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He whirls to look at me. “Did you see her? Was she okay?”
I shake my head. “Didn’t see her,” I lie. “Sorry.”
Jasper takes the box in his arms and starts to head upstairs.
“You know,” I call, “you probably have some stuff of hers too, right? You should take it to her, since she was courteous enough to bring yours around.”
He shrugs, continuing to ascend the stairs. “Nah, it’s fine. Lucy didn’t leave anything important. Later Pops.”
Of course, my son abandoned his tennis bag in the middle of the floor for me to trip over. Go figure.
I sigh and finish my second glass, eyeing the living room from my vantage point in the kitchen. The space is luxurious, with white leather couches and magnificent artwork on the walls. But right now, I’m consumed with an issue far more important. How do I see Lucy Church again? After all, the curvy girl saw something she wasn’t supposed to, and now I need to confront her about it.
4
Brandon
It’s an unorthodox way to spend a Sunday afternoon, I’ll admit, but returning my son’s ex-girlfriend’s belongings isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had. Jasper made it clear that he wasn’t going to do it, so I took matters into my own hands. After our conversation, I marched up to my son’s bedroom and began packing a box of Lucy’s belongings myself.
“What are you doing?” Jasper gasped, hair still dripping from his shower.
“Getting Lucy’s stuff back to her,” I say nonchalantly, like nothing’s wrong. “Is that bear yours or hers?”
Jasper pouts.
“It’s mine,” he says, seizing the teddy possessively. Then he pitches it onto the bed before managing to locate a pair of flip flops, a sweatshirt, and a hairbrush with long brown strands in it. Good thing there wasn’t anything like a thong or a bra-and-panty set.
Now, I’ve pulled up to the Church home, the box perched on the passenger’s seat of my car. I’ve never been to Lucy’s house, although Jasper, of course, has been many times. He said that her family is a nice, quiet, middle-class one, and their house looks it. It’s a mid-size ranch, with a white picket fence and tulips of various hues bordering the hedges. A large oak tree with a knot at its base presides over the property, and I hear birds twittering in its branches as I get out of my vehicle.
I walk up to the Church’s front door, the box in my arms. My motives are impure, but then again, I’ve never been a “nice guy,” as they like to call them.
I ring the bell and half expect Lucy’s mom or dad to answer the door, but instead, it’s the curvy girl herself. She looks absolutely gorgeous in a cute yellow top and a pair of shorts that bring attention to her thick thighs and hips. Her curly brown hair is loose around her shoulders, and her face is slightly puffy, as if she’s been napping. From the look on her face, she’s startled to see me.
“Brandon?” she gasps, her brows furrowed. Then, as if remembering the last time we saw each other, she suddenly blushes a deep crimson that spreads all the way down to her decolletage. “Um, hi,” she says awkwardly, hugging her arms around herself. The girl can barely meet my gaze and I chuckle deep in my chest.
“Hey Lucy,” I growl. “Jasper packed up some of your things and I thought I’d bring them by. Can I come in?”
Her mouth opens and closes, as if she’s trying desperately to think about what to do next. “Um, I can just take the box, if you want, Mr. Walsh,” she stammers.
I grin. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something, if that’s okay.”
Her blush deepens even further, as if she senses what’s on my mind.
“Okay,” she whispers, and flees into the house.
I step into her home and close the door behind me. The living room has plush carpeting, worn leather furniture, and a plethora of family photos on the wall. I know that Lucy is an only child, like Jasper, and am tickled to see so many photos of her as a youngster. One picture right beside the front door shows Lucy, at maybe four years old, in a pink dress and matching Mary Janes, a giant sparkly bow in her dark hair. I chuckle upon seeing it.
“What?” the curvy girl asks. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, looking extremely nervous.
I gesture at the photo. “I like this look,” I say. “Very retro. Is that jazz hands that you’re doing?”
She smiles the tiniest bit. “My mom thought she was quite the fashionista when she dressed me,” she says, unconsciously smoothing the front of her shirt in a nervous gesture. “I’m glad she’s not still in charge of my outfits, and yes, it is jazz hands. I wasn’t even being photographed for a dance class, but the photographer had some very specific ideas on how to pose.”
