July 2002
Eighteen
The landscape outside was filled with rows upon rows of cotton that looked like snowfall, as far as the eye could see. Beyond that, the sky was muted cerulean and punctured by mesquite trees. Jasper's father had taught his children to pick the cotton boll with their hands as soon as they were old enough to do it. Every year, the snowfall of cotton that began was wiped away yard by yard, revealing the brown soil underneath.
On the horizon, Jasper saw a storm gathering. Jasper groaned, cursed, and felt his irritation swelling. Jasper and his brothers felt compelled to help. George Whitlock had not sprayed the harvest aid; the storm had gathered unpredictably. The family needed to rescue the harvest alone.
The Whitlock family had two mechanical stripper pickers; Jasper operated one. His father operated the other. They traded off eight-hour shifts. Stevie replaced one or the other during their lunch breaks. Jasper was the oldest not by birth, but out of obligation. Peter Whitlock, the oldest Whitlock boy, had Down Syndrome. It fell on his shoulders to rescue the Whitlock farm.
From mid-March to mid-May, George Whitlock had prayed for rain. Throughout July, George Whitlock prayed for pure, dry sunshine. His anxious prayers had been too voluminous for their small, ranch-style home: Jasper and his mother had felt suffocated by them.
January 2018
Twenty-Eight / Twenty-Nine
Thirty-Three
Isabella's apartment was small. A lowered kitchenette counter spilled into a small living room. There was a square table made of pinewood and cozy sectional, where she had neatly folded a quilt. Two walls were painted in bright egg yolk yellow. On that table, there is a laptop and a mug. There was a ginger tabby cat curled on the sectional. "Pancake," she told him, and her smile was soft, fond, and lovely.
Jasper's stomach leaped. Isabella did not wear makeup, and there was a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. "Thanks for coming," she said. Her eyes were sparkling, and she blushed lightly.
"Thanks for letting' me in," he said, and he cleared his throat.
She was sitting in her wheelchair.
"I brought you something," Jasper said awkwardly. Taking a chance, he lifted his coat and produced a loaf in crinkly brown bag. He protected it from the drizzle outside with his coat.
It was freshly baked bread with rosemary. Later, Jasper would teach her to make a fresh sourdough starter. On the pinewood square table, Jasper would hold her trembling hands and gently teach her to knead.
On that square pinewood table was an arrangement of purple orchids, in a single glass vase. Nearly a year after that moment, Jasper would learn to look at those spectacular arrangements with pained suspicion.
The apartment looked like sunshine in the bitter, January light.
"Is this bread?" she squeaked, and her smile brightened, lighting up her eyes, and Jasper thought they looked like honey.
"Rosemary sourdough," Jasper admitted. His mother had taught him to bake, imparting the joy of letting dough rest to rise - before she lost the love of it herself. His lips twisted at the corners.
She peeked into the package by pulling on one end of the bag. She gave him a pleased, lovely grin. "That's so kind of you," she said earnestly, and she took a whiff. "Yum."
She gestured towards the pinewood table. "Something to drink? Coffee, tea?"
Jasper shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "No, thank you. I'm good." He took back the bread and carefully placed the brown paper bag on the table, the scent of fresh rosemary bread wafting through the air.
As he settled into a chair, Isabella maneuvered her wheelchair to sit across from him. Pancake, disturbed from his nap, stretched languidly before hopping off the couch to investigate the newcomer.
"He likes you," Isabella remarked as the tabby rubbed against Jasper's leg.
Jasper chuckled, reaching down to scratch behind the cat's ears. "My family has cats out on the farm," Jasper said. "Luna's the oldest. Keeps the rodents away. We've had a whole clowder."
"Clowder?"
"That's what you a group of cats, darlin'."
She laughed. "Clowder, huh? What else?"
Jasper grinned. "My favorite is collective noun for animals these days is ambush of tigers and bouquet of pheasants." She laughed, and it was sparkling, and it seemed to linger in the dust motes.
"My brother Stevie has a boy called Lucas."
"Really?" she asked brightly, tilting her head. "How old is he?"
"Four," Jasper said, proud. He pulled out his phone. While Jasper searched, a comfortable silence fell between them, the faint rumble of Pancake's purrs the only sound. Isabella fidgeted slightly, her fingers absently tracing the natural patterns on the wood.
"I'm really glad you agreed to this," she said softly, glancing up at him through her lashes. "It's been a while since I've done the whole…thing."
Jasper leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Me too," he admitted. "But I couldn't pass up the chance to get to know you better." His gaze lingered on her face, taking in the constellations of freckles across her nose.
Isabella ducked her head, a pleased flush coloring her cheeks. "Well, I hope I don't disappoint."
"Impossible," Jasper said, his voice low and sincere.
Isabella's pleased blush deepened, and she peeked at him from underneath her eyelashes. "Ready to go?" she said.
Isabella led the way out of her apartment, Jasper following close behind. As they navigated the hallway, he noticed the subtle accommodations - the wider doorways, the lowered light switches, and the ramps that lead from the first floor into a parking lot. The apartment complex was designed to cater to mostly elderly, but some disabled, tenants. Later, Jasper would learn that the woman who lived next to Isabella – one Naomi – doted on her. Across the hall, a woman named Cindy lived with her two grandchildren and her divorced daughter. Isabella babysat the kids, more often than Jasper would like. Both women would interrogate him, in diametrically different ways.
Outside, the drizzle had let up, leaving the sidewalks glistening under the streetlights. Isabella's wheelchair moved smoothly over the damp pavement, the soft whir of its motor a gentle accompaniment to their conversation. Jasper found himself mesmerized, covertly trying not to stare at the fluid motions of her hands as she maneuvered the chair, the slight lean of her body as she navigated the curbs and uneven patches.
As they made their way down the block, Isabella pointed out the landmarks of her neighborhood in Seattle - a strait of blocks bordering the Central District. Jasper listened intently, absorbing every detail, every flicker of animation in her voice. He grew concerned when she grew slightly breathless, but she pushed on. Two blocks felt like an eternity and an instant, the conversation flowing easily between them. As they approached the small, unassuming pho restaurant, its windows fogged with steam, Isabella glanced over her shoulder at Jasper.
"Ready?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's not the best Vietnamese in town, but it's pretty damn good."
Jasper grinned, quickening his pace to reach the door first and hold it open for her. "Lead the way, darlin'. I trust your judgment."
As Isabella wheeled past him into the warmth and bustle of the restaurant, Jasper couldn't help but feel that this was exactly where he was meant to be - following the trail of sunshine that seemed to linger in her wake.
They headed back to her apartment, and Isabella offered him tea. She had a large collection of Twinning's tea boxes lined on top of her dishwasher. "I splurge on tea," she admitted sheepishly, and she fetched him a ceramic mug. Jasper picked Rooibos, though he was partial to strong black coffee.
"I'm more of a coffee person," he told her softly, and he chanced putting a hand on her shoulder-clad sweater. She looked up and smiled.
As the kettle began to whistle, Isabella carefully poured the steaming water into two mugs, and steam made patterns in the air. Jasper watched her as she prepared the tea. Her hands would not stop trembling lightly. The tremors only grew as her fingers, pincer-like, aimed for a tea bag. The trembling still made him uneasy – because he couldn't control his staring, and because of that natural human instinct to soothe.
It still made him wonder if he could continue.
"Thank you," Jasper said softly as she handed him a mug, their fingers brushing briefly.
"Could you carry mine?" she asked, with a hint of bashfulness in her expression. Jasper did as much.
Jasper and Isabella settled back at the pinewood table, hands wrapped around the warm ceramic, knees almost touching under the tabletop. Pancake, satiated from his investigation of Jasper, had curled up contentedly in a patch of fading sunlight. Isabella's fingers were small, slender, calloused, and pale.
Abruptly, Jasper stood to pick a well-worn paperback.
"Oh," she laughed. "I've been fighting my way through Ulysses for a while now."
"Fightin'?"
She cocked an eyebrow. "Have you tried to read Ulysses?" she countered.
Jasper shook his head. "I'm not that big of a nerd," he said teasingly, and he took two steps back to his seat – but not without running his fingers curiously past every well-worn spine on her book collection, crammed into a tall bookcase.
"These look like your favorites," Jasper guessed, fingers lingering on the ones with well-worn spines and crinkled, tattered book covers. She unlocked the wheels of her chair, expertly spinning away – and it still made Jasper uneasy, how fluidly she moved.
"Oh. Oh. I – I don't know that I have favorites," she said sheepishly. "I read this one – Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - at the beach when I was, gosh, 16? Then this one - Warmth of Other Suns – I used to read on the bus. I don't think I understood this country until I read Wilkerson."
Jasper studied it carefully, prying it from the tight embrace of her bookshelf. It was as thick as a brick, and – "The Epic Story of America's Great Migration?"
"It's narrative nonfiction. I devoured it. Would you like to borrow it?" Isabella asked shyly, holding the book up with the palm of her hand.
"That's real sweet of you," Jasper said, and he grinned. "I'll return it. Promise. I hate people that never return books."
"This won't work if you're a book thief," she quipped, and then laughed.
"Never that," Jasper said, and he winked. He tucked his book under his arm and sat back down. She wheeled forward, inching closer in her chair, still trembling languidly.
"I had a really nice time tonight," Isabella said, peeking up at him through her lashes. "It's been a while since I've felt so...at ease with someone new."
Jasper's heart swelled. "Me too, darlin'.
Isabella's cheeks flushed prettily and she ducked her head, a pleased smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'm glad."
Slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, Jasper leaned in. Isabella's breath caught, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed against hers, feather-light and sweet. The kiss lasted only a moment, but it felt like a promise, a beginning.
As they parted, Isabella's eyes blinked open, a soft wonder in their depths. Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his again, quick and light as a hummingbird. Jasper laughed, surprised and delighted, catching her hand in his and twining their fingers together.
"I should probably get going," he said reluctantly, glancing at the darkening window. "Early day tomorrow."
Isabella nodded, squeezing his hand. "Text me when you get home safe?"
"I will." Jasper stood, Isabella wheeling herself back from the table to escort him the few feet to the door. At the threshold, he turned, drinking in the sight of her, cheeks still flushed and eyes bright. "Sweet dreams, Isabella Swan."
Her smile was soft, full of unspoken promises. "Goodnight, Jasper Whitlock."
As the door clicked shut behind him, Jasper couldn't keep the grin from his face. He whistled lowly as he made his way down the hall, already counting the minutes until he could see her again.
August 2002
Eighteen
The harvest almost failed; the house took a collective breath of uneasy relief. George Whitlock came from a long line of sharecroppers and had never been particularly gifted at farming. As the oldest boy, Jasper felt obliged to break the Whitlock curse: that Whitlock farmers never seem to fold, but they never seem to succeed. Generation after generation, they scrape by through barely breaking even – living off Louisa's bakery at the storefront, or Jasper's uncle Jed sending money from Galveston, far from the panhandle.
"I think I should try to stay," Jasper said to Louisa, and he felt the resentment grow and claw at his heart and his lungs, making him physically ill.
"Don't you dare, kiddo. Don't you dare," Louisa said fervently. "I don't want your soul to wilt on the stem out here, trying to grow cotton when this soil is practically clay."
February 2018
Thirty-Three
The classroom buzzed with chatter as a dozen eager students took their seats, notepads and pens at the ready. At the front of the room, Jasper Whitlock leaned against a faded wooden podium, his tall frame emanating a relaxed authority. He surveyed the group with a warm smile, his honey blond hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
"Alright everyone, let's get started," Jasper called out, his ill-concealed Southern drawl lending a melodic lilt to his words. The students quieted immediately, their attention fixed on their beloved History teacher and debate coach.
"As you know, we're preparing for the regional competition next month. And what better way to hone your skills than by practicing the time-honored Lincoln-Douglas debate format?"
A few students nodded eagerly while others scribbled notes. Jasper pushed off from the desk and began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"The key to a successful Lincoln-Douglas debate," he continued, "is to focus on the underlying moral and philosophical principles of the resolution. You're not just arguing facts and figures, but the very essence of right and wrong."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Outside, a gust of icy February wind rattled the classroom windows, but inside, the students were captivated, hanging on Jasper's every word.
"Let's start with a practice resolution," Jasper said, turning to write on the whiteboard. "Resolved: Civil disobedience is morally justified in a democracy."
The debate team huddled around the scratched-up tables, the squeak of old metal chairs against linoleum echoing in the drafty classroom. Jasper Whitlock, their lanky History teacher and debate coach, perched on the edge of his desk, a stack of dog-eared books at his elbow.
"Okay, folks, let's dive in," Jasper said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "We're going to try something a little different today to prep for regionals."
Jasper held up a battered copy of "Civil Disobedience" by Henry David Thoreau. "I snagged these from the library. We've got one for each pair, so buddy up."
The students glanced around, shuffling chairs to form groups of two. Jasper weaved between the tables, handing out the books.
"Find the passage where Thoreau discusses the difference between just and unjust laws. Then, with your partner, come up with an argument either defending or challenging his position. You've got fifteen minutes."
The room filled with the rustle of pages and the hum of intense discussion. Jasper moved from pair to pair, listening, questioning, pushing them to dig deeper.
After the allotted time, Jasper called the group back together. "Let's hear what you've got. Team one, you're up."
A boy with a shock of red hair stood, his partner close behind. They argued passionately in favor of Thoreau's stance, citing examples of unjust laws throughout history.
"Good, good," Jasper nodded. "Team two, your response?"
A girl in a oversized hoodie rose to counter, her voice growing more confident as she picked apart their opponents' logic.
Back and forth they went, the debate growing heated at times, but always respectful. Jasper moderated, offering counterpoints and devil's advocate questions, forcing them to think on their feet. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the session, the students were still deep in discussion, voices overlapping.
"Alright, we'll have to pick this up next week," Jasper called over the commotion. "Great work today, everyone. Keep thinking critically, and remember, there's always more than one side to every argument."
The students gathered their backpacks and filed out, still engaged in spirited debate. Jasper collected the books. In a school stretched thin, he knew that fostering a love for critical thinking was worth every penny and every ounce of effort. He glanced out the window at the gray February sky, a small smile on his face. No frills, no fancy equipment, just eager minds and the power of words—that's what his debate team was all about.
In late January, Isabella canceled their third date - a trip to the Grand Illusion in Seattle to watch Singing In the Rain. "I'm sorry," she said through the phone. "Sometimes I get so exhausted that…Could we reschedule?"
Jasper fought the unease in his stomach. "Sure thing, darlin'. Then it'll fall right around Valentine's Day," he said cheerfully, hoping she wasn't calling the whole thing off.
"That sounds amazing," she agreed softly. "Thank you for understanding. Sometimes, the fatigue..."
"I understand, darlin'."
He brought himself over to her apartment for their third date.
On the square pinewood table was an arrangement of sunflowers. A dozen sunflowers stood tall, regal, and spilling yellow petals into the table – exquisite, expensive and lavish, with a little envelope resting against a potted vase. Bee.
Jasper's heart sank a little at the sight of the sunflowers. Was he supposed to get her flowers too, as early as the third date? But as Isabella greeted him with a warm, albeit tired, smile, he pushed the feeling aside, determined to focus on the present moment.
"Hey there, sunshine," he said softly, stepping into the apartment. "How are you feeling?"
Isabella sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Exhausted, honestly. But happy to see you." She gestured towards the couch. "Movie night instead of movie night out sound okay?"
Jasper nodded, settling onto the couch beside her. "More than okay. As long as I get to spend time with you, I'm good."
Isabella shifted in her wheelchair, a grimace flickering across her face as a spasm rippled through her lower back. The fatigue was taking its toll, the muscles in her legs and spine coiling tighter with each passing minute. "I think I need to move to the couch," she said softly, an apology in her voice. "My back's acting up."
Jasper was on his feet in an instant, his hands hovering uncertainly. "What can I do to help?"
Isabella offered him a grateful smile, even as she shook her head lightly. "Could you move the coffee table a bit? I need some space to transfer."
As Jasper hastened to comply, Isabella took a deep breath, steeling herself. With a determined set to her jaw, she leaned forward, planting her feet firmly on the floor. Her hands gripped the an armrest and the other found the couch cushion. Slowly, she began to lean her weight forward, her arms trembling as they bore the brunt of her body. Her legs, stiff and uncooperative, dragged behind her as she inched to the edge of the seat. With a final, determined grunt, Isabella heaved herself onto the couch, her legs folding awkwardly beneath her. She took a moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving with exertion.
Jasper stood nearby, his hands clenched at his sides, feeling like an idiot and not knowing how to help. "You okay?" he asked softly, the concern evident in his voice.
Isabella nodded, a triumphant gleam in her eye despite the exhaustion. "Yeah," she said, pinkening. "No need to worry. How about a classic?"
As the opening credits rolled, Jasper found himself stealing glances at Isabella, taking in the way the soft glow of the screen played across her features. Even in her fatigue, there was a quiet beauty to her, a resilience that shone through.
Halfway through the movie, Isabella's head began to droop, her eyelids growing heavy. Without a second thought, Jasper gently guided her to rest against his shoulder, awkwardly wrapping his arm around her in a comforting embrace.
Isabella sighed contentedly, snuggling closer. "This is nice," she murmured, her voice thick with impending sleep. Jasper hummed in agreement, his fingers absently tracing patterns on her arm. As the movie played on, he found himself increasingly distracted by the feel of her in his arms, the soft rhythm of her breathing.
Almost unconsciously, he turned his head, pressing a clumsy kiss to the top of her head. Isabella stirred slightly, tilting her face up towards his. Their eyes met, a silent question passing between them.
Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, Jasper leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a tender kiss. Isabella responded in kind, her hand coming up to rest against his cheek. The kiss was sweet, unhurried, a gentle exploration. When they parted, Isabella's eyes remained closed for a beat, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"That was even nicer," she whispered, her forehead resting against his.
Jasper chuckled softly, his thumb stroking the delicate skin under her eye. "Agreed."
They settled back into the couch, Isabella's head once again finding its place on Jasper's shoulder.