While I may not have his resources, I do my best to spoil him with the one thing I can give him in return: my attention. Eager to make up for my past hot-and-cold behavior, I create a revised romantic punch list and start checking things off one by one. I hide sweet （and sometimes spicy） notes around his apartment for him to find later. I snag him gifts from the steady stream of press samples that pour into the Siren offices, like an advance copy of a memoir written by an entrepreneur I know he admires. I compliment him openly and often, and ogle him shamelessly. I curate an oldies-themed Spotify playlist of our greatest hits and surprise him with it. I start monitoring sports headlines so I can converse with him semi-intelligently about his workday. I swallow my pride and give the Engagement Chicken another shot, and this time, I nail it. I even bake him a batch of my specialty break-and-bake cookies for dessert （what, you thought I’d make ’em from scratch? I haven’t changed that much）。
But watching his reaction to these small acts of kindness is my favorite part. An adorable carousel of emotions plays out on his face every time: surprise （widened eyes; raised eyebrows）， pleasure （a boyish grin; flushed cheeks）， followed by affection （his hands on my hips dragging me closer; lingering full-body hugs; leisurely, bone-melting kisses）。 He’s clearly not used to people doing things for him, which could break my heart if I think about it too long. Even more surprising? How gratifying these acts of service are for me.
I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
With every one of his playful texts and dimpled smiles and goodnight kisses, I feel the world shifting beneath my feet. It’s not lost on me that the man I once dismissed as undateable is now responsible for the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in. Gran’s guidance is resonating more deeply than I ever could have imagined: Let him know you’re thinking of him. Make him feel cherished. Never stop trying to win his heart.
It’s a Sunday afternoon, and Jack and I have just finished hitting up a street fair, a fall-themed affair bursting with hay bales and spiked cider and wild children hopped up on kettle corn and face paint fumes. It’s hard to believe it’s already October, but the changing leaves and brisk air nipping at my forearms don’t lie. Now would be the time to borrow Jack’s coat, but like an idiot I actually had the foresight to bring my own. Somewhere, Gran is trolling me for the missed opportunity.
We’re strolling through the Upper West Side now, and I’m introducing Jack to one of my favorite （free） activities: stoop-spotting （which is basically just an excuse for me to drool over the brownstones I love so much）。 I point to the one in front of us, its steps piled high with colorful pumpkins and squashes and funky-looking gourds of indeterminate origin. Matching cornstalks flank either side of the dramatic arched doorway while galvanized steel buckets brimming with mums crowd the threshold. It’s a picturesque autumn vignette straight out of Hocus Pocus. “This one’s definitely my favorite.”
Jack snorts. “You said that about the last one.”
“I really mean it this time, though.”
“You said that too.”
I blow out a puff of air, mock-wounded. “I think you’re missing the point of the game, sir. They’re all my favorite.”
He hooks his index finger into my belt loop and tugs me back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me from behind and enveloping me in one of his signature full-body hugs. I flash to something Nat said a couple of days ago: If you turn into one of those sickening couples who walk around with their hands in each other’s back pockets, I’ll have to kill you.
I relax against him and grip his forearms, staring up at the house wistfully. “If I could live anywhere in the city, I’d pick one of these brownstones.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” His breath is a curl of warm smoke against my ear. It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice.
“Have you ever been inside one? They’re so dreamy, so quintessentially New York. They have so much character—creaky floors, two-hundred-year-old millwork. The banisters alone! I just love everything about them.”
“They’re probably all haunted.”
“Meh, living with ghosts is a small price to pay. My dream is to curl up in a window seat in comfy socks, reading or writing, listening to the rain pelt the window. Can’t you just picture it in a winter storm? Like you’re inside a snow globe.” I sigh in contentment at the thought of it.
He hums and flexes his arms, squeezing me tighter. I’m steeped in his scent, cloaked in his embrace. Mummified in Jack. “Where am I in this fantasy?”
“You’re making me dinner. Or rubbing my feet. Either is acceptable.”
He laughs, and I nod decisively.
“That’s it, we’re definitely coming back to this house in December. You know they’ll go all out for Christmas. Lights, wreaths, trees . . . I’m calling life-sized nutcrackers, too.”
We resume our ambling, his arm curved around my lower back, my head nestled into his shoulder. Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s very tempting to snake my chilly hand into his back pocket. I could even cop a feel while I’m at it. “What do you do for Christmas?”
“Me? I usually plan a trip. If I stay in town, I get guilted into a formal dinner at my parents’ country club. My brother and I used to have a bet to see who could eat and escape the fastest.” He grimaces and shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “How about you?”
“I go home to Connecticut. Stay with my parents, celebrate Christmas morning with Christine and Greg and the girls. Nothing like watching kids rip through gifts their parents stayed up half the night wrapping to make you feel better about being single and childless.” I grin, thinking of how bleary-eyed and haggard Christine and Greg always look, their tight smiles when I gift the girls things like karaoke machines and slime. Good times. “My mom makes a huge breakfast: eggs, pancakes, waffles, Danish, sausage and bacon, mimosas. And everyone goes to Gran’s on Christmas night, all my aunts and uncles and cousins. There’s caroling if people get drunk enough. My Uncle Rich tripped once and ended up in the hospital with a broken ankle. Ahh, memories.”
Now he looks wistful. “That sounds so normal. Maybe that’s my fantasy. You think your parents would adopt me?”
I pretend to think about it. “They have been known to take in strays, but I think it’s generally frowned upon to date someone you’re related to.”
We pause to appraise a stoop with thick cobwebs stretched across the railings and shrubbery. Two pirate skeletons in eye patches sit in chairs on the landing, goblets raised toward passersby in cheers. I give the tableau two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Tell me more about your parents,” he says once we’re walking again. I wave at a toddler being strollered past who’s grinning up at us with a gummy smile.
“My parents? Let’s see. First of all, it was a very cookie-cutter upbringing. You know, white picket fence on a dead-end cul-de-sac, the whole nine. In fact, I like to hassle them that my childhood was just too darn stable and happy for me to be able to do any gritty, serious literary writing. But then I remember that I hate stuffy literary writing, so it all works out.”