I’m not asking for much here. Just for him to find some workout shirts that are a couple of sizes too big for him, instead of the ones he prefers, which fit his body perfectly. He also needs to stop wearing sweatpants, because only JT in joggers could make me believe that sweatpants are hot. I never thought that before, and to save my sanity, I need to go back to that place in time.
But that isn’t going to happen today. Instead, I’m being treated to the sight of JT in a pair of low-slung black joggers, a sleeveless shirt, and a ball cap on backward, along with a determined look on his face. His gaze trains on me for a few seconds before moving across the street to Tyler and his friends. His face hardens and I swear I can see his lip curl. If I was standing close enough, I bet I’d hear a snarl to go along with because in a matter of seconds, Tyler and his cohorts scuttle off toward the Hintons’ backyard.
JT watches them disappear through the gate and then heads in my direction. I latch one hand onto the handle of the lawn mower and grip it so tightly my knuckles turn white.
“Hey,” JT says.
Oh, hell. Really? That’s how he wants to open this conversation? All hail the standard dude bro greeting. Hopefully I still have enough patience left in me today to keep from losing my cool over one tiny word. I try not to scowl and then hurl the annoying word right back at him.
“Hey.”
It comes out sounding like I’m saying are you kidding me more than anything, enough that JT grimaces.
“I wanted to apologize for how I acted when you got here. It caught me off guard, and I ended up acting like a… drama-llama.” I raise my brows at the unexpected phrasing. JT shakes his head a little. “Not my choice of words, but that’s what someone I work with called it. Either way, I felt fucked up about you seeing me here, and I took it out on you. That’s wasn’t right, and I’m sorry.”
“I was thinking that you acted like a jerk. Or an asshole. But I like ‘drama-llama’ better. It fits.”
A grin quirks at his lips. “I’ll tell Lexie you said so. She enjoys rubbing it in when I’m wrong. I basically spent all of last night at work listening to her and my buddy Chris breakdown all the ways I screwed this up.” He sighs, then darts a look at the mower. “Do you need help with that?”
When I let go of the mower handle, I have to wriggle my fingers a bit, just to return the circulation.
“I’ve got it. It’s just a little temperamental.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my shirt, tugging on the cropped hem of my swing tank. JT’s eyes follow my hands but don’t stop at the hem of my shirt. By the time his gaze has traveled over my legs and down to my toes, then trailed back upwards to my face, I’m so aware of his attention that my skin feels like one giant ball of static electricity.
“You can’t mow the lawn like that,” he announces.
I tilt my head. “Oh, really? And why is that?”
“You’re wearing flip-flops.” JT points at my feet. “You can’t mow the lawn in flip-flops. That’s a good way to lose a toe.”
“I have ten of them.”
“And it would be good to keep the whole set,” he says dryly. He pauses, running another look over the length of me. “You should put on some pants, too. Maybe a different top. A sweatshirt would be good.”
I snort out a laugh and the reach for the pull cord again. It’s one hundred degrees out he wants me to put more clothes on? I don’t think so. The only way that’s happening is if he’s going to change into something that covers him up, too.
“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I just need to get it started and then I’m golden.”
I don’t even get the cord yanked when JT’s hand shoots out to stop me.
“I’ll do it. You should go in the house now,” he says. The words come out sounding a little too demanding for my taste, and I am not here for that. Slowly, I raise my eyes to his and glare at him.
“Christ, now I’m fucking this up,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but what I’m trying to do here is make up for being a dick. I’m good at mowing lawns. Let me do this for you.”
I bite back what first comes to mind, which involves explaining that I don’t need him to do anything for me—even though there are so many creative things I think he could do, if I did want him to make up for something.
Instead, I decide to give in. It’s too hot out here to argue and I’m running out of what little patience I have left for the day. He wants to do this? Fine.
I raise my palms up and back a few steps away from the mower.
“You know what? Have at it.”
He nods once, mumbles a thank you at me, and then proceeds to yank the mower cord in one smooth, strong motion. I watch the muscles along the length of his arm ripple, nearly whimpering at how all of that power is going to waste on this stupid, tedious chore.
And just to add a little salt into my sugar, the mower fires right up for JT. Because of course it does.
I shuffle inside, pour myself an iced tea, and then draw back the curtains on the front windows. If this is all the satisfaction I’m going to get today, then I’m at least going to stand here and enjoy the show.
7
JT
When it comes to the simple things in life, I think a freshly mowed lawn should be near the top of the list. Pathetic or not, I like the satisfaction of taking a yard from unruly to uniform, and how that simple goal makes a cold beer taste better when I’m done. Without fail, pushing a mower around for an hour or so always leaves me in a better mood that what I started in.
When Nicole and I first got married, we lived in a small house I’d bought a few years earlier, back when I was a single guy just out of the Marines. It had a postage stamp-sized yard that I mowed like clockwork every ten days. Nic gave me a tremendous amount of shit for the satisfaction I got out of doing what most people thought of as a chore, and constantly reminded me that when we finally sold my “starter house” and bought the kind of place she really wanted, we were going to hire a lawn service. I blew it off, thinking she’d eventually settle into our existing house and eventually we’d both love it the way I did.
I was wrong. About that, and a lot of things. Totally fucking wrong.
A year later, we were in a new house with a yard as big as the mortgage we’d taken on. The house was just the beginning, followed by a million other things we couldn’t afford. I should have known better, because math is math, and it doesn’t lie. It also couldn’t turn my salary as a Marshal into anything but enough for a solidly middle-class lifestyle—not the upper-class one we were trying to live.
After we split up, I was forced to figure out how I’d gotten myself into the situation I was in now, and that’s when I was able to see how the red flags were there the whole time. Everywhere. At the time though, I was just good at ignoring them. Plus, in the beginning, I was mostly in lust with Nicole—not in love with her. She carried herself with this unattainable swagger that I found fascinating, but it also made me shortsighted. On good days, I put her on a pedestal, doing what I thought it would take to make her happy. On bad days, I saw her as another part of my life that needed to be maintained, almost like she was part of a to-do list. Mow the lawn, wash the truck, clean the gutters, keep Nicole happy.