AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Out of the corner of my eye I notice my siblings watching me. I smile and hold up my hand. They wave back, and I see the care in their eyes. If it means so much to them, I can get out of the house once and a while. I can go over to my parents’ for dinner.
It’s all about baby steps.
14
Shiloh
Ilove the fall.
It’s officially October in Goldheart, and chilly mornings have arrived, my favorite. The trees around Woody Finch Brewery are changing colors to vibrant oranges and red. On my meal breaks I like to go outside and stare at the colors dancing with the breeze. Sometimes I read, but mostly I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at my favorite picnic table and marvel at the scenery.
Today, Emily relieved me for an early meal break around four, before the after-work crowd floods the brewery, folks who wander in weary and tired from a long day. I’m not complaining; today is especially lovely. I grab my lunch bag and sweater and walk outside, admiring the red barn the Finches refurbished and thinking about how lucky I am to be here.
This was the right decision for me.
Sacramento will always be my home. I miss my sister; I miss my mom. However, I got my hope back, being here. My life is curated to what I want, without the influence of a boy who only decides he wants me when I don’t chase him.
Before I sit down, I pet a Rottweiler after asking permission from the owners and let the dog smell me before rubbing her ears. The dog groans and leans into my hand, licking my palm.
Thanking the owner, I walk to my favorite table, elated it’s free.
My butt barely hits the bench before Jackson appears.
“Hi,” he says, holding his own bag.
“Hi.” I saw him for a brief moment at the Goldheart Market when I was shopping for Papa. It was in the middle of the afternoon, and he didn’t look stressed or anxious. We said hi, but he left abruptly when Bea, the owner, came down the aisle towards us.
He’s joined me for a walk with the local shelter’s longest resident Bubba, and we were quiet, even when the dog stopped to smell a bush.
Other than that, he hasn’t texted me since that “platonic of platonic friends” text, and I had to start turning my phone off at night so I didn’t constantly check it.
No matter how much I see him around, I still bust wide open with happiness when he finds me. The butterflies in my stomach flap manically.
“I was wondering if I can join you. I have my own sandwich.” He holds up the bag like he’s displaying a fish he caught.
“Sure.” I shouldn’t want to hang out with him, I shouldn’t want to talk to him, but I do. I know it’s best we should avoid each other, but I feel an invisible magnet between us when we’re in each other’s proximity.
I need to avoid him. I could be pulled under again, wishing for a man who doesn’t have the capacity to want me. Papa is right.
He takes the opposite bench, facing me, diagonal so our knees won’t touch. I open the wax paper around my sandwich and stare down at it. Boring peanut butter and jelly. Today, I just made it quickly since I was running late, but sometimes I use cookie cutters or cut it fun ways to jazz it up. I unpack a bag of chips as I watch Jackson unwrap his exquisite sandwich. It looks like there’s chicken and red peppers and green lettuce. Saliva pools in my mouth as I watch him take a good bite and drop his sandwich.
“Do I have pesto on my cheek?” he asks after he swallows.
I shake my head with a smile. “Your sandwich looks good, is all.”
He picks up half and thrusts it across the table. “Do you want some?”
“No, I can’t,” I say, waving off the offer, although drool collects at the corner of my mouth. I point to my sandwich. “I have my own.”
“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve had peanut butter and jelly. You want to swap halves?” Jackson holds out the half closer. “Like we’re eleven?”
I chuckle as I stare at the half. It is not a fair trade—my cheap, homemade sandwich to his gourmet, store-bought one. But I still take it, because I need to know if it’s as good as it looks. He takes the half I offer and bites into it, scrunching his eyebrows. I bite into the chicken pesto sandwich, and flavor hits me. My eyes roll back embarrassingly far as he chuckles, his mouth full of peanut butter and bread.
“It’s good, right?” he asks.
“Oh my goodness.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin he gives me, and I devour the rest of it. The plump chicken, the cherry tomatoes drizzled with olive oil. The roasted pepper pesto. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten.
“It’s been twenty years since I’ve had peanut butter and jelly. It’s tasty,” he says.
