Jensen

THE HARSH GLARE OF THE MORNING SUN peeking in through the blinds in my office irritates me as it glares off the computer monitor. I can barely make out the numbers on my screen. I turn the monitor at an angle away from the sun to see if that'll help. When it doesn't, I spin my office chair away from the desk, easing back against the worn leather headrest. Resting an ankle on the opposite knee, I squint through the open slats in the blinds to peer at the world outside my office window.

I hated Mondays less when they didn't involve paperwork, when I could actually be outside handling the hands-on stuff on the farm. This boring business side of the farm sounded cooler in theory than it is in practice. I miss getting my hands dirty, literally.

Before I can fall into my familiar musings, I spot two figures huddled in the grass just outside the staff room building a few feet away from my office. They both hold travel mugs in their hands, steam billowing out through the tops of their coffees, as if they had run into each other in the staff room and then walked outside together, pausing on the threshold before they go their separate ways.

Is that Teddy? I squint into the sun. When I can't make a positive identification, I scoot my chair closer, holding the cheap plastic slats of the blinds open enough to see the whole picture in front of me.

That sure as shit is my best friend out there talking to none other than that little fucker Jackson Olson. They're standing close with their bodies angled toward each other. I notice Teddy sweep a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, a sure-fire sign she's feeling awkward or nervous. Or possibly excited?

No, not excited. Definitely not excited. Right?

When I saw them at the bar together on Friday, I started to feel sweaty. I had to keep wiping my clammy palms on my jeans. I didn't like the way seeing them together made me feel. It was confusing. 

I kept trying to convince myself I was only being protective. I mean, how much do we know about this guy? He moved here only recently. Yeah, sure, I ran a background check before I hired him; and he seemed like a decent enough guy when I interviewed him. He came highly recommended and had plenty of experience. It was an easy decision to hire him, but now I'm questioning that call. Was my judgment somehow skewed?

That must be it. I'm just feeling protective of my best friend. I don't want her to get hurt. Maybe I should dig further into this guy. Make sure he was a good hire after all. You can never be too safe, right?

When I see Jackson reach out and grab her arm right above her elbow, I stand from my chair and pull the cord to open the blinds all the way. I stare daggers at the way his hand slowly moves its way down to her wrist and then back up again. Without thinking, I storm out of my office and eat up the space between us in a measly few steps. I stop abruptly in front of the duo, grunting my displeasure.

"Shouldn't you be working?" I address this solely to Jackson.

When he doesn't respond after a few beats, I shift closer to Teddy in the dewy grass, dislodging Jackson's hand on her arm in the process. I tap the place on my wrist that would house a watch if I wore one, which I don't. Jackson notes the gesture, nods once to me before turning his attention back to Teddy.

"Thanks for the coffee date." He smiles at her. "Maybe the next one can involve chairs. And an uninterrupted conversation." With that, he spins and takes off in the opposite direction.

"Date?" I demand, my body angled toward Teddy but my eyes still trailing the disappearing form of my new favorite enemy.

Teddy elbows me in the side. "Shut up. He was just being cheeky since we ran into each other in the staff room to grab our Monday morning pick-me-up. There was no real date."

Somehow her reassurance does little to make me feel better.

"But he asked you out?"

She looks at me over the rim of her travel mug as she takes a sip of her coffee. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

"He asked you out right in front of me. I heard it with my own ears, Chipmunk."

I realize I sound huffy, but I can't seem to reel it in. The fucker really pissed me off. How dare he encroach on my girl. Oh, wait, my girl? What the fuck was that about? She isn't my girl. She's my friend. My best friend. So yeah, she's a girl, technically; but she isn't my girl.

"Jensen. Come on. That wasn't him asking me out. If anything, he was trying to rile you up since you barged over here like some possessive big brother trying to ward off the big bad wolf. And quit calling me Chipmunk. You know I hate it." She runs a hand over her long braid, pulling it to rest over her shoulder, twirling the ends around her fingers.

Her fidgeting speaks louder to me than her words. The idea of it makes her anxious. Which part, though? Being asked out or the thought that I could be possessive of her?

But, wait, big brother? Is that her interpretation of my behavior? Because, let's be honest here, anyone else would probably call that something else. Something entirely too close to jealousy. That can't be right, though. I don't get jealous of the guys in Teddy's life. That's absurd. Why would I? We're just friends. We've always been just friends.

There has been something nagging at me lately, though. I've been noticing her. Noticing things I don't like noticing. 

Like the way her rounded ass looks in her jeans, especially when she's bending over while doing a random chore around the farm. Or the way her t-shirt rides up her torso when she's reaching for something high, revealing a milky white strip of her stomach. And those things I don't like noticing cause reactions in my body that make me uncomfortable to confront.

I find myself wanting to touch her in ways I shouldn't. 

Like sweeping the flyaway hairs off her neck, the ones that are always falling loose from her ever-present braid, and then running my tongue along the skin, finally sampling a taste of her. In fact, I keep catching myself touching her in little ways without ever having the conscious thought to do it. Like how I lightly held her hand as we walked through the parking lot at Roxy's on Friday. I fought the urge to twine our fingers together because that's not how friends touch.

So, yeah, I've been noticing Teddy more lately. Realizing things about her. Like how she's a girl. No, I know she's a girl. Always known it. I especially realized it after New Year's Eve our first year of college when we were both home visiting for the holidays. 

Shit, did I realize it then. 

That night has stayed with me for a lot longer than I'm comfortable admitting. And I'm a little ashamed to admit I still pull it out from time to time while in the shower, relieving myself of my ever-present needs.

How very inconvenient is it to notice your best friend isn't just a girl but you're seeing her as one? I don't like it. It's throwing me off. I don't like not being in control of things. And this feels very much out of my control.

"He was flirting with you, Teddy." I shift my body so I'm standing directly in front of her now. When I notice she's squinting into the sun, I grab her arms and spin us so the sun is out of her eyes. "Just like he was at the bar on Friday."

Her mouth falls open like my statement shocks her. How can this be news to her? She can't really be that oblivious. Surely, she knows how beautiful she is, right?

I study her as she closes her mouth, opens it, and closes it again on a huff. "That's. No. That's not what happened. At all."

Jesus Christ. She's completely clueless. She has no idea how gorgeous she is.

I wish I was oblivious to that fact, too, because it's really god damned hard to be cool around your best friend once you realize she's actually a beautiful girl. Woman, actually. A beautiful fucking woman.

Fuck. I am screwed. Really good and screwed.

-

BACK IN MY OFFICE, I CLOSE THE blinds, completely shutting out the world. My phone buzzes on my desk, pulling my attention away from the girl I just walked away from outside.

The sibling group chat is blowing up my phone as it tends to do on a regular basis. Fuck Sutton for creating it years ago. If I could figure out how to pull myself out of it, I definitely would. Group texts threads piss me off. So much chatter about shit I don't care about.

SUTTON: Yo bitches! Spill the tea on your weekends! Especially those who ditched us on Friday.

VIVI: Calm your tits, S. Getting laid is essential. You should try it sometime.

FINN: Harsh, V. And just no. Stop with the fucking sex details. You know we hate that shit.

VIVI: Maybe if you were getting some regularly, you wouldn't be such a grouchy asshole.

CHARLIE: Dude, she's got you there.

FINN: Fuck off.

Finn and Charlie are my stepbrothers. Identical twins. From what I hear around town, they both get laid plenty. I try not to pay attention to stories about my siblings' sex lives, but the rumor mill in small towns is no joke. Nothing is sacred. Or secret. Or off limits.

Although, come to think of it, I haven't heard much about Finn lately, and he has been especially grouchy. Maybe he has hit a dry spell? Ahh, hell, how do they always reel me in to their BS?

SUTTON: What about Teddy and the new Apple Jax dude?

JJ: Who now? Need more info.

SUTTON: Well, try not ditching us for once and you'd know what and who I'm talking about.

VIVI: She means the new hire at the farm. The apple farmer guy. Jackson. Apple Jax is a great nickname, BTW. I think it should stick.

FINN: Apple Jax. Ha! Gonna call him that when I see him today.

JJ: But what happened with the apple dude and Teddy? Let's stay on track. Some of us have work to do. Get to the point.

ME: I'm pretty sure you all have work to do. As your boss, I should know. So let's stop talking about the jackoff and move on.

FINN: Oooooohhh. I'm sensing some saltiness from Miss Teddy's bestie. Apple Jax rubbing you the wrong way, J? Or maybe it's the way he rubs Teddy that's got your underoos in a knot.

ME: Fuck off.

JJ: Someone spill the fucking tea! What happened with Teddy and this jackoff person?!

SUTTON: Pretty sure the newest Anderson Farm hire is moving in on Jensen's girl.

ME: Fuck off. She's not my girl.

CHARLIE: He doth protesth much. As always.

SULLY: Everyone fuck off. And take me off this fucking group text BS already. For fuck's sake.

Sully is our foster brother. He came to live with us when he was 12. My stepmom grew up in the system and always wanted to foster a buttload of kids. We kind of fell in love with Sully, though, and he was our one and only foster kid. I think my parents would have adopted him if his birth mother had relinquished her rights. Either way, he is an Anderson brother through and through.

SUTTON: Fine, Sully. Relax. Christ. You're wound tighter than usual. But before I put my phone away and get back to work, can we talk about the weird summon from Uncle Don's lawyer.

VIVI: Yeah. Totally weird. What's up with that?

CHARLIE: Did he really mean to include the steps? I feel like there was an error.

JJ: Or me? Why would I be summoned?

SULLY: Same.

Uncle Don was my dad's older brother. He recently passed away during heart surgery, and his lawyer apparently has been busy sending summons to all the Anderson siblings to the reading of his will.

Since Sutton and I are his only blood niece and nephew and he wasn't particularly close to any of us growing up, I can understand their confusion over being included in the summons. I am his blood, and it confuses me.

ME: No fucking clue. Not like we really knew the dude.

SUTTON: Exactly. What could possibly be in this will?

FINN: Maybe he was a secret softie and he's leaving us all a fuck ton of money.

JJ: Yeah right. The creep was stingy as hell. I bet he has debt, not a surplus of money to give away.

VIVI: Rest his soul.

JJ: Yeah, yeah. Excuse my disrespect to the dead. But, seriously, the dude was a creep. You know it.

SULLY: Agreed. On all fronts.

ME: I'll stop by the house and talk to Dad. See if he knows.

SUTTON: Thanks, big bro. You da best!

-

WHEN I'M FINALLY READY TO CALL IT a day, I change into a pair of gray sweatpants, a light weight, long-sleeved t-shirt and my worn pair of running shoes. I'm feeling especially antsy today and need to run off my excess energy. For the millionth time, I think this could easily be solved if I wasn't stuck working in a stuffy office for most of the day.

Shaking off the pointless thoughts, I step outside and begin stretching my legs. Only a few stragglers remain at the farm, the majority heading home already. I wonder if Teddy is still here. Probably. She's usually one of the last to leave.

When I start to question whether the fucker Jackson has left yet, I force myself into motion. I'm sick of myself and my ridiculous thoughts about this dude. I need to let it go.

I run the seven miles into town. The slushy gravel roads have left my shoes and the cuffs of my pants in a soggy mess. I kick off my shoes on the front porch at my dad's house and shake off my pants as best I can. The transition from winter to spring is a messy business.

Before heading inside, I turn to look at the cul-de-sac where I grew up. The old basketball hoop still sits at the end of our yard, although it doesn't get as much use with the residents being an older generation now. Whenever Dad grumbles about removing it, we all pitch a fit. Across the circular drive that connects all the houses, I spot Teddy's childhood house. Her mom still lives there with her husband and dogs. Sometimes I swear I can still picture us as kids playing out in the cul-de-sac.

"Jensen?" I turn to face the voice behind me and smile at my stepmom. Maxine stands in the open doorway, one hand propped against the fading yellow door. The sight makes me smile, visions of my mom painting that door juxtaposed with the woman who quietly stepped into the new mother role years later.

I can still remember the screeching laughs the afternoon my mom won the game of P-I-G that earned her the right to paint the front door yellow. My dad was wholeheartedly against it, but we always settled debates with a basketball. Fair is fair; and so the next day my mom went about painting the door the cheeriest yellow she could find at the hardware store.

Even once the color faded to a duller version of the bright yellow, we never could stomach the thought of changing it.

Maybe if there'd been warning. Time to prepare and process the idea of her death. Unlike an illness like cancer, where you're continually living in a tenuous state of fear and slowly watching your love one wither away, my mom's cause of death was much more sudden. One minute she was making spaghetti for supper, the garlic aroma filling the kitchen and the loud crooning of Reba McIntyre in the background, and the next she was being wheeled away on a stretcher.

A silent heart attack, we learned later. The doctor explained her diabetes likely affected the way she felt the pain of the heart attack, not giving her the necessary clues she needed to seek help.

"Hey, Mom." I kiss my stepmom's cheek before entering the house. It still smells the same, cinnamon and floral from the potpourri Maxine religiously sticks in decorative crystal dishes.

"Were we expecting you?"

Maxine is a short woman, almost as round as tall. Her hugs are like being engulfed in the softest pillows. They were my favorite thing as a kid—still rate up there as an adult, too, if I'm being honest. She's worn her hair in the same style since I've known her, a short bob that she curls under at the ends. The only change is she quit dyeing it recently and now it's a gray bob instead of a brown one.

"No. I just need to talk to Dad. I hope that's ok. I ran here after work." I cross through the house to the kitchen, opening the fridge to scavenge for something to drink. I grab a Gatorade and down about a fourth of it before returning my attention to the open fridge to look for food next.

"Hey. Out of there." She closes the fridge and points to the table. "Set yourself a place and you can eat with us."

I grab a plate and some silverware and set it down on an open spot at the worn family table, where she's already placed two settings for herself and my father. The table looks so large with only three place settings. We've tried talking them into getting a smaller table, or at the very least, one that can convert in size by placing or removing pieces. Maxine refuses. She says this is the table we all grew up eating at and it'll be the table we all come home to.

When my dad started dating Maxine about a year after my mom died, I tried not to like her out of some weird loyalty to my mom. But she's impossible not to like. So when my dad announced their engagement, I couldn't help but be happy. If someone were to step into a mother role in my life, I was glad it was Maxine.

"Look who showed his face finally." I'd know my dad's booming voice anywhere. He rarely yelled growing up, but he has the kind of voice that demands your attention. His gruff outer shell is a stark contrast to his soft inner core.

"Hey, Pops." I clasp my hand on his shoulder and lean into him in our awkward man-hug. He pats my back twice and pulls away.

I follow him into the kitchen, where we grab dishes of food from Maxine and carry them back to the table in the dining room. Once we're all seated, we reach out and grab each other's hands, bow our heads, and recite the dinner prayer, before we start dishing food onto our plates. Maxine made her famous meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked beans and dinner rolls. Although they've been empty nesters for years, they still sit down for homecooked meals most nights. The Anderson kids have been known to raid their fridge for leftovers when a hankering for Maxine's cooking strikes.

"So," Ike segues the conversation after shoveling a heap of potatoes into his mouth. He turns his attention to me as he waits, allowing the one-word sentence to hang in the air.

"So," I repeat, taking my own heaping bite of potatoes. "Uncle Don."

"Yeah?"

"The will. Why are we all being summoned to the reading?" I sop up some gravy with a roll, moaning my pleasure. "I get dibs on leftovers." I point at my dad to make my point.

He grunts. After a few more bites, he sets his fork down. "What do you mean about the will? Who all got summoned?"

I mimic him, setting my fork down as well. "We all did. All the siblings. Even JJ and Sully."

Ike looks at Maxine and then back to me. "Huh. That's news to me." He picks his fork up, digging back into his food "And you sure as shit are not getting the leftovers, son. You moved out. I get all the food now."

"Now, now, boys." Maxine shovels more potatoes onto our plates. "There is plenty enough for both of you to have leftovers. Don't think I don't know I have strays raiding my fridge. I always make extras."