Here Comes the Sun | ✓

Chapter Twenty-One - Liam

"We're going to Olive Garden."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Shit. Um..." He furrowed his eyebrows and thought for a deep moment. "Move," he said finally, waving me off to the side of my closet as he weaved his way through the very few shirts I owned. Shaking his head, he groaned, "Come on."

Cocking my head, I curiously followed Jimmy out of my room and to across the hall - to Mom and Dad's old bedroom that Jimmy now occupied. All of their things - even their banking stuff - was stuffed inside Jere's closet. A place where Jere wasn't allowed to go.

Now, it's redecorated with Jimmy's things - plaid comforter on the full mattress (that he never used), posters of his favorite bands pinned on the walls, twenty diverse products for his hair on top of his - my parent's - dresser.... Yeah. Jimmy.

It seemed as if every time I walked into the room, my heart dropped at the memory of me saying goodbye to them the last day I saw them. Jimmy clapped his hands together, then rubbing them mischeivously. The hell was he up to?

Walking to his closet, I sat on his bed and watched him precariously digging through his clothes. Unlike me, he had at least a dozen of each type of shirt - long sleeve, short sleeve, tank, flannel.... He was weaving through his flannels when he finally pulled out "the one." He threw it at me, hanger-and-all, and said, "Here you go, Prince Charming. Now I recommend you iron it so you don't look like a fool compared to her."

I physically and mentally crumpled. "I'll look like a fool compared to her no matter what," I muttered, and he just nodded, walking out of his room and leaving me behind. Groaning in frustration, I picked the shirt up and judged it for what it really was: Preppy. Though, everything about Jimmy was preppy, so why should I've been so surprised?

At least it wasn't a Vineyard Vines t-shirt.

Smirking at the thought, I unhook the hanger from the wrinkled, white, short sleeved, collared t-shirt he had handed me and followed him out of the room. I walked to the other side of the house next to Jere's room and opened the coat closet, finding the iron-board missing. Crap.

"I've got it, dumb-ass," Jim yelled from downstairs, and I sighed gratefully.

"Thanks," I called quietly down the stairs as I closed the closet door, cautious as to not wake Jere up. Stepping down the stairs, I heard Jimmy singing right by the television, singing along with the movie that was playing. Dirty Dancing.

"I'm guessing you've seen this movie before?" I asked, even though the answer was quite clear.

He glanced at me with a raised brow. "Oh baby," he sang, serenating me. "Oh sweet baby. You're the one." I laughed, and he chuckled. Clearing his throat, he gestured to the pull-out iron board and the heated iron. "Here you go."

I nodded at him in a silently thanks, and after lying the shirt flat down on the board, I picked up the iron by the handle and paused for a few seconds.

"Do you even know how to iron a shirt?" Jimmy called from the kitchen, his voice stringed with amusement.

Rolling my eyes, I called back, "You're asking the guy who's been living by himself for five years."

There was silence in the air, the only sound coming from the TV. Finally, he said, "Oh yeah. Kinda forgot about that." His footsteps sounded from the floorboards when he entered the living room, then his couch springing underneath his weight (despite him being quite fit) as he sat down. "Holy shit, man, she's here!"

My eyes widened. "Shitshitshitshitshit," I mumbled, my words tumbling over the other as I hurriedly turned off the iron and grabbed the shirt off the board. I ran over to the couch and looked out the window above it. And he was right: There was Libby, walking around the apartments, only a few blocks away from our front door. "Shitshitshitshitshit."