way onto the front porch to greet me as she has done ever since I was able to drive. Her smile fades as she watches Jordan exit the car, and for a moment I feel slightly hurt that she so obviously dislikes him. And then I remember all he has done to himself and I swallow my pride.

I grab the milk from Jordan and the two grocery bags as well and head up the stairs, kissing Gran on the cheek before taking the groceries into the kitchen. The sweet smell of cornbread hits me as soon as I enter the house, making my mouth water. Gran’s cornbread is the best I’ve ever tasted; it has even won awards at our county fair.

“What is that amazing smell?” Jordan asks with a grin so large I think his face might shatter.

“Don’t you go eating any of that. You’ll wait for dinner, young man,” Gran says as she quickly slaps his fingers away from the pan of cornbread. I laugh to myself as I put away the groceries and watch Jordan’s face alight in shock that my gran just scolded him. Maybe he’s needed someone along his path to scold him every now and then. His slack jaw makes him look like a lost puppy.

“Is she always this mean?” he asks as Gran leaves the room.

“I can hear you, boy.”

Laughter spills from my lips and it feels good, really good. Somehow I know things are going to work out. Jordan will make the decision to sober up and stay clean and then, I don’t know, but maybe he’ll be happy. Maybe then I can move on too and pick up the pieces of my life I’m not proud of.

“You think that’s funny?”

“Not really,” I say through unstoppable giggles. “It’s just, you should have seen your face.”

“Well, I’ve had about enough of this torture from you both, I’m going upstairs to shower. Let me know when dinner is ready.”

Before I have time to think of some kind of smart retort, Jordan is off and running up the stairs and I’m left in the kitchen to prepare dinner. Not that I wanted or needed his help, but a little gratitude never hurt.

By the time dinner is prepped and in the oven, my stomach is rumbling loud enough I’m pretty sure people in the next town over can hear it. I check on Gran, who is napping in her blue chair, lightly snoring. Gran hasn’t been totally put together like she used to be when I was younger, and with the cancer she seems even more disheveled than normal. I say a silent prayer that the medicines truly are helping her.

I hear the shower turn off upstairs, which means hopefully I can grab one before dinner is ready. The bathroom door is ajar when I get upstairs and through the gap I can see Jordan drying off with a towel. He is quite the picture to look at, with his long, lean muscles and damp hair. He’s a bit taller than Grandpa was, but maybe Gran will let me go through what she kept of his to see if anything would fit him. One pair of pants and a shirt isn’t going to last him very long. I slip past the bathroom but the floor creaks and Jordan pops his head out of the door. I cringe and turn around, hoping he doesn’t catch the blush on my cheeks.

His eyes dart back and forth between the empty hallway and me and I can tell he’s having a hard time focusing on anything at all. I ball my hands into fists and want to punch him, want to knock some sense into that thick skull of his.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say as I seriously consider kicking him in the shins. “You kept some of those pills, didn’t you?”

Jordan’s half-baked eyes widen in surprise. He steps away from the bathroom door, letting his towel slip lower on his hips, turning my cheeks a darker shade of pink.

“How many did you take, Jordan?”

He shrugs, giving me a faint smile that I want to smack off his face.

“How many do you have left? Where are they?” He turns his head toward his pants lying in a heap on the tile floor. I spring past him, grab the pants, and shove my hands into the pockets until I find four loose pills. I toss them into the open toilet and flush them all before Jordan can make it across the room. He reaches for me, grabs ahold of my wrist, and yanks me around to face him. He leans down, his face barely an inch from mine, and snarls.

“Those aren’t yours to throw away.” His fingers close even tighter over my wrist, making my fingers prickle.

“Jordan, let go of my arm,” I say firmly but quietly. His grip doesn’t loosen, instead he moves closer to my face. “You’re hurting me.” I jerk my arm from his hand and slap his scruffy cheek. “You’re an asshole. Get out of this house!” I run from the bathroom down to the kitchen and rummage through my purse until I find his bottle of pills. Wrapping my fingers around the orange bottle, I run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’s still standing in the bathroom with the towel slipping lower and lower when I throw the bottle of pills at him. I throw it hard and true, but he ducks out of the way, the bottle missing his face by inches. It flies across the room, lands in the tub, and the top pops off, spilling pills all over the ceramic surface. Jordan dives for the pills, slamming his cast on the edge of the tub, not caring that his hand is broken. He scoops up the pills like they’re bits of priceless gold. Though I guess to him they probably are. I watch in awe at how he cares more about those damn pills than what they are doing to him.

“Look at you. You’re a mess, diving for pain pills in my tub. I’m such an idiot thinking I could ever help you.” I turn away and shut myself in my bedroom. He’s in so deep I don’t know if he’ll ever get out. And as much as I wanted to be the one to get him through this, I’m not capable of it. I’m not strong enough to do what he needs. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes and before long I find myself slipping into darkness, letting sleep take me.

Chapter 12

I awake to darkness, and as I stretch in my bed my hand lands on something that crinkles with pressure. My fingers find it, a piece of paper, and I sit up and fumble with my bedside lamp. When my eyes adjust to the lamplight, I see it’s a note from Jordan. It’s handwritten, his scrawl tilts slightly to the right and surprisingly the penmanship is tidy and precise. It reads:

Jemma,

Your gran and I spoke at lengths over dinner—which was very good, by the way—about me being here at her house. It’s obvious she’s not thrilled that I’m here, and after the bathroom incident earlier, I’m guessing you’re not either. To be honest, I’m in this weird spot in my life right now and don’t know where I belong. Obviously I don’t belong with my band since they’re taking a break from me. And I obviously don’t belong here. That leaves me in this void, a black hole of unknown.

I suppose I could just call a cab or something, I’ve got enough money to pay for one, but that begs the question of where will I go. You’d think that I would have spent my money on houses or fancy cars over the years, but I’ve been stupid and reckless. Sure, I still have more than I need, but I have nothing to show for all I’ve done, other than marks on my body.

So, in the end, you win. I’ve flushed the pain pills and have agreed to get clean and stay sober. I can’t promise an easy road. It will be filled with potholes and mountains. But I will try. God, I will try.

Yours,

Jordan

My hands are shaking by the time I finish reading his letter, and I don’t know whether to feel happy or…what else is there? Nothing. There’s nothing. I don’t feel anything and that scares me.

I reach for my phone but it’s not on my nightstand where I normally keep it. I must have left it downstairs in the kitchen. I quietly walk down the stairs into the kitchen and find it in my purse. It’s funny how dependent you become on such a small thing. Without it, I hardly know what time it is anymore. The screen reads 4:37 a.m. and there’s a text from Trish asking for more details. She won’t be up for another couple hours so I’ll text her later. She would kill me for waking her up this early on a Sunday.

My stomach gurgles, and since I slept the night away I decide to fix a nice breakfast of bacon, eggs, and waffles. The salty smell of cooking bacon brings Gran to the kitchen with an easy grin spread across her face. She wraps her arm around my waist and kisses my cheek, such a warm and familiar embrace.

“You’re up early,” she says as she hobbles over to the kitchen table. “I should have woken you for dinner last night, but it seemed you needed the sleep.”

I simply nod and continue cooking the waffles. By the time the batter is gone, I have a stack of waffles we’ll never be able to finish. Gran and I sit together eating our breakfast and watch as the sun slowly makes its way over the hills off in the distance. I can tell by the way she keeps studying me that she wants to talk about Jordan, but when we’re through eating I grab the plates and clean up quickly, avoiding the conversation altogether. She retreats to her bedroom to bathe and dress and I run upstairs to grab a shower.

The horses were left out all night and I feel a twinge of guilt for not being there to put them away, but then they seem to be more than happy to have grazed all night. Ranger greets me first as usual and I climb over to nuzzle his neck. He smells like spring, green grass, and heat, and just breathing him in makes my heart swirl in my chest. If only Jordan could be like a horse, uncomplicated and gentle. Somehow, I don’t think that’s in his nature.

The horses are so content in the pasture I decide to bring their hay and grain to them to eat as they want. I load up the wheelbarrow with the feed and ease my way out of the barn to the pasture where all four of the horses are now eagerly waiting by the fence. I’m greeted with a series of nickers and head tossing and I feel as light as a sparrow.

As the day progresses, I’m hit with an overwhelming desire to leave the ranch and just get out. I wasn’t able to take Gran on a drive yesterday and maybe it’s just what the two of us need. And she hasn’t been to Grandpa’s grave for almost two weeks. She always likes to go there and have her one-sided conversation. Sometimes I wonder if, after fifty-one years of marriage, Grandpa talks back to her. Maybe his spirit is still here on this Earth, comforting her. She always seems so much more at peace after she’s been to his gravesite, there must be something to her visits.

It’s hard to believe he’s been gone now for eight years—it doesn’t feel real sometimes. I was only twelve when he died but I still remember the funeral and how hard Gran tried to keep it together for me. In the end, as much as I was grieving him, Gran was the one who needed the comfort. For the next six months, I shared a bed with her as she often cried to herself when she thought I was asleep. I wish there was something more I could have done for her.

Gran is making sandwiches when I get inside and I can’t help but notice six slices of bread on the counter. She smiles and pats my hip as I place a kiss on her cheek.

“I can finish these, Gran.” I scoot her out of the kitchen and put together three identical turkey and cheese sandwiches, a plate of plain potato chips, and some of Gran’s canned pears. “Lunch is ready,” I call to the other room.

“Let’s eat in here today,” Gran answers from her chair. My heart pitter-patters in my chest a little. I still need to see if Gran is feeling all right. I carry the plates to the living room, balancing them on my forearm and hands, almost like I have waitressing experience, which I don’t. Jordan is slouching on the couch with his feet bouncing impatiently and he’s having trouble focusing on the television. Gran has the local news on and as soon as I sit on the other chair a picture of Jordan flashes across the screen.

Jordan’s eyes widen and mine do as well, I’m guessing for different reasons. The Jordan on the screen is a smiling, happy guy who looks like he’s on top of the world without a care. The Jordan sitting in this room is just a shadow of the other. He’s still handsome and charismatic, but his cheeks are hollow and his eyes are sunken and dark. He’s even thinner than that picture. The anchor reporting the news goes on to say, “World-famous rocker and lead singer of White Shadow, Jordan Capshaw, failed to appear at his scheduled concert in Seattle yesterday evening. It’s rumored Jordan and his band are having creative differences and will be taking some time off to figure things out.”

The screen flashes back to the anchor who, with his smug grin, continues, “If you ask me, Mr. Capshaw has finally come to his senses and checked himself into rehab.” His fellow anchors laugh at the remark and continue announcing the news.

“Is that how the world truly sees me?” Jordan asks. He hasn’t touched his lunch and I have my doubts that he will.

It’s hard to know how to answer, because I imagine it is the truth. He has really messed things up for himself and his band, but how do you tell that to someone without it backfiring?

“Jordan, listen…” I begin slowly. What do I say? Jordan’s eyes wander to mine and I know I have to say something. “You’re going to get through this. You can get your band back together and everything will be okay.”

He stands and his plate tumbles off his lap and lands on the floor, the contents of his lunch spilling around his feet. “You’re full of shit,” he says bitterly. “You can’t just wipe the slate clean. No one forgets the mistakes you make, no matter what they say.”

I know he’s not talking about the mistakes I’ve made, but it feels like his words are pointed straight at me. Heat rises to my cheeks and I stare down at my worn boots. Would he speak to me so harshly if he knew about my life? Do I share with him my past to help guide him toward his future? Before I have time to really consider opening up to him, he stumbles out of the living room, through the front door, and out of the house.