Jack Who? (Book 1 Draft Version)

Epilogue

♪♫••═════Epilogue ═════••♬ ♭

Chicken Gumbo. This was my new favorite food. My first taste of the dish had been on a night as rotten in my memories as it was epic.

The night Marissa went on a date, after all I could think about on the flight over, then the drive over was kissing her crazy; the same night I played karaoke, chutes and ladders, and read books to my son for almost six straight hours.

“Jack?” The bitch in my memories and love of my present reality drew me out of the reverie.

Looking up, from my place on the couch, I saw that she held two hangers. Unconsciously, my mind fit first the loose dress to her form as I remembered it from the last wear. In the sunlight, during an ice cream run, it became see through enough to show a shadow of her legs as she walked. The next choice was a pair of pants I had yet to see her wear, capris, if I remembered the term right, and a matching top in black. Black was so hot on her.

“Which one?” She prompted, with a darting look to the clock over the den television.

Taking in the wet uncombed hair, already beginning to wave around her anxious face, and the lightly tanned limbs, not covered by the fluff of a towel wrapping the really good parts of her rack, I felt a grin twitch.

That's not all that twitched.

My feet fell from the sofa table to the tile of the floor, the rest of me intent on a bathroom bang. Five minutes. Surely she would be agreeable. Maybe I could make a deal. My mind ran through the possible sensuous bribes...and doing so was doing things...

“So, which one?” The outfits were still under her scrutiny, and when I didn't directly reply, her look began to swing away toward me, until something detoured her eyes and they narrowed. “Are you eating the gumbo already?!”

Her annoyance was fleeting, because in that same second, her gaze slid to my face, where it froze, perfectly reading my thoughts. The return yearn was clear in the dilation darkening her eyes. Her lips were slightly swollen from much kissing...and stuff, in the last couple of days, and they parted open, as if already anticipating the things I desired, she desired.

This was all happening in the span of several seconds, but unfortunately, in that same duration, the two other occupants of the house crashed the party. Just in the last day or so, Tristan was down to one crutch, and traveled at a much faster rate of walking. Bally was a length ahead, and the clip of her paws hit the den just before he did.

“I can't find my shirt!”

Reluctantly, I pulled my focus from Mariss but my heart lifted at seeing my son's face. “What's up buddy?”

“I can't find my shirt.” Annoyance steeped his words. I was quickly learning that he didn't like repeating himself, or explaining his words, and I controlled my smile. My mother would freak when she discovered this trait. In that way, he took after my sister, Meg.

“Which shirt?” I asked.

“The red guitar. It was on my dresser and now it's not.”

“Tistan, sweetheart, I washed it,” Marissa interjected.

“Can you get it for me?”

“It hasn't been dried yet.” Marissa again, wariness tinging her words.

“Why did you do that! I wanted to wear it,” He whined, and the sound was extremely uncharacteristic of what I knew of his personality so far, possibly explaining her cautionary tone. I wondered if he had ever thrown down in a full-blown tantrum like other kids.