“Oh. U-um—no,” I stammer, switching my weight from one foot to the other, hoping that the ache at my center will pipe the fuck down so I can think clearly.
“Okay then.” Zander cups my jaw with one big hand and drops a kiss on my cheek, eliciting a shiver from me. “Want me to go with you to your place?”
“Yeah,” I whisper hazily, leaning into his tender touch.
***
As soon as I see my parents’ car parked in my driveway, I tense up, wondering what the hell I’m going to say. How can I possibly explain Zander? How can I explain where I’ll be staying while I’m here? How can I explain that I’ll be going right back to Tybee tomorrow? What would I tell Jacob’s parents if they knew? I know they love me and they’d want me to be happy, but would they be okay with the fact that I’m unofficially “seeing” the man who received Jacob’s heart?
“Just park on the street here,” I explain, pointing to the curb in front of the house. Zander pulls the borrowed Jaguar up to the curb and puts it in park. “If you want to just wait in the car, I understand. My mom can be a bit much sometimes.”
“Do you want me to stay in the car?”
“No. It’s not anything like that. Don’t think that I’m trying to hide you.” I stumble through my words and decide to just shut up. “Come on.” I pat his thigh and reach for my door.
“Ah! Don’t you dare,” he scolds.
I quickly drop my hands to my lap and wait for him to come around for me. Zander opens my door like he always does, extending one hand for me to take. I slip my hand in his and step out just in time to see the gaping expression on my mother’s face.
She’s standing on my porch with a broom in her hands. My father must be puttering somewhere. She always sweeps my porch when she comes over. It’s a thing she does. Another way that she expresses her love. Food and a dirt free porch. My mother is a saint who deserves far more than a piece of shit daughter who doesn’t even return a fraction of the love she gives to me. I love her. I should try harder to understand where she’s coming from, which is a place of love. She pushes and squeezes and corners me because she loves me. I should tattoo it on my forehead so I have no way to forget where I’ve come from, the road I’m travelling, and the stock from which I was born. I’m from stubborn, driven people that have the ability to love bigger and harder than any opposing force.
I glance to Zander and motion toward the house with my head. “Come meet my mom.” I lead the way up to the porch where Mom is openly gawking. She must recognize Atlanta’s very own poster boy for troublemaking.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, giving her a hug. “This is Zander. He—uh—he got Jake’s heart.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Zander drawls in his deep voice, shaking hands with Mom.
“And you. You—you’re Governor McBride’s son,” she says disbelievingly. “You got Jake’s heart,” she whispers the last part. Her eyes go to Zander’s chest.
“Yes, ma’am,” Zander confirms, looking shameful. It’s enough to make my own heart clench in my chest. I hate that he feels so unworthy. If I could say or do any single thing to make it better, I would. Surely he knows how amazing he is? Surely he knows how funny and kind he is?
Without asking permission, Mom steps forward and rests her hand against Zander’s chest. She closes her eyes and a faint smile edges across her lips as her chin quivers a little.
“Sweet boy,” she says softly, in that motherly manner that I’m more grateful for now that I’ve met Zander’s ice queen of a mom. It’s unclear if she’s talking about Jake, or Zander, or perhaps both of them.
Zander lifts his hand and covers Mom’s hand with his own. It’s his way of saying thank you. It’s a poignant moment between a man that feels lonely and unworthy of so much and a mother who has grieved the death of a man who had been a son to her for so many years.
Mom swipes a rogue tear from her cheek and wraps her arms around Zander in a hug that only mothers know how to hand out—warm and safe and perfect. It’s something that I would bet Zander has been starved of all his life.
His eyes go a little wild over Mom’s head, looking to me with an unsure expression. I smile, encouraging him. His eyebrows knit together then relax again. I’m not entirely sure that Zander knows how to give love. I think he does. I want to believe that he does. One thing I’m certain of is that Zander doesn’t know how to receive love. It’s so painfully obvious that he has been given very little true affection in his 29 years.
He spoke fondly of his grandfather, so surely he’s someone that showed Zander love and support in the way that families are supposed to. I make a note to myself to ask him more about his grandfather when the opportunity presents itself.
“Let’s go in. Daddy’s in the garage messing with the mower. Darn thing won’t start. Y’all thirsty?” Mom spouts off in her normal way.
“I don’t have anything to drink, Mom,” I comment, reminding her whose house this is.