“Sounds good. And hey, Cassidy—take care of yourself, alright? Don’t make me have to look after you, too.”
I force a half-hearted laugh, promise him I will, and hang up.
I exhale slowly, staring up into the rapidly darkening sky and taking a couple of cleansing breaths—then pivot and march back to the house with those leaf piles. Because why the hell not? Kids shouldn’t have all the fun.
I pick the biggest one, throw my arms out, and fall backward into it like a snow angel, trusting that the world’s going to catch me.
Chapter 20
I’m back,” I call out a couple of weeks later as I let myself in the front door, trying not to drop any grocery bags as I shrug off my coat. So Gran won’t be left home alone, I time my errand-running to coincide with her thrice weekly in-home physical therapy appointments or, in this case, a visit from Lois, her longtime friend and neighbor.
“We’re in here,” Gran calls out from the kitchen.
“Guess who I saw at the store,” I singsong as I head their way. “Your favorite, Bernie the butcher. And the first thing he did was ask about you, so you can lord this over Dottie’s head at your next bridge—”
I reach the kitchen and stop so abruptly, my feet probably leave skid marks on the floor.
Jack is sitting across from my grandmother at her kitchen table. Twin cups of tea are set in front of them, along with a plate of table crackers and Gran’s favorite garlic and herb Rondelé cheese spread. Wow, she broke out the good stuff.
“Jack?” I say in disbelief.
I’m so stunned by his presence that I have to stop myself from reaching a hand out to touch him to prove he’s not a mirage, or maybe one of those creepy holograms of dead musicians concert promoters are so into these days. Am I dreaming? Did I conjure him? Did I accidentally mix up my coffee with Gran’s meds-spiked Ensure?
Jack stands immediately, holding eye contact as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “Hi.”
The mirage speaks! I’m so thrown by the sound of his voice that I jolt like I’ve been shocked by a doctor’s paddles. My eyes drink him in, but instead of taking dainty birdie sips I’m gorging myself after a long spell of dehydration. I’m instantly inebriated, totally drunk on the sight of him. I don’t know where to focus my eyes first, so I start at the top and work my way down: from the familiar tousled brown hair and piercing blue eyes to the rounded caps of his broad shoulders, over the soft fabric of the navy sweater that’s hugging his biceps just so, to the solid chest and tapered waist I once fit so seamlessly against.
He looks . . . perfect. Brilliant and striking and so handsome, I can hardly draw in a full breath. He looks like the exact thing I’ve been missing.
Every cell in my body wants to bolt across this kitchen, jump into in his arms and cling to him like a koala, but that would be crazy, right? I’m supposed to hate him. I’m supposed to be holding a grudge. Annoyingly, my first instinct is to fluff my hair, but I resist the urge to groom myself—he doesn’t just get to waltz in here and fluster me, no sirree.
I suddenly realize I’m making this weird, standing here mute and motionless at the entrance to the kitchen. In an attempt to reanimate, I reach over to set my keys on the counter but miss entirely, sending them clattering to the floor, and when I bend to retrieve them I come face-to-face with a puppy, curled up contentedly underneath the table. Okay, now I know I’m hallucinating.
A thousand competing thoughts swirl around in my brain, jockeying for attention: How did he find me? What took him so long? I’m so angry at him. I’ve missed him so much. How has he gotten even better-looking? The audacity! If he had even a shred of decency, he’d have shown up looking haggard and pale instead of healthy and fit （or warned me he was coming so I could’ve applied some self-tanner at least）。 How dare he just show up here like nothing’s happened? How could he have abandoned me the way he did? Why is he here now? But what comes out is:
“There’s a dog in the kitchen.” Nailed it.
“It’s my dog,” he says, taking a small step toward me. My eyebrows shoot up and damn, I just made eye contact again despite specifically ordering myself not to. “I know, it was a surprise to me too.”
His explanation manages to leave me more confused than less, but since I’m already on the floor I reach out to pet this mystery pooch. It bounds over and licks my hand while I ruffle its dusty gray fur, its tail frantically wagging, before scampering back over to Jack and darting between his legs. When he bends to pick it up, I have to avert my eyes like he’s doing something obscene. Separately, both Jack and puppies are irresistible—but Jack with a puppy might make my ovaries explode.
I belatedly remember something and shoot to my feet. “Where’s Pyewacket?”
“She’s fine, we put her in the laundry room,” Gran says around a mouthful of crackers, totally unbothered.
Jack winces. “Sorry, I should’ve remembered your grandma had a cat.”
I’m slowly regaining my bearings. “How long have you been here?” I ask, turning to set the grocery bags down on the countertop （securely, this time）， though I can still feel the weight of his gaze on me, burning a hole in my back.
“Not long,” Jack says at the same time as Gran says, “A couple hours.”
“A couple hours?” I spin around to frown at her, but she just smirks, unrepentant. “You don’t think you should’ve texted me?” I scold, then slice my gaze to Jack. “Or did you lose my number, too?”
It’s a direct hit. He visibly flinches, opening his mouth to respond before Gran beats him to it. “Jack and I have just been having a little chat, getting to know each other. Isn’t that right, Jack?”
She raises her eyebrows at him pointedly and I have to stifle a laugh. She is diabolical. I take back my scolding—in fact, I’d pay serious money to have witnessed the brutal tongue-lashing he’s surely received.
“That’s right,” Jack says, wisely agreeing, then takes another step toward me, still cradling his revoltingly adorable dog. The two of them even have matching blue eyes! Seriously, God, can you cut me a break here? This isn’t exactly fighting fair. “And while I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to kick me out, I’d very much like to talk to you.” When I don’t immediately respond, he adds a quiet, “Please.”
We stare at each other in charged silence, the hum of Gran’s ancient refrigerator practically deafening, until the scrape of a chair across the floor makes us both jump.
“What do you know, it’s time for my soap. Cass, hun, could you walk me to my room?”
Jack springs into action, helping her up from the chair. “Where to?” he asks, but I wave him off.
“It’s alright, I’ve got it. You okay to wait here?” Like he really is a mirage and if I blink, he’ll disappear.
He nods. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks me straight in the eye as he says it, apparently failing to see the irony of his statement, and I’m not gonna lie: part of me really wants to punch him in the face right now. If this were an Old Hollywood movie, now is when I’d wind up and slap the leading man so hard, my hand would sting for a week. But before I can act on my impulse Gran squeezes my arm, and I don’t even have to look at her to know she knows exactly what I’m thinking.