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He goes back in for another kiss, and just as he’s about to say something, probably something witty and distracting, someone whistling inside the barn makes us freeze.
The stable hand must be back.
Jake decides not to say what he was going to say and grabs my hand. “Head back to the house?” he whispers.
I nod. I’d really like a shower.
And another round…or two, with Jake Mitchell before I head home.
He pullsoff toward the house and with a push of a button, he rolls down our windows to let some fresh air in. Blares a slow Alan Jackson song. He’s euphoric. Relaxed.
As we hit the roundabout and take the exit toward the main house, I allow myself to feel the same. To revel in how things have shifted between us since I let my guard down. It feels…good to be on the same page. We both remember our night together, and we both understand the article is happening.
I hope.
There’s still a really good possibility the dick blindness has reached a critical level. He could still be playing me. But I guess that’s a chance my vagina was willing to take. She’s always been the bossier one when Jake’s around.
Speaking of remembering our night together, there is one thing I’m curious about. Something I hadn’t really considered until this moment. “Did you ever wonder if I forgot?” I ask.
He turns Alan down to hear me better. “Did I what?”
“Did you ever wonder if I forgot who you were? I mean…before I asked you at the lake.”
“Actually? No.” He says it simply. Unapologetically.
I smile. Why doesn’t that surprise me?
He does a double take. “What?”
“Not even a little bit? Not one part of you thought, maybe she’s acting this way because she forgot me?”
He stalls.
“It’s not a trick question.”
“It didn’t even cross my mind. I just thought you were avoiding it.”
All I can do is laugh.
His car slows to a stop in the middle of the driveway, and he watches me with a curious grin. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just not surprised, is all.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing again. Jake Mitchell, rich and famous NASACR driver, seducer of women and slayer of vaginas, would never think a woman would forget him.
“What? Because I’m so full of myself?” He almost takes offense, his smile waning, but then he thinks better of it. He knows I’m right.
He accelerates again.
“Too honest?” I say. It’s really not his fault, his narcissism. He comes by it honestly. Though his isn’t as debilitating as some.
He gives me a thoughtful look. “Never. I admire it.” A pause, and he says this next part darkly. “I don’t have enough of it in my life.”
My lips part to ask what he means, but I don’t. I leave it alone.
Or maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should keep the conversation going and see where it leads. My journalistic instinct has the next questions poised on the tip of my tongue: Your family, you mean?Do you want to talk about the wreck now? What you remember? What you know?
There’s still a lot to say, an entire lifetime’s worth. But before I can get another word out, he clicks a button a couple times on the steering wheel and Alan Jackson’s voice rises around us.
