Page 56 of Finding Yesterday
“Nope, we don’t know each other. And we’re certainly not friends.” Without moving an inch, he continues with, “Get outta here, vermin.”
My face twists into a scowl. “Are you serious?”
“No.” Jack stands, goes inside, then comes out with a can of Fancy Mix. “Here you go, Cat.” He sets the can down, and the cat tears into it like it’s starving.
“So, itisyour cat.”
“No, it’snotmy cat.” He groans, waving a hand. “But he keeps coming around here, making these sad meows, acting starving. I can’t believe I bought him food.”
I grin. “I can’t believe you haven’t roasted him on a stick.”
“Yet.”
I bust up. “Very funny, tough guy. But I think that deep down, there may just be a sensitive bone in there for animals? Hiding? Somewhere?”
“Hey, most people eat meat and most people have pets. So, really, we’re all hypocrites.” He lifts his chin. “And I’ve heard cat meat isn’t all that good.”
Still laughing, I reply, “Right.”
When the cat finishes, he jumps right into Jack’s lap and curls into a ball. “Okay, Cat, I’ll scratch your ears. But then you must leave.”
I laugh, and Jack looks at me.
There’s that stunning smile, the one where his eyes crackle with joy. And that face, sharp and angled, framed by wavy brown hair that falls over his forehead. Those lips, impossibly full and the shade of rosé.
He strokes the cat, and it burrows deeper in his arms as it purrs.
I was right. Jackisa natural with animals.
And watching how warm and gentle Jack is makes my stomach tumble and my heart feel like a pinball bouncing around my chest. My mind remembers the feeling of his lips on mine, and they actually start to tingle.
And I thought staying away from him was hard before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IN DADDY’S KITCHEN, I’m trying to make dinner and going through the cabinets to find a cheese grater. How can he not have that? After rifling through them all, I get desperate and head to the pantry. After fumbling through a few items, I organize the shelf because it’s a mess.
Jack and I didn’t discuss anything of much substance before I left yesterday evening. I should be fine with that—it’s what I wanted. But if I’m so fine, why am I now lining up all Daddy’s flour and sugar canisters?
Maybe it’s the heavy rain tapping on the roof and the thunder clapping in the distance? It’s a wicked storm, but it’ll be done soon. It’s just another late-afternoon summer downpour in Georgia.
When I pick up a canister, I see a card stuck to the bottom of the shelf. I peel it off, my breath hitching when I see what it is.
A recipe. One of Mama’s?
It’s for vegetarian shepherd’s pie.
My heart racing, I stare at it, studying everything. The ingredients, the handwriting, the yellowing paper. The corners are decorated in delicate leaves, the word, “Recipe,” written in fancy lettering.
“Mamadidhave recipe cards!”
It’s definitely my mother’s, not just because it has to be, but because I recognize it. A forgotten memory resurfaces.
It was the first day of kindergarten. I was terrified of going to school. Emma and Nate, both two years older, thought I was being a baby, but what’s new.
Mama promised me that if I got on the bus like a big girl, as soon as I got home, which would be earlier than Emma and Nate, she and I would bake chocolate chip cookies.
She had them on this same kind of recipe card. I couldn’t read very well, so I didn’t know what it said, but Mama had it out and I got flour all over it. Mama didn’t care. She wasn’t fussy like Emma.
