cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. It’s my mother's recipe, and Jon loves them. I remembered my mother as I made them. My parents died in a car accident six months after Jon and I had moved in our apartment.
My grief had been so palpable at that time that Jon had been my one saving, well, grace. I was an only child and handling my parents’ estate had been overwhelming. Jon had helped me sort everything out. My parents’ house had been a nightmare to deal with. There was still a mortgage on it, and due to the housing crisis in Cleveland, had been underwater in its value. I had a few nerve wracking moments with the bank holding the mortgage, but with Jon's help, was able to get everything squared away.
Cleaning out my parents’ house had been especially hard. I saved photos and other memorable items. I felt such an overwhelming sadness that since I had no children or brothers and sisters or aunts and uncles that their memories were only known to me now, that their passing was only felt by me. Once the estate was settled, I was able to pay for their cremations and the rest went to paying off my student loans and some credit card debt. Jon had been with me, holding my hand as I released my parent's ashes into the Cuyahoga. My parents had loved that river. Maybe that was why I did too.
I am just taking the rolls out of the oven when Jon comes out of the bedroom. Setting them on the stovetop to cool, I smile up at him. Jon moves past me to the fridge, ignoring the rolls, and gets a soda. I move my gaze to the rolls so Jon will not see my smile fade. I make a plate for myself and take it to our small table to eat. Jon goes to sit in his armchair and turns on the TV. After eating, I wash my plate and go to take a shower. Jon walks in as I am about to step in the water, and I grab a towel to cover myself, startled.
"Don’t worry Grace. You have nothing I want to see," Jon says, pulling a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet before slamming the door closed behind him.
I stand there allowing his words to sink into my core. I have nothing he wanted to see. What does that mean? How could I go so quickly from the most beautiful girl he had ever seen to this? As much as I want to turn the water off and curl up in a ball on the bathroom mat to cry, I don’t. I step into the stream of water. It is hotter than I expect, and I rush to turn the knob to add cool water. As I shampoo my hair and clean my body, I cry quietly, curious if the man I love will ever come back to me.
Those words become a chorus in my head: “nothing I want to see, nothing I want to see.” I remembered the days when Jon could not keep his hands off of me. From our very first stolen date at the bowling alley. I had two beers with Jon. Afterward, as he waited with me in the parking lot for my friend to pick me up, he kissed me for the first time. It was a September evening, and even though we were having a bit of an Indian summer, it had cooled off outside once the sun had set. We were sitting on the back of his car, looking up at the stars. Jon was making me laugh by making up names for constellations.
Jon pointed across me to a grouping of stars low on the horizon. When I looked back at him, smiling at his ridiculous name for them, I was not expecting his face to be right there. Locked in the gaze of the bluest eyes I had ever seen, Jon leaned in to kiss me. I had felt lit from within, as though every nerve ending on my body was emitting heat. I was so surprised I had kept my eyes open the whole time. His lips were soft, and the kiss was sweet. After our kiss we looked at each other almost stunned. I wondered if he felt the same way I had. Our second kiss followed not long after. This one was less sweet and more of a promise of things to