I stand and watch as Rage mounts his bike and takes off like a light. Only when he disappears around the corner do I let myself in and marvel at the state of Jim's house. I haven't spent a whole hell of a lot of time here, but enough to know that it's probably never been this clean before. There are no empty beer bottles lying around on random surfaces, and none of Ryan's toys are on the floor for me to step on. This place normally looks like a minefield of sharp objects and old food. I don't know what the occasion is, but I like it.
The house is made up of the average-sized living room that looks over an L-shaped kitchen and small dining area. On the other side of the house is a short hallway with a small hall bath and two rooms just big enough to not be small, with two shallow linen closets set on either side of the bathroom. With Jim nowhere in sight, I let my curiosity get the better of me and I sneak into the kitchen. There's not a lot of storage space in here, but enough for what few dishes Jim has. Normally the cabinets are pretty barren, but as I poke around, I find that they're full. Full of dishes and serving platters. Full of boxes of food and plastic storage containers. There's so much stuff that all that space I thought this kitchen had is nonexistent. Even the fridge is full of food. Real food that's used to create meals, not just beer and cheese sticks with the occasional expired luncheon meat.
"Either you're looking for leftover cake, or you're trying to figure out where I hid all the debris from the floor," Jim says. I jump in place, right myself, and slam the fridge door shut. Shit, busted. When I turn around, my cheeks are red, and I'm doing my best to meet Jim's eyes. I'm not normally shy, but we've had sex, and I'm kind of totally in love with this man, and he's arching one of his brows in this faux judgmental manner than makes my stupid tired brain kind of hot.
"I found the leftover cake--second shelf. The debris is still MIA, though," I say.
"You ran out on me." He walks toward me and stares down into my eyes with a fierceness that I'm really not used to.
"You had to go home," I say. I mean, that's what happened, isn't it? Or did I get my signals crossed?
Jim brings his face down to my level and shakes his head. He smiles as he says, "No, we had to get home. But you didn't give me a chance to explain."
His explanation makes sense, but I don't feel it in my soul the way I felt the words he spoke earlier. I'm left with the impression that he feels obligated to do this stuff for me and my son. It's like he thinks because I do a lot for and with Ryan that he has to somehow make it even with Ian. He doesn't. Nothing's worse than pity, but being somebody's obligation is a close second. I've been an obligation, and I don't like it. I want to be somebody's option instead.
"You don't have to do this."
"What's that, momma?"
I repeat myself, only louder this time. He stares at me incredulously before taking my hand and silently dragging me out of the kitchen and down the hall to Ryan's bedroom. He opens the closed door slowly and cringes when it squeaks, then gestures for me to go in. I assume the boys are passed out on Ryan's bed, but that's not what I find at all.
Ryan's bedroom used to make the living room look like it'd been visited by a maid. He had a twin bed with a single dresser and a toy chest that was always closed but also always empty. All the toys were on the floor. Half his clothes were in a pile near the closet, and the clean ones were usually half hanging out of open dresser drawers. But that's not what I'm seeing now. The miniature window blinds are half-open, allowing a stream of light to come in from the street and giving me enough visibility to really look around. In the corner of the room, a new set of bright red, metal bunk beds takes place of the old twin. My attention is fixed on my boy, sprawled out like he hasn't a care in the world on the bottom bunk, only half-covered with the action-figure comforter. Not just any action figure, but his favorite action figure graces the comforter, pillow, and sheets he's lying on. I take a few steps into the room to find that Ryan, on the top bunk, is curled up under a similar bed set with his favorite superhero's cartoon likeness printed all over it.
"I don't understand," I whisper. Jim's presence looms behind me, simultaneously taking up space and making me feel safe and protected. It's a dangerous feeling. I could get used to this.
"I said we have to get home."
Jim's words sink in slowly as I take in the rest of the space. A second dresser sits next to Ryan's. It's a little newer-looking, but not by much. Above each dresser is a metal placard that's almost the shape of a license plate.
One has Ryan's name stamped into the metal.
The other has Ian's.