He chuckles, shifting me over slightly as a delivery guy whizzes past on a bike.
“My mom loves nothing more than having all her kids and grandkids surrounding her. Like if there was a way she could force us all to relocate and live together on a compound, she would absolutely do it. She tries to bribe me to come home more by offering to do my laundry, even though she knows my apartment has a washing machine.” He laughs again. “She hosts a family dinner every Sunday, a standing invitation for anyone who can come. I try to make it as often as I can, but someone’s been monopolizing my time lately.”
Jack gives me a Who, me? face. “And your dad?”
“Oh, he’s fun. Always in a good mood, never has a bad day. He’s constantly stuffing twenty-dollar bills into my purse when I’m not looking. Loves doing crosswords. He’s also Siren’s most dedicated reader. He reads every article I write, then sends me emails highlighting his favorite parts. And he’s a big guy, so it’s extra funny to think of him reading makeup tips. He was very intimidating for past boyfriends. But he loves sports, so you might be okay,” I tease.
We reach the street corner and he pushes the button for the crosswalk, then flashes me his most dazzling smile, the one he knows I can’t resist. “You should invite me home to meet them. I make a really good impression.”
I should be thrilled by the offer—it’s what I’ve wanted this whole time, isn’t it?—but instead, his words trigger an unwelcome flashback and I stiffen.
His smile slips. “Is it something I said?”
I let out a caustic laugh. “In a word? Yes.” His brows draw together. “The last time I invited someone home to meet my family, I was told ‘Saturdays are for the bros.’ And now here I am, dating Mr. Saturday himself.” There’s no mistaking the bitterness in my voice. “So you’ll have to forgive me for being a little gun-shy.”
A look of resignation slots into place on his face. “Ah.”
I cross my arms and look away, intently studying the street traffic over his shoulder. Who needs the rugged landscape of his chiseled jawline when I can stare at some rusty old taxis?
“Maybe we should clear this up, since it’s obviously something that’s still bothering you.”
“It’s not bothering me,” I mutter, scuffing the toe of my bootie into the pavement.
He takes a step toward me, tilting my chin up with a finger, and I’m forced to meet his eyes, which are somehow both soft and imposing. “Cassie.”
And that’s another thing: He’s started calling me Cassie. He’s the only person who’s ever shortened my name that way—I’ve always been called Cassidy or Cass, never Cassie. The first time he did it, my heart leapt in my chest; I worried I’d need a defibrillator to get it back in rhythm. It lit me up like the Griswold family Christmas tree. But right now, it grates. Like he’s trying to butter me up.
The light changes and he clasps my hand firmly in his, leading me across the street and into a nearby park. All around us the world is exploding with color, the sky painted in oranges and golds; it’s the romantic, stylized version of New York you see in the movies. I only wish I was in a better mood to appreciate it.
Jack plops me down on a bench before taking my hand again and twining our fingers together. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking but not saying? I’d rather you just be honest with me.” When I don’t immediately speak, he nudges me. “I’m a big boy, you know. I can take it.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine, it does bother me. I don’t like the site. I don’t like what you do.”
There. My not-so-secret feelings are out. Betty may be fanning herself on a fainting couch, but damn, does it feel good to finally say that out loud.
His lip twitches. “You don’t say.”
“And I know how hard you work. You’ve built a successful business and you employ a ton of people, which is an incredible thing, Jack. And I just want to be supportive of you and proud of what you do, but you make that really difficult sometimes.”
“You’ve been biting your tongue so hard I’m surprised it’s still in your mouth.” His expression takes on a lascivious edge. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it is . . .”
I groan. “Come on, I’m being serious. This is a legitimate ethical dilemma for me. I’m exhausted by the mental gymnastics I have to do to separate you from the sexist crap on your site.” It’s so incongruent, how someone as chivalrous and respectful as Jack could run a site that’s so . . . well, not.
“You think I never have to do that for you? Why don’t you take a look at Siren’s home page and see how many times it refers to men as ‘toxic’？ I could be offended by that, but I choose not to be because I know those articles aren’t for me.”
“So that’s how you justify it? It’s not meant for me, so I should just close my eyes and pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“I’m not justifying anything; I’m explaining it. You don’t like the content on the site? Frankly, I’d be concerned if you did.” He rakes a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Brawler’s largest audience is males between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four. College guys. We tailor the majority of our content to appeal to that age group. Is the humor crass and immature sometimes? Sure, because college guys are crass and immature. Am I thrilled about everything that’s on the site? No, but I’m also not our target audience anymore, either.”
He drags a hand through his hair again, mussing it adorably, pieces sticking up every which way. How is it possible to want to both kiss and kill someone at the same time?
“Look, it’s been ten years. I’m not the same kid who started the site with his friend in a dorm room. I’m not even in charge anymore! We have a board of directors to answer to, investors to satisfy, revenue targets to hit. Brawler employs hundreds of people. The site stopped being about Tom and me a long time ago. And I won’t be doing this forever.” He seems to want to say something more here but stops short. “The point is: I am not the site, and the site is not me.”
I desperately want to believe him. I want to pretend this elephant in the room doesn’t exist, that his work isn’t directly in conflict with mine, but how can I? I don’t want to rationalize away his faults any more than I want to ignore my own principles. It’s a dizzying paradox to navigate, like I’m tiptoeing around a house of cards, holding my breath for fear of sending it all crashing to the ground.
On the other hand, I know a job doesn’t define someone; their character does. And Jack is a good man, full stop. Is he perfect? No, but he’s also so many things I never expected him to be—gentlemanly and evolved, insightful and empathetic, unselfish in both word and deed. He’s solid and rock steady in a way I didn’t even know I was looking for but now can’t imagine living without. It’s painful to know that just a few weeks ago I would have written him off, as certain of his flawed character as I was that my grandmother and these old-fashioned tips had nothing to teach me.