Page 24 of Under His Control

I’m happy for June but I’m also jealous. She’s my age and her life is like a heartwarming fairy tale. Mine is a horror story with no happy ending in sight.

June is married to a hot guy who worships and adores her, they live in a nice house, and in a few months, she’ll be a mom. I’d love the first two for myself. The third… I don’t know.

I think I want kids. Probably for the best I don’t have them. My mother wouldn’t have won any Bestest Mom Ever awards so I didn’t learn how to be a good one from her.

I know what I wouldn’t do to my kid based on my experiences, but who knows. Maybe I’ll fuck up in other ways.

* * *

Full belly, full heart.

Good food lifts the mood.

The way to the heart is through the stomach.

If yesterday is any indication, Jacob and his answer are due home soon. He might be on his way with a firm no, but maybe a taste of my delicious roasted chicken and veggies will change his mind.

Or maybe he’ll be pissed I made myself too comfortable in his house, using up his groceries without his permission.

The food isn’t just for a positive answer. It’s another apology. He said my words were meaningless last night. After swallowing my hurt feelings, I agree.

Telling someone you’re sorry is too easy. Showing it to them in ways that make them happy is a step in the right direction.

Sat at the kitchen table, I drum my fingers on the wooden surface with impatience. I can’t even pay attention to my phone. I slept for most of the day, which is unlike me. My body must have needed it because of the accident. I’m humming with energy despite cooking for the past two hours.

I perk up when car lights sweep across the windows and an engine rumbles outside.

He’s home.

My heart beats faster at keys jingling close by. The front door creaks open and thuds shut, boots stomp then thump onto the mat. Jacob steps into view.

His eyebrows draw together. He’s not happy to see me. Again.

Did he think I would miraculously disappear while he was gone? Maybe he could’ve saved himself some trouble by throwing water on me. I might’ve melted away into a puddle, no longer a thorn in his side.

I open my mouth to welcome him home. He strides past me down the hallway before I can. I deflate in my seat. I don’t think the food will be enough to fill his heart or lift his mood.

Jacob returns several minutes later dressed in a maroon shirt and grey sweat pants. His hair is a darker brown from dampness and that mild pine scent I like lingers on him. His shirt isn’t quite a close fit, but it doesn’t hide the firmness under the cotton… or his strong forearms… or his thick biceps… or his broad shoulders—

I snap out of my trance. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I keep noticing things about my ex-stepfather that I really, really shouldn’t. It’s disturbing. This man used to play board games with me, help me with my homework, and buy me overpriced ice-cream on the weekends.

“You cooked?”

I nod and stand. “I hope that was OK?”

“Yes. It smells good.”

“It wouldn’t have been OK if it smelled terrible?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. Shockingly, it’s not mean or mocking.

“It would’ve been fine. I've been your guinea pig before.”

He remembers that? I wanted to cook like Grandma Valentina when I was a kid but I was horrible at it then. Poor Jacob suffered my burnt and under-cooked attempts with greedy swallows of water.

His stare moves to my forehead and I’m self-conscious that he’s looking at the bruise. I saw it in the mirror a few hours ago. It’s an ugly blackish-blue with fainter shades of red and purple.

“You should’ve been resting instead of cooking.”