“Oh. Well, he’s still a meanie pants, and I don’t like him.”
“Noted. Beer, Dessy. Want one?”
If my random outburst at the TV is a sign, I shouldn’t have another drink. “I’m good, but thank you.”
He nods, slipping his hands into his pockets and making his way to the bar once again. His shoulders sag, burdened by something he’s keeping to himself.
I squirm in my seat, trying to make myself comfortable without Jack’s warmth. A fair number of people I went to high school with are here tonight, and it’s a reminder of how this town entraps its inhabitants.
Some people left to attend the state university in the southern part of New Hampshire, but with another state college only a town over, a substantial population here has never lived beyond the county line, including myself.
I used to think that made Chawton Falls special, and maybe it is. I love it here, especially in fall when red, orange, and yellow dust the hills beyond King’s Pond and pumpkins sit on every doorstep.
But since most of my family has passed, there’s a decided chill to the usual warm glow downtown. The sunsets over Squam River are a little less vibrant and the colonial architecture stands a little less proudly.
In other words, the charm of this town has faded ever so slightly.
Jack wanders back to me with two beers in hand. I shiver against the wind, huddling into myself. I was foolish not to bring a jacket, but I didn’t have one that went with this dress.
“You want my flannel?” he asks, pointing his chin at my crossed arms.
“I’m sure you need it more than I do, but thank you. I’m regretting not choosing a seat closer to the fire, though.”
“But then we would have had to talk to people.” He grimaces, placing his drinks on the table. Still standing, he pulls one arm out of his flannel and then the other. With each movement, the fabric of his grey Henley molds to his muscular biceps and chest.
Don’t ogle your best friend. That’s rude.
“Here, seriously. I run hot when I drink, anyway.”
Wrapping the warm fabric around my shoulders, Jack’s woodsy smell swirls around me. With my boundary issues in full swing, I bury my face into the collar of his shirt, relishing the enticing scent.
This summer, I had to use his soap when I ran out, and it took a good month before I stopped smelling like the man. I didn’t think it was a problem then, but that was before theIron Inspirationspread and the man ate gravy off my face.
Now, well, everything’s changed.
Jack settles into the booth with a sigh. He nods to the TV. “They talk about anything worth repeating?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t paying attention. Are you sureyoudon’t want to talk about anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He brings the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig, letting his arm lazily drape against the back of the booth again.
Cool. Calm. Nonchalant.
Meanwhile, my insides are on fire, and I’m too many drinks in to handle any of this sensibly.
“C’mere, kitten. Keep me warm,” he beckons, nodding to the crook of his arm where I’ve spent most of the night.
Without a second thought, I lean back into him, telling myself this issomethingwe naturally do. Yes, a random man is giving me attention, and I’m just—
That random man is Jack. Your best friend. The guy that you had feelings for from the age of five to eighteen. Strong ones. Ones that won’t be stamped down easily.
Proceed with caution unless you want to die from broken heart syndrome.
“When you want to talk, you know I’m here for you, right?” I ask, keeping my attention on the TV where yet another commercial for Dunks is playing. “I’m sorry I’ve been busy and haven’t been there for you, but if you ever want to talk about your dad—”
“I won’t want to talk about it, Dessy,” he sighs.
“Well, is there something you want to do? Whatever it is, I’m here for it—for you.”
