Boot(s)

17-Boot

Sergeant Jackson

"Okay," I buckled in. "Should I expect the same routine on Thursdays?"

He glanced my way, eyes drifting all over my body, presumably making sure I was safely buckled. But that would only take a second or two and he still hadn't looked up into my eyes. When he did, I raised my eyebrows. He cleared his throat and hastily put the car in gear. "More or less," his hands were quite severely at ten and two. I wanted to point out that his knuckles were turning white. "Sometimes she'll disappear in her room for a while. Depends on her mood."

I nodded, but he was so focused on the road I doubt he saw me, even in his peripherals. I noticed, despite the fact he probably spent more than I did buying clothes yesterday, he was still wearing faded Levi's and an old gray Knicks t-shirt. A Knicks t-shirt that he probably had since high school.

I, for one, couldn't wait to be a normal, clothes-wearing human again. Today I was wearing a brand name! sweatshirt and khaki joggers. Whatever the hell those were. Amputated leg aside—I felt fly as fuck.

"By the way," he reached over and handed me his phone that had been sitting in the cupholder. It was an iPhone, but it looked about 10 years old. "Look up the playlist called Bella on Spotify. She'll want it playing anyway. Plus, it's fun when you know the words and can sing along with her. Not to be rude, but you're probably gonna need to brush up on your pop culture. Start here."

"Jesus Christ," I couldn't get over his iPhone. "What the fuck is this, the 3G? Is it going to explode if I grip it too tightly? I really don't need to lose an arm too, Bo."

"Kindly fuck right off," he told me, but he was grinning. "Just play something."

I hit shuffle and began scrolling through the list—fuck it went on forever—pausing to actually laugh at some of the artists. "What the hell is a Lil Nas? Who's The Greatest Showman? Jeez, they're still making Kidz Bop? Fuck, I'm old."

This elicited one of Bo's toss his-head-back laughs. My chest ballooned. He shook his head, still laughing, coming back to reality from the place he always went when he laughed. I could tell he wasn't there; his eyes always shut delicately and you could practically see his infallible soul rising and shaking the hands of Jesus. Or at least that's what I imagined him doing, up there in his own head. That, or sliding down the edge of a rainbow, still laughing.

"Don't bring up The Greatest Showman. It's a movie and it's Bella's favorite. She'll make us watch it when we get home if she hears even one of those songs. Stick with Old Town Road."

"Oh come on," I tilted my head. "I've never seen it! Let's watch it."

"No." His face assumed an unnatural stone-cold façade. "No way. I've seen it six times, at least. It's good, but it's not seven times good."

I stuck out my bottom lip. "Pwease?"

"God," his head rolled back. "You're worse than Bella."

I was grinning again. Yesterday, in the dressing room, Nancy told me she'd never seen me smile with my teeth. Not a single time in three months. Not until that first day I saw Bo.

"Cause I'm much cuter, right? Harder to resist." I laced my fingers together under my chin and grinned wider at him.

Pink triangles began to form on his cheeks, the heat starting at his neck and crawling upwards. God I missed that. He was so easy to rile up. Only now it put an entirely new feeling in my stomach. "Yeah, sure," he muttered. "Something like that."