Crap was not a great word, but it wasn’t worth a nickel, so I let it slide.
And disappointed was not exactly the right word for the emotion I was feeling that he was just there to check out my place to see how many trucks they needed, but for my peace of mind I didn’t think too hard on what the right word would be.
“Well, okay,” I mumbled.
He stood there.
I stared up at him.
“Butterfly, haul your ass up there,” he ordered.
That was worth a nickel.
“Another five cents,” I told him.
He shook his head then jerked it to the stairs.
I sighed and moved that way.
I climbed. Travis and Joker climbed behind me.
I walked down the walkway. Joker with Travis walked with me.
I opened the door and entered my apartment. Joker brought Travis in after I did.
He closed the door and looked around.
I did too.
The single bonus of Tory (outside her having enough human kindness to inform me my son was sick and then bring him to see me) was that she wanted to redecorate my house after Aaron kicked me out of it. Something Aaron let her do. Therefore I got most of the furniture that used to make its home in a much nicer place.
This meant what Joker was seeing was incongruous.
That being a beautiful, expensive, comfortable fawn suede sectional that ate up nearly every inch of space and surrounded a fabulous, large, heavy, carved, square coffee table and faced a massive media center including a big flat screen TV that took up all the wall space with none to spare.
The attractive rush-seated hardwood stools at my bar didn’t belong to the place either. Nor did the countertop appliances and kitchen paraphernalia that were all expensive because they were top of the line. All this was given to us during our engagement party, my shower, and our wedding, and those gifts were mostly from Aaron’s parents’ friends.
And last, there were the accoutrements, heavy silver frames (that now did not hold pictures of me and Aaron over the too many years we were together but instead held pictures of Travis, Travis and me, Travis and my dad, or my dad, my mom, and Althea), expensive decorative knickknacks, and a Bose dock that I didn’t get in the divorce decree. I filched it. But luckily, Aaron either didn’t notice or was so busy having sex with barely legal model and making my life a misery he didn’t have the energy to fight to get it back.
Joker couldn’t see my bedroom suite, which also took up the entirety of space in my tiny bedroom, especially with Travis’s crib and changing table shoved against a wall.
I’d even gotten the comforter and sheets. All that was magnificent, elegant, even regal.
As it would be.
I’d picked the comfy sectional.
But Aaron’s mother had chosen our bedroom furniture.
Plus I had the storage unit my father paid for (saying he needed it for his stuff but I’d been there, he had two boxes stored there, the rest of the space was taken with the leftovers of my marriage). It held my dining room table and the guest bedroom furniture from one of our four guest bedrooms.
Something I intended to sell should I have needed to.
Now I didn’t and would be able to use it (or most of it) when I moved into Tyra’s house.
More lucky.
“See the asshole left you with somethin’,” Joker muttered.
“Nickel,” I snapped.
He looked at me, ignored my snap, and stated, “Thinkin’ we need more than a coupla trucks.”
“That would be useful,” I confirmed. “I also have a dining room set that it would be great if you retrieved from my dad’s storage unit.”
“We’ll take care a’ that,” he stated, and instead of nodding, shaking my hand, wishing me a good night, handing me my son, and walking out the door, he walked toward my kitchen, around the bar, and to the fridge. He then asked, “Thoughts on dinner?”
I stood where I was and stared at him. Then I stared at the fridge door when he mostly disappeared behind it.
I was still staring when he straightened, looked down at Travis, who was studying the wonders of the inside of the fridge with rapt baby attention, and asked, “Spaghetti?”
Travis looked up at him and replied, “Guh.”
“Yep. Sounds good to me,” Joker replied, disappeared behind the fridge door and came back out with a package of hamburger meat. His eyes came to me. “Skillet?”
“Uh…”
“Dah!” Travis declared.
Joker looked to him then at me. “When does he eat?”
“Now.”
“You do him. I’ll do spaghetti.”
Okay.
What was happening?
“Um… Joker—”
“Drop your bag, Butterfly, and get your kid,” he ordered.
“Are you having dinner with me?” I asked.
“Yeah, after I cook it,” he answered.
I didn’t know what to make of that so I asked, “Why?”
“Why not?” he asked back.
I had no answer to that.
Fortunately, he gave me more.
“I’m here. It’s dinnertime. You need to eat. I need to eat. You feed your kid. I’ll make shit to feed you.”
I liked the idea of dinner with Joker. What I wasn’t so sure about was why Joker wanted to have dinner with me.
Maybe he was just being friendly.
Maybe he was just hungry.
I didn’t ask.
Instead, I shared, “I think the tally now is eight-five cents.”
He shook his head and then he gently shook my son as a message to me.
“Get your kid, Carrie.”
Carrie.
Three people called me that
But it started with Althea.
When she was little, she couldn’t say Carissa and instead said Cah-ree-ree which morphed into Carrie.
My parents called me that back then too.
When we lost Althea, they stopped.
No one had ever shortened my name to Carrie again. In fact, except for calling me “honey” sometimes, “beautiful” others, and “baby” when we were having sex, when he stopped calling me Riss ages ago for whatever reason, Aaron had had no other sweet nothings or cute nicknames for me.
The return of Carrie should have brought up bad memories. Maybe even hurt.
But it didn’t.
No, I liked Joker calling me Carrie.
“Babe, kid,” he said impatiently.
I jumped to, got rid of Travis’s bag and my purse, moved into the kitchen, and grabbed my son.
This commenced both Joker and I moving around, me putting Travis in his highchair and getting his baby food ready and Joker taking off his jacket, tossing it on a stool, then opening and closing cupboards, grabbing stuff, and starting to get our dinner ready.