His Steady Heart

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

The house is empty when I get home from the grocery store later that afternoon. I don’t know what I expected—and it’s not like I know Pippin’s schedule by heart—but standing all alone in my kitchen, I can admit that I’d hoped he’d be back by now.

I scratch my neck with a loud huff. He spent a few hours here this morning, and now the house feels emptier than ever before? That’s not even possible. I’m downright pathetic.

At least his book is still on the breakfast bar, so he’ll be back. Right?

Tracing the outline of the two hands holding a red apple on the book cover, I allow myself to think about him. Really think.

Something about Pippin has always triggered my nurturing side, which has always been huge to start with. When he was little, he had only me and Ma on days when his own mother was more focused on whatever boyfriend she had at the moment. And during his adolescence, he spent a lot of time at our house, trying not to be a bother.

My feelings havn’t lessened now that he’s all grown up. On the contrary, the need to be there for him and care for him is ingrained into my very being. As important to me as breathing.

Despite his bravado and independence, there’s still an air of innocence about him. There’s something vulnerable about his full mouth, with the pouty lower lip and pronounced Cupid’s bow when he’s not smiling. The way his brown hair—almost black, like dark-roasted coffee—always falls over his left eye and how he tries to push it out of the way with an impatient brush of the back of his hand, which shows his uncoordinated movements. His huge brown eyes twinkle with happiness most of the time and drink in everything happening around him with enthusiasm, but fill with loneliness when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking,

But I look. Probably more than I should, considering he’s sixteen years my junior. The spine of steel, the bubbly joy, and the vulnerability he does everything to hide, make my belly all warm. Make it impossible for me to look away.

With a shake to my head, I slam my palm on the book and push it away. I need to stop being ridiculous, right this second.

That decided, I go to the car and pick up the rest of my shopping bags. As I unpack eggs and tomatoes and beans and all my other purchases, my thoughts return to him.

I think about him a lot. I’ve always done that, from the first time I saw him and asked my ma why the little boy was sitting alone on the stairs. She didn’t know—Pippin and his mom had just moved into the house next door, and Ma’d felt crappy for a long time and hadn’t had the energy to even get out of bed some days.

The next day, he sat there again, and I decided to investigate.

I didn’t even have to ask him about it. As I approached, I could hear loud s*x noises leaking out of the house, even from a distance. A rough male voice grunting “Take it, take my c**k” and a female voice howling so loud she was either the most satisfied lady on Planet Earth or faking it. Or she was a werewolf.

And the boy—“Pippin like the hobbit,” he told me, glancing up from under shaggy hair in desperate need of a trim—just sat there thumbing through an old picture book as though it was nothing out of the ordinary.

And it wasn’t.

It was too easy to convince him to come with me to meet Ma, who was charmed by him instantly. Despite her fragile state, she fed him milk and store-bought cookies, and made him promise to never go away alone with strangers again. Even now, fifteen years later, I get sick to my stomach thinking about what could have happened to that trusting little boy if someone other than me and Ma had gotten to him first.

I shudder.

When my groceries are packed away—I bought extra, hoping I’ll have a frequent houseguest—I stare at the last shopping bag.

A sale sign in the thrift store window next to my grocery store had caught my attention earlier—All paperbacks 25¢.

The last time I’d read a book was in high school—I prefer watching baseball, crappy movies on Netflix, homesteading videos on YouTube, or pretty much doing anything that’s not reading—but the memory of Pippin with his nose buried in the book this morning made me go inside. A kind employee—about Pippin’s age—helped me pick out ten titles he assured me are popular. On my way to the cash register, I passed a shelf of sweatpants and hoodies marked down seventy-five percent.

I hesitated. They were stupidly cheap, but getting Pippin to agree to accept them would be more difficult than driving to the moon in my old truck. The books I can get away with; I’ll just clear off a shelf and tell him my house looks more like a home with books in it, and let the books do their magic and lure him in. He won’t be able to resist them, and since they’re technically for me and not a gift for him—yeah, right—he’ll believe me. Or at least play along.

But there’s no way I can get away buying clothes in his size, pretending they’re for me.

After running my fingers through my beard a few times, I grabbed three hoodies and three pairs of sweatpants that’ll fit Pippin and refused to think about why I need to make sure he’s got warm clothes. The rational part of my brain tried to tell me he’s not my responsibility, but I ignored it. I always do.

Now, with a huff, I empty the bag and throw the clothes in the washer. As I wait for the machine to finish, I bring the books to the living room and pull the DVDs off the shelf. I never watch them anymore now that I have Netflix, so I might as well give them to my sister to enjoy.

Soon, I have a free space to put the books, and I arrange them in size order. They barely fill half the shelf—I should’ve bought more—but I must admit I like them there. It feels right, somehow. Homier.

Huh. Amazing how much cheer you can buy for a couple bucks.

Pippin isn’t back when it’s time to leave for work, but I scribble a note and add my phone number. We haven’t exchanged numbers; we’ve had no reason to do it before. Now, I regret not asking him this morning, so I could text him and make sure he’s okay.

I fold the clean clothes and put them in a neat pile on the breakfast bar. On top of them, I lay his book and tuck the note between the pages, so it won’t fall to the floor, while still making sure it sticks out enough for him to see it.

As I get into my truck, I force all thoughts of him out of my head and focus on work, hoping that I’ll have a quiet night at the airport without any emergencies that need a plumber.