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“Better.” I catch a quick upward bob of the eyes as he goes around me, turns on the kitchen faucet, and squirts soap into his greasy hands, scrubbing up to his forearms. “Lunch is in the bags.”
Jacob sets the white paper sacks onto the island. He pulls away when I try to thumb the car grease from his cheek. “Mom!”
Sigh.
Wearing exasperation on his stubbly face, he heads toward the hallway, I’m guessing for the bathroom.
John is watching, swiping paper towels over his hands when I turn around. I paint a smile onto my cheeks. “Great. What are we having?”
Eyeing me a for a lingering moment, he rolls the kitchen trash from its hidey hole in the cabinetry and tosses the wad of towels. “Jacob said you eat salads, so that’s what you and I are having. Hehada giant box of trans-fat chicken tenders, French fries, and some ridiculously spicy-sounding dipping sauce.”
“It’s gone?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like my son.”
“Sounds like every teenage boy.”
Right.
Jacob returns and the paper bag rattles as he digs a biscuit from it. In a shocking move, he appropriates the third plate John took out and sits with us at the table.
Tearing open a packet of balsamic dressing, John shoots me a wry smile. “I wouldn’t let him eat that crumbly thing on my leather seats.”
I sputter-laugh. Jacob wouldn’t have heeded the same request from yours truly, at least not in the last few weeks.
John and I have barely started eating when Jacob’s chair grates across the laminate floor. I hold my words—and, yes! He takes his plate to the sink and runs the water.
“Hey, honey, where’s my debit card?”
Digging into his pocket, he puts it and a receipt in my hand.
“Thanks.”
“I’m gonna go text Reagan.”
And I’m certain he’ll be asking to take the car for an in-person visit shortly.
I glance at the strip of paper, nearly choking on the crouton between my teeth. The dollar amount is cringeworthy but expected. The string of last-four digits of the card used is not.
I finger the piece of printed paper. “John?”
“Yes?” His gaze jabs into mine as boldly as his fork stabs a hunk of grilled chicken. He knows—and doesn’t have the decency to at least pretend to be chagrinned.
“I’m paying you back.”
“Nope.”
I set down the plastic utensil. “I gave Jacob my card for a reason.”
His loaded fork pauses almost to his lips. “And I gave him minefor a reason.” He pops the collection of chicken and lettuce into his mouth.
“Ughhh.” I shove my chair back. I feel his eyes follow me all the way to the bedroom. During the return trip with my purse. As I sit down, scribble-write, and sign a personal check.
As I shove it beneath his almost-empty salad container.
He sits back and folds his arms, exposing muscles and the fragment of a tattoo beneath the right sleeve. His mouth turns in a smug smirk. “You can’t make me deposit it.”
