"Does it feel good knowing I'd kill for you, Jamilyn?"
***
Upon the passing of her grandfather, Jamilyn Caswell, moves back to Forks, Washington to aid her grandmother. What she didn't expect was to h...
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— "How strange to dream of you even when I'm wide awake." —
"These are lovely." Jamie's mom inhales the sweet scent of marigolds, lavender, and forget-me-nots. The aged lines around her eyes creased as her eyes squeeze shut.
We all stood in the old rustic kitchen minus Riley, who was too busy playing with Bee and Casper to notice the subtle animosity wafting the air, along with Jamie's grandmother's peanut butter cookies. The perfect combination. "Jamie mentioned you liked Marigolds, fitting for the month," I reply, squeezing Jamilyns' hip.
She leans into me, not enough for anyone else to notice but me. I take her in. I always take her in. I wanted to notice every minor difference, from the way she does her hair, to the color she paints her nails.
They were black today.
"How's book club been for you Mom?"
It's funny, realizing that there are three generations of Caswell standing before me. All of which held a certain amount of belief that I didn't belong here. I could feel it the moment the door swung open and I was greeted by Jamie's grandmother, glowering at me.
She ignores her words, stirring a mixture of something in a copper bottom pot. "So, you're divorcing, Calvin?"
Jamie's mother pursues her lips and Jamie shifts uncomfortably. Something cackled in my chest at the sad look glistening in her brown eyes. I trail a finger up her spine under her pink blouse in hopes of distracting her in the slightest, biting my lip when her skin begins to pebble. "Abuela," she hisses.
Her grandmother paid no mind as she drizzled a peanut butter and chocolate glaze on top of the cookies. I'd be lying if I said my mouth wasn't watering. My eyes trail, and I chuckle lowly when I notice she hadn't taken a bite from the Blackberry turnover.
Not.
One.
Fucking.
Nibble.
She looked like she'd rather burn her hand on the stove that she currently stood in front of than eat it-and I loved it. Something I always appreciated about Jamies' grandmother is her bluntness. She was never afraid to tell you how she felt or if she hated you. And right now, I would say it was pretty clear that I wasn't her favorite person to be sharing proximity with. I entertain her anger, and crept around the large marble island, receiving a weird look from Jamie.
My shoes click against the old Spanish tile as I gift Jamie a wink and reach for a plate above her grandmother to place the cookies on. She doesn't cower or stiffen, only continues to press buttons on the oven. "How's the Blackberry turnover?" I ask her, hovering next to her all-knowing she hadn't even touched it.
She twitched, her grey brows pointed up. "Haven't had it yet," she grumbles.
I release a laugh only for her to hear, and walk past towards the cookies. Placing the fresh circular dough onto the porcelain plate. It gave Jamie and her mom enough time to create a conversation. Jamies features remained soft as she spoke with her mom in hushed whispers. When she came over a couple of nights ago, she told me they spoke, sharing hugs and tears. What lead up to the divorce was something that piqued my interest.
