11. Jack

11

JACK

Who could have imagined just a couple of months ago where I would be today.

I thought I knew so much, but I learned so much more.

And when dealing with coffee, there are rules one must follow. Including letting roasted beans sit for three days before grinding and brewing them.

I have roasted sampled beans from each of the farms we visited at the beginning of the week and today, it's finally time to try them.

I've ground all the beans by hand and now, I've arranged four glasses on the counter side by side for four separate pour overs in order to taste test what I might be working with. Of course, how good these coffees are depends on my own roasting abilities. I've got my confidence back, though. Or maybe I have confidence I never knew was there.

Because in my back pocket, no matter what, my thoughts can return to the safety of Camilla. Her touch, her face, her voice, the way her body has thrummed against mine the past day and a half.

My baby girl.

She's gone out to buy pastries from a local shop because in her words, "There's no use tasting coffee without pastries." Which hurts my little purist heart, but no matter.

What she wants, she gets.

I'll have coffee waiting for her when she returns. If anything, her opinion is more valuable than mine. She's a casual coffee drinker, and as much as I'd like to cater to those like myself who drink coffee and can tell what's good and bad, if we want the shop to flourish, we need to appeal to the masses too.

I pour hot water from the kettle into the final pour over, let the coffee bloom. Then wait. There's an art to the pour over. It is time consuming, but it must be perfect. It's an art I've learned over time, one I've perfected.

One that takes complete concentration.

My mother's voice wafts in from the kitchen doorway. "Smells good in here."

Dammit .

I don't look up from my work, returning to pour the water over the grounds. It requires a constant stream of water for three and a half minutes, a measure of time I know in my bones by this point. However, now that my mother's entered the room, all bets are off.

"Can we talk, Jack?"

I'm a bit cornered.

Yesterday, I avoided her. Today's the weekend and she has the day off.

I spent most of the morning distracted with Camilla, but now that she's gone, I'm unprotected. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Oh, don't be like that, keiki."

The word settles through me. It's a common term of endearment, yes, but it also means son. And that is still me.

"Won't you look at me?" she asks, her voice a mere pinprick in her throat.

"I have to concentrate," I say in a cool tone.

She mutters something to herself. A chair scrapes across the floor, and she sits at the kitchen table.

And so, the room is silent as I pour, each second that ticks by feeling like an entire day, an entire lifetime. I feel her watching me, eyes boring into my back.

Loathing my existence, maybe.

Finally, the pour over is finished. The four glasses sit side by side. I hope Camilla will return soon so we can get to tasting these before they're cold.

With a hefty sigh, I turn around, crossing my arms over my chest. "Okay. Go ahead."

My mother's eyebrows rise. " Me go ahead? You should go ahead."

"Why?"

She smiles out of sadness. It's in her eyes. "I thought you might want to apologize."

I could fight. Could balk. Could laugh in her face. I don't. "No, I don't think I have anything to apologize for. I've apologized to Geoff and to Camilla for making a scene, but to you, I don't owe an apology."

Her brow furrows. "You really think all of those things you said? You really think I don't love you?"

"I didn't say that." Not in explicit terms. "But I think I have reason to question what my place is in your heart. You wouldn't have seen me on my trip if not for Camilla."

My mother looks away, eyes pinching shut. "I know, that was not…that was not kind."

"It's not about kindness. It's about–" My breath hitches in my chest. "I'm your son, Mama."

"You are."

"I am your firstborn ."

She opens her eyes. A tear rolls down her cheek and tugs at my heart strings.

I want to tell her she's not allowed to cry. Because the second she cries, it won't feel fair. I will be cruel to hold her feet to the fire. "You are, Jack."

"Then why am I othered? Why don't you love me like them?"

"I do."

"You don't," I bite back. "That's a lie and you know it."

She hesitates just long enough for me to see the truth. It's different. The way she feels about me and the way she feels about them. And she knows it. "You wanted to leave, Jack. You begged to live with your father. I let you do that. I let you go because that's what you wanted."

"Because nobody gave a shit that I was here!" I cry out, spreading my arms wide. "Nobody fucking cared about me!"

My mother grabs at her chest. "I did. Of course, I did."

"Well, you had a weird way of showing it, then." That weird way being not at all.

Her jaw tics. "See? This is why I told you not to come."

"Why?"

"Because all we do is fight because your reality and my reality are so different." Her lips bunch up. "He poisoned you against me."

My temper flares. "Dad didn't do anything to poison me against you. You did that fine all on your own."

Her brown eyes whip to mine.

We reflect one another in so many ways, our eyes included. And when we stare each other down like this, I am struck with immense grief. That the woman who made me doesn't understand me and has never cared to.

She tilts her chin up. "I wasn't good enough for you. Fine. But he couldn't keep it together to give you the life you deserved. A life with a mother and a father and a happy home. And you ran to him." Her voice is ragged, her hand splayed out as she gestures away from her. "He left you, and you wanted him ."

"So, you're saying because I chose Dad that means you can excuse yourself from loving me? That even though I was a child–"

"I am not perfect, Jack. I know I'm flawed, but you have to believe me that my heart did not exist until you," she says through tears sliding down her face.

I say nothing. Staring at her.

"You are not hard to love. Never ever have you been hard to love, but I have believed for a long time you thought you were better off without me," she says. "And I am deeply sorry that I thought that. I am so sorry I–"

From the other room, the lock of the front door clicks open, and Camilla cries out, "I've got the goods."

My mother swipes her tears off her face, jumping to her feet and forcing on that effervescent smile.

Camilla walks in through the door with a hefty bag of pastries, her eyes flicking from me to my mother and back to me again.

I give a small shake of my head, signaling for her not to ask. Not to worry.

"And there she is!" Mama says, outstretching her arms to me. "We were just talking about you!"

Camilla allows my mother to swoop her into a tight hug. A tighter than tight hug. Jesus, it looks like the pastries might be turned to dust. "Oh! Good things, I hope."

Mama withdraws, keeping hands on both of Camilla's shoulders.

There's a strange sensation in my chest. Camilla and I are no longer pretending. So, it is not the fear of being found out. It is the excitement of what's to come.

I bite down on my lower lip to prevent a conflicted smile.

"You know how happy I am to have you here? I'm just so happy Jack has you," my mother says, then glances at me. The pain in her eyes is evident, and I am sorry I've put it there even if my truth deserved to be heard too. "You know, he's my…" She touches her chest.

Camilla's eyes widen. "Oh, Mari, it's okay. Don't cry."

Mama places a hand over her eyes. "Forgive me, I'm feeling–I'm sad you two are leaving us so soon."

"We'll come back to visit," Camilla says, her confidence hits me like a tsunami.

"Good. Good. Hopefully, with a ring, right?" My mother attempts a cheerful grin. "Anyway, excuse me."

She hurries out of the room without looking at me.

Camilla places the bag of pastries on the table and looks after my mother. Then to me. "Is everything okay?"

I suck in my cheeks, steel my nerves. "Fine. Let's get to tasting these, hm?"

I turn back to my work and begin to arrange things for tasting.

Camilla's arms wrap around me from behind, her hands spread wide on each side of my chest. Her body leaned on my back.

I place my hand against one of hers. Hesitant at first. It's impossible not to give into her touch with my whole self after a few moments.

"You can tell me," she says.

"I don't want to burden–"

"Taking care of me means allowing me in, Jack," she says and winds her way under my arm, looking up at me. "Don't hide things from me. If you want to make me feel safe, don't do that."

It's a complicated thing, our dynamic. Not only because it's so new, but because on paper it seems easy enough. I am the Daddy, I take care of my baby girl, and my baby girl does not worry.

But that's not how life works all the time. We are two humans. Two adults with lives that extend far beyond the few weeks we've known each other.

I drop a kiss to her crown of curls and pull her further into me. "Just stay right here, baby girl. Let me hold you."

"Yes, Daddy," she mutters, her arms encircling my waist.

I hold her there for far too long. The coffee cools. The pastries inch toward stale.

But I don't care about anything outside of us.

Knowing I have her to take care of keeps me grounded. I have someone to worry about outside of me. And I don't want her to suffer because I'm too scared to be vulnerable. "She was…apologizing."

Camilla lifts her head, chin pressed against me. "Really?"

"In her own special non-apologetic way," I mumble.

"How do you feel?"

How do I feel? How is it supposed to feel when your mother admits to keeping you at a distance because she though you hated her? How is it supposed to feel that after all of this time, if you'd just fucking talked to each other, all of this might have been different? "Bad."

Camilla smiles. "Sorry, it's not funny, but–"

"It's funny in a sad way." I give Camilla another squeeze. "But you're here now, and things are way, way better."

"Do I make you feel better, Daddy?"

My dick jumps. "Christ, we're working ."

"Oh, sorry. Didn't know it was office hours." Camilla slides out of my grip and goes to the table to unload the pastries from the bag. "Never mind, then."

"Now, wait a second, I didn't say stop. " I go after her and yank her back into my arms, peppering kisses down her neck and rubbing myself against her. It's like I'm fifteen and can't stop touching myself except much better because I'm grown ass man with a grown ass woman to play with.

Daddy and his baby girl. What could be better?

Camilla smacks my hands away from her middle. "Okay, okay. Seriously, though, we have to try this coffee because we have to buy a coffee farm before we leave Hawaii, right?"

I sigh. "Not wrong." I glance through the kitchen door to make sure no one's around. I lower my hand to my crotch. "But I am thoroughly distracted."

"Coffee and pastries first, Daddy. I'm hungry." Camilla plops down into her chair and leans on her elbows. She bats her inky eyelashes at me and gives me one of her mischievous smiles. "Whatever Daddy wants later."

Can't argue with that.