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Fifteen
JACK WAS GONEwhen I woke up the next morning—his empty bed a tangle of sheets and blankets, as if he’d spent the whole night scuba diving in there.
Where was he? It clearly stated in the handout that he was supposed to stay with or near me at all times. He wasn’t supposed to just sneak out while I was sleeping.
I got dressed—jeans and boots this time—and went to look for him.
In the kitchen, instead of Jack, I found his mom and dad.
Being adorable.
His mom was sitting at the table in a chenille robe, and his dad was across the room, wearing his wife’s floral apron, standing at the stove, burning bacon. Smoke everywhere. The stove fan running in a too-little-too-late way, and this big man flapping his ruffled hem helplessly at the whole situation.
Should Connie Stapleton be laughing like that? It was the first time I’d seen her since the surgery. Was that safe for her stitches?
Granted, she was more subdued than he was.
I mean, now Doc Stapleton was doubling over at the waist.
He took a minute to collect himself. Then he lifted the charcoal-black strips out of the skillet and brought them to his wife, well aware that bacon was supposed to be a whole different color.
“I blame the stove,” Doc said.
“Me too,” Connie said, patting the back of his hand.
Then, with remarkable generosity, she broke off a blackened piece, put it in her mouth, and said, “Not bad.”
As if burnt bacon really got a bad rap.
I felt so shy, standing in the doorway, as something totally astonishing hit me: These people were happily married. Everything about their body language—their faces, the way they were laughing—confirmed it.
Happily married.
I mean, you hear about people like that. In theory, they exist. But I’d sure as hell never seen anything like it before.
It felt like glimpsing a unicorn.
I started to back away. I definitely didn’t belong here.
But that’s when Doc looked up and noticed me.
Connie followed his gaze. “Oh!” she said, all warm and welcoming. “You’re awake!”
No escape now.
Knowing everything Connie had just been through, and knowing, too, how much of an interloper I truly was, I suddenly wished like crazy that Jack were there to cushion the moment.
And then, as if he heard me somehow, the kitchen door swung open, and Jack himself stepped in—looking windblown and manly in a plaid shirt and jeans—with his glasses a little bit crooked.
He also had a golf bag over his shoulder.
“You’re up,” he said to me, like there was no one else in the room.
Doc took in the sight of Jack. “Hitting golf balls into the river?”
“Every morning,” Jack said with a little nod.
“Golf balls?” I asked. “Into the river? Isn’t that, like, environmentally unsound?”
