Selfish Love

He grinned. "Nah, I was gonna grab some to go, but I mean, if you're offering..."

"Don't let me ruin your wild and crazy night," I said, straightening up as I tucked my shoes onto the mat. "Besides, I haven't showered or anything. You don't have to subject yourself to my stinky after-work smell."

The way my house was set up, the entryway was pretty cramped. It was barely wide enough for Baylee to squeeze past if we entered the house at the same time, which meant a tall, fully grown man like Jimmy didn't have a chance to get past my dump truck ass. That could have easily been solved by me doing something sensible like moving out of the way, but when Jimmy caught my eye and leaned forward, all semblance of thought just... stopped.

There was half a smirk on his face and his dark eyes seemed to sparkle. Before I could even think to react, his face was to the side of mine, and I heard him inhale.

"You don't smell bad," he said, his voice low. "Kinda uh... flowery. Like candles."

I almost shivered, but rolled my eyes and slapped his shoulder. "It's like I work at a candle company or something. And stop sniffing me, you creep."

He burst out laughing and pulled away. "Go do what you gotta do. I'll get dinner on the table and then if you wanna kick me out, I'll go."

"Don't go," I said before I even thought the words. "Hang out with me."

I didn't quite know what to call the look on his face, but I liked it.

While Jimmy got dinner sorted out, I showered quickly, though I still gave myself enough time to overthink everything while I was at it. How I felt like I didn't deserve this kind of kindness. How I was embarrassed that everyone had apparently noticed what I thought I'd been hiding so well. How easily I'd been swayed into letting him stay, and how delighted I was that he'd wanted to.

You know. Just your standard overthinking that had become a part of my personality after years and years of dealing with an ex that seemed to require it. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary, and once I was done, I debated putting on jeans and a nice top before shrugging on an old grey sweater and my comfiest leggings.

I mean, who did I think I was trying to impress? It was just Jimmy downstairs. And after I'd left Daniel and his Wardrobe Regulations For A Proper Wife, I'd sworn that the next time I dressed for a man, it was going to be when they put me in my coffin to go see Jesus. Or if I really, really wanted to get laid, but that would be my choice, not someone else's.

The point is that my outfit was both a blessing and a curse when I trekked back downstairs and into the kitchen.

It was a curse in that I was almost blind-sided by the man in my kitchen. And I mean blind-sided. When I'd gone upstairs to shower, I'd left Jimmy--young Jimbo, Em's baby brother, fun uncle to my kid's best friend, notably younger than me by a not-insignificant amount--in the kitchen to set the table and dish up the Chinese takeout he'd brought over for dinner. When I returned, I saw... well.

My outfit was a blessing because it was still Jimmy standing in my kitchen, but it was Jimmy in a way I wasn't supposed to be looking at him.

I don't know why it all hit me at that precise moment. Maybe it was the context: we'd been alone together before, but not... not like that. Not to have dinner and hang out and... you know. Be in each other's company or whatever.

Or maybe it was the subtle shift in his demeanour: the maturity that seemed to make him stand up straighter and exude a quiet confidence instead of a screaming cockiness.

Or maybe it was that I'd never seen him in anything other than concert t-shirts and ripped jeans, and now he was standing there in dark jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt overtop of a plain t-shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows as he struggled to open a bottle of wine.

In any case, I was grateful I was dressed like a complete slob rather than in something that made me feel like I could have had a shot with him because that would have been even more problematic than the fact that he was opening a bottle of wine.

Or, as I said, struggling to open the bottle.

He didn't notice me right away, which was good, because it gave me a moment to watch and let that strange feeling pass; the more he twisted the corkscrew, the more I saw of the Jimmy I was supposed to know, until I wasn't sure I'd seen anything else at all.

"Need a hand?" I finally asked.

He looked up, his face turning red. The corkscrew was stuck, jammed into the cork at an angle. I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh, and he shifted slightly as he cleared his throat.

"I thought I'd try to, you know. Class it up a little," he said. "But, uh..."

"First time?" I teased.

He laughed. "Yeah. I've never even had a glass before."

"Really? You've never had wine?"

He shook his head and I smiled, stepping into the kitchen. Without saying anything, I reached for the bottle. He passed it to me and I undid all his hard work. Once I had the corkscrew out, I flipped out the little lever thingie, re-screwed it into the cork, and put the lever thingie in place. As I pulled the cork out in one smooth motion, he groaned.

"It's that easy?"

"Sure is, Jimbo."

He'd put out two wine glasses and I poured a small amount into one, then slid it across the counter to him. He raised an eyebrow.

"That's it?"

I made a tsk-ing noise. "This is how the pros do it. I pour you a small amount, you swirl it around and sniff it and shit, then you take a little slurp." I put some wine in the other glass and showed him the steps, then lifted it to my lips and took a sip. "Then you say, 'mmm, that's quite lovely, is that from the Provence region of Italy? It tastes of smoked oak and ripened juneberries. That, along with the smoothness of the body, suggests the grapes were likely grown on a north-facing bush and harvested in early July. And do I detect a hint of tannins?'"

Jimmy stared at me, then frowned down at his glass. "Damn. I didn't know you knew all that shit about wine. I got this because the guy at the store said it was good." He shook the glass a bit, then took a sip.

And he tried. He really tried. And I tried not to laugh. But he was able to keep his face neutral for all of a moment before his mouth twisted down and his nose wrinkled.

"Hmm," he said, his voice higher pitched than usual, and I completely fucking lost it.

"Not a fan?" I managed to choke through my laughter.

Jimmy's cheeks turned red, but he grinned bashfully and set the glass down.

"Maybe it'll grow on me," he said. "But, uh..."

"Would you like something else instead?" I asked. He nodded gratefully and I started laughing again, motioning towards the fridge before I poured more wine for myself. "Help yourself."

He grabbed a beer and we moved to the table, which was teeming with styrofoam containers holding what appeared to be every dish the Chinese food restaurant made. The sweet and sour scent of overly sauced pork and greasy noodles made me realize how very hungry I was.

"How'd you learn all that stuff about wine?" Jimmy asked as I started heaping my plate full of food. "All I tasted was, like... wine."

"Oh, I'm completely full of shit," I said. "None of that was true."

He laughed, his face turning pink again. "Oh."

There was a lull; an awkward silence made worse by the fact that I couldn't decide if I was regretful or relieved by it. Mostly relieved, I told myself, since the level of comfort I was feeling with him was... well. He was my best friend's younger brother. Emphasis on "best friend's brother" and on "younger." I swallowed hard and piled chicken-fried rice on my plate.

Still, the awkwardness was... well, awkward.

"This is awesome," I said, hating the fake tone to my voice. "You managed to get all my favourites. How'd you know?"

He chuckled. "Baylee was very specific."

"Baylee was in on this?"

He looked like I'd caught him with his pants down. "Sort of. She maybe said very pointedly that you deserved a nice dinner and spent a good ten minutes telling me what you liked."

"She's nothing if not thorough."

We chatted superficially over dinner. Easy things, unnoteworthy things, safe things about our day-to-day lives and shared connections. And that was good; it was right. But even as we cleared our plates and heaped them up again with far, far too much Chinese food, I could see Jimmy was holding something back.

And that was terrifying.

But whatever it was, he didn't say anything about it. He told me about work and joked about the "young punks" he had to give tours of the studio to, kids from nearby high schools who were barely younger than him. And he told me about his side projects; bands he was playing songs with at gigs so he could keep performing now and then, songs he was writing in his spare time that he hoped Alex would help him with, even a new guitar he'd had his eye on that he was pretty sure he was going to treat himself to.

It was refreshing listening to him talk. Those mindless things, those hopeful things, those things that were real and right and normal for a twenty-one-year-old to be dealing with. Things I couldn't relate to, not having had the chance to experience them myself, since I was married to a monster at that age.

Things that I so loved hearing about.

When we finished eating, Jimmy put the leftovers away as I cleared the dishes. Then, instead of doing something useful like sitting around and finishing his beer, he made it even harder for me to not have more of those thoughts I wasn't supposed to have by helping me wash and dry the dishes.

When we were done, we each grabbed another drink--more wine for me, water for him--and moved to the living room as easily as if we'd done it a million times before. I didn't have room for a full living room set, not that I'd ever needed one, so we had no choice but to sit side-by-side on the saggy old couch.

A silent beat went by and just as I was about to propose watching an episode of whatever trashy reality TV show happened to be on that night, he cleared his throat.

"So, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something," he started.

It took everything in me not to look up at him in alarm. Instead, I stared at the darkened TV in alarm.

"What's that?" I asked.

He cleared his throat again. "It's, uh, something I'm not sure you know. But it's... well. I know it's kind of big and give me a chance to explain, okay? 'Cause I think... I think it's important. I've wanted to bring it up for a while."

Oh, God.

"Okay," I said hesitantly.

He took a moment to steel his resolve, then took a deep breath and looked at me earnestly.

"Baylee would be an awesome drummer," he said.

There it was.

That was why he was here, all dressed up, trying to make a good impression.

I stared back, disappointed.

No.

No, that wasn't right.

I stared back, relieved. So relieved.

And then dismayed.

"Surely you're fucking with me," I said.

"I'm not fucking with you. And don't call me Shirley," he said, proving yet again that he was Em's brother, and I groaned as he grinned. "Look, I know no one wants their kid to be a drummer, but Kels, she's just... she's got it."

"I... are you trying to kill me?! I've already put up with the tambourine at all hours of the day and now you want to introduce drums?"

He held his hands up defensively. "I'm not saying you have to, but she's a natural. Like, she just gets it. She's really good."

"How would you know?" I asked. "She's never played before."

He hesitated and I groaned.

"When?"

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. "I showed them to her at the studio one day and it was like she just knew."

"You're killing me, Jimbo," I muttered. "I live in a townhouse. The neighbours will kill me. I'm already dead. Tell Jesus I'm on my way to the grave right now."

"At least it'll be soundproof," he said.

As hard as I tried to keep being overdramatic, I couldn't keep a straight face. Jimmy grinned as I started laughing.

"Just think about it," he said. "She'd be so good."

"Why drums, though?" I whined, flopping back on the couch.

"Probably because it's the perfect balance for her." He shifted again, reaching for the glass of water he'd left on the coffee table. "She's loud and out there, but she's not like Leia who can just immerse herself in the music and feel it, you know? Percussion gives her enough structure to let loose and work through stuff the way she needs to." He paused to take a sip of water. "I used to play with a drummer who said it gives people the guidance they need to embrace their chaos."

For a moment, I had no idea what he was talking about. But even as I opened my mouth to express my confusion, I pictured my daughter. The little girl who was too much, too loud, too unabashedly herself, who understood too much and nowhere near enough. Who saw her best friend get things that she didn't and understood why at the same time that she understood nothing at all.

And I knew what he meant.

"Man, I'm doing a bang-up job, then," I said. "Giving her all that chaos to embrace."

It was meant to be a joke. Or, well, it was meant to sound like it was a joke. One of those jokes that wasn't a joke, just a statement I said like it was a joke because I wanted Jimmy to laugh at so the realization hurt a little less.

Apparently, though, he didn't get it.

"What d'you mean?" he asked, frowning.

I made a sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "Oh, you know."

An annoyed look crossed his face. "No, I don't."

"It was a joke, Jimbo."

"It didn't seem like a joke."

"Oh, now you're insulting my joke-telling skills?"

His scowl deepened. "You know that's not what I meant."

Of course I did. And of course he wasn't letting it go. And of course he was scowling his trademark Jimmy scowl, which had absolutely no effect on me whatsoever, except that this time it did.

"She's got way more baggage than a kid her age should," I said, hardly aware I'd made the decision to speak. "I mean, between me and her dad, she... she's not getting the normal childhood experience. I haven't been able to give her that. And that's why she's... you know." I laughed shakily again. "Full of chaos."

I was staring at his hands, for some reason, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him studying me.

"It's not you, Kels," he finally said. "You know that, right?"

I didn't say anything.

"Kelsie," he said firmly. "You know it's not your fault, right?"

"I mean, it is."

"Wha--are you serious?"

I could feel heat rising up my neck as I stared at Jimmy's hands, needing something to focus on and hating that I'd chosen that particular thing. A creeping, crawling, nagging sensation was working its way up my spine, a coldness that was built on instinct, a warning in a calm, collected, hauntingly familiar voice to be quiet, woman, shut your fucking mouth.

But that voice wasn't Jimmy's voice, and that man wasn't here. And try as I might, I couldn't shut my fucking mouth.

"It is my fault," I said. "I wanted her so bad. So I brought her into the world knowing damn well what kind of person she would have as a father. And when I finally figured out that she wasn't gonna get a normal childhood with... with how he acted and what he did to me, I took her away from a secure life to one where I can't--didn't, I mean, didn't know if I could make it paycheck to paycheck."

If I was someone else, a tear might have rolled down my cheek, but I wasn't. I was me, and I was focused on Jimmy's hands as hollowness filled my chest and my voice.

"I was selfish and now she's paying for it. I know no kid has a completely perfect childhood, but she's going to figure out how much more fucked up hers is."

"I don't even know what to say," he said.

I smiled wryly. "That bad, huh?"

"Your take on it? Yeah, it's fucking awful."

I was stunned enough to look up at him. There was a hardness in his gaze, but it softened as his eyes met mine.

"You wanted a kid. That's pretty normal. You had a piece of shit husband. That's less normal, but not your fault. He was the fucked up one, not you."

"If I'd just--"

"If you'd just nothing. You got her out of there. You put her before yourself. That's literally the opposite of selfish."

"You don't get it, Jimbo." I laughed again, mostly to cover up that hollow upset still ringing through my voice. "She's my kid. I love her. I want the best for her. Which means I know she deserves better than the shit parents she got."

"Not true. She's got a great mom."

"She's got a shit mom."

"You're not a shit mom."

I should have caught the aggravation behind his insistence, but I didn't.

"I am," I said frankly. "I can admit that, okay? Just because Daniel's horrific doesn't mean I'm not a shit parent, too."

"You know I fucking know what it's like, right?"

The fire in his voice shocked me in a way it shouldn't have. Jimmy had always had a bit of a temper; not a scary one, not the kind that made him lash out or get physical, but even though he was far calmer and more settled than he used to be, that anger was still there.

And he had a good reason for that anger, which I'd known. Apparently, though, I'd been so focused on myself that I'd forgotten why he harboured so much anger.

But Jimmy wouldn't ever forget. He couldn't ever forget.

"You know what my parents were like?" he continued heatedly. "You know. There's no way Em hasn't told you. You know I didn't know parents weren't supposed to scream at their kids constantly? Or that kids get presents on their birthdays? Or that people were supposed to eat three meals a day? You know they could've gotten us killed? You know they almost did? Or that they could've let CPS take us away, but then they wouldn't get their cut from the government, so they made sure they did the bare minimum to keep us at home? And you know how fucking low that bar is?"

"I--no," I said softly.

"It's low." His voice wavered, not quite a crack but nowhere near steady. "I know what shit parents are like. I know what it's like when someone treats you like nothing. Like you're a nuisance. Like you're not even a person. And I know that Em tried her fucking best with me, and I know she feels like she fucked up and maybe she did, but she tried, Kels. By your definition, that makes her a shit sister. D'you think she was a shit sister? 'Cause I don't."

I shook my head, my lip trembling. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His cheeks were red, but some of the ferocity in his words began to fade. "Don't apologize. Just don't say you're shit, okay? You know how much would've been different if either of my parents cared about me the way you care about her? You know what I'd give to have someone like you in my life?"

I hated that he said it.

I hated the way his voice wavered and the earnest, heartbreaking honesty in his voice. I hated the yearning, the regret, the way it was so clear he felt like he'd missed out on something and the knowledge that it was true. I didn't know Jimmy's parents, but I hated that they'd done that to him, that here he was, years later, not sure why he'd had to go through the shit he did. Why he'd been so unlucky, why he hadn't been loved unconditionally the way that any and every child should.

And I hated, I fucking hated that it had the effect he'd intended. That the thought of how much worse I could be as a parent offered an undeniable comfort. That as chaotic and precarious as Baylee's life was, she would always know she was loved.

He wasn't looking at me. I don't think he could bring himself to. I glanced at his hands again. They were in his lap, fists clenched, knuckles white, and I couldn't stop myself from reaching forward and putting my hand over one of his.