He tucks a bookmark between the pages of his novel and sets it off to the side. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
It stays quiet for a minute. Or at least, as quiet as it can in the middle of a crowded bar on a Saturday night.
“Thanks for the beer.” He raises his glass and clinks it against my cup of water.
“Thanks for all your help with deliveries.”
“My pleasure.” He takes a long sip. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
A cold fist of dread punches me in the stomach. I knew somethinglike this was going to happen eventually. Jack is tired of living in the botanical garden I’ve turned his house into and he wants me to leave. Of course he wants me to leave. I barged into his quiet, peaceful life and, in true Sadie fashion, made it all about me.
I rub my fingers over my forehead, trying to subtly massage away the headache that’s sprung up. “I’m sorry. I can try to look for a studio space. I don’t know what’s out there that I’ll be able to afford, but I’m sure there’s something. I can get all my shit out of the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the fridge. And I’ll definitely look into hiring an actual employee to make deliveries.” A sudden spring of wetness blurs my vision. I stare down at the gray swirls on the white marble top, blinking rapidly to dry up any hint of tears before he can see. “Just please don’t ask me to move, Jack.”
One of Jack’s warm hands covers mine. “Sadie.”
Without thinking about it, I flip my palm over and our fingers automatically intertwine.
“Can you look at me, please?” His voice is soft, but even amid the din of the bar, each word hits my heart.
I take a long breath and slowly raise my head, eyes now calm and clear. “I’m fine.”
Jack gives me his softest smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want you to move out.”
“Oh.” The simple declaration brings me a small amount of relief. But instead of focusing on the positive, my brain immediately jumps to the costs of renting space and hiring employees.
“And you don’t need to rent a studio, or hire anyone, if you’re not ready to yet.” He squeezes my hand. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I won’t be around next weekend.”
“Oh.” And despite the good news, all I can focus on is Jack’s not being around next weekend. The gnawing ache in my stomach at the thought of his leaving has nothing to do with being short on delivery people either. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“I’m leaving on Thursday, but I’ll make sure I’m back in time on Sunday for dinner and Real Housewives.”
Three nights. The gnawing morphs into a chomping, devouring, eating-a-whole-slice-of-pizza-in-one-bite kind of ache.
“Where are you going?” I don’t expect him to answer, but I also can’t not ask.
“Back to Connecticut. That’s where I went last time too.” He picks up his beer with his free hand and takes a long gulp, as if he needs liquid courage. “To my parents’ house, their old house. Our old house. I still own it, and I like to go back every couple of months to check in and make sure everything’s okay.”
I cover our joined hands with my other one, making a hand sandwich. I’m afraid to say anything, scared that if I talk it will stop him from continuing down this path and revealing anything else. This is the first real conversation we’ve had since the Hamptons—not to mention the most personal info he’s ever shared—and I don’t want to throw up any roadblocks.
“I’m thinking about selling it.” He pushes the words out in a rush, almost as one singular word, like if he doesn’t get them out fast enough, he might not ever be able to say them.
“Oh, Jack.” I scoot my stool closer to his, so our thighs brush and our arms press together. “How long has it been?”
“It’s been seven years since the car accident. Too long, don’t youthink?” The corner of his lips tilts up, but it’s nothing like his normal half-cocked smile.
Shrugging, I keep a tight grip on his hand. “I’ve never had to go through anything like that, but I think you should take as long as you need.”
He takes another sip of beer and purses his lips. “I have a meeting with a Realtor scheduled on Saturday, but there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll end up canceling.”
“If you get there and you feel like you need to do that, then that’s okay. You don’t owe anyone anything.” I lean my head on his shoulder, the closest I can get to giving him a hug in these chairs.
He places a soft kiss on my forehead.
With one single brush of his lips, he destroys me. And not in the way he was so worried about. My breath catches, my heart freezing in my chest with this simple mark of affection.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I sit back up, staring head-on into those green eyes. While I can predict what he’s going to tell me, his eyes will give me an honest answer.
