“You should see the sunrise.”
“I think I will on Saturday.” I make a mental note to leave myselfplenty of time in the morning to actually take it in and enjoy it before rushing to catch the train. “What was it like growing up here?”
Jack skims his hands over the water, making little ripples circle out around us. “Honestly, at the time I kind of hated it.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine Jack’s hating anything, let alone something so beautiful.
“We’re pretty isolated out here, and it was always a long drive to get to my friends’ houses. I’m an only child, so a lot of the time it felt kind of lonely. I had to find ways to occupy myself, keep myself entertained.” He shrugs and a small smile starts at the corner of his lips. “But now I only think about the good parts. Summers on the beach and barbecuing with my dad and baking cookies with my mom.”
“Funny how memory works that way.” I try not to think about how my own memories are the opposite swing of the pendulum. I’m sure there were good moments, positive experiences, somewhere in my childhood, but none of them seemed to stick. Instead my brain focuses on the singular constant refrainYou’ll never be enough. I’ve mostly boxed up said negative refrains, tucked them away in a back corner of my mind, but every so often they jump out at me. Like every time I even begin to think about taking things further with Jack.
You’ll never be enough.
“I’m really glad you’re here, Sadie.” The words are spoken so softly that if we weren’t standing only inches apart, I don’t think I would’ve heard them. And they’re so opposed to my internal dialogue, I almost brush them off.
But I don’t, and they chase away any trace of cold, push the hurtful words to a back corner of my brain. “Me too.”
Eleven
By the timewe get back to the patio, the sun is beginning to set, the sky turning a deep blue that blends in with the cove water. There’s a real chill in the air now, one I didn’t expect, and I shiver as I slip my T-shirt dress over my head. It does little to bring me warmth, so I half-run back into the house, already dreaming of a hot shower and my pajamas.
“I was going to just cook some pasta for dinner if that’s okay?” Jack flips the switch on the side of the fireplace before heading toward the kitchen.
“Wait, you mean to tell me that after all this time you know how to cook?” I stop at the bottom of the stairs, just long enough to glare at him for holding out on me.
“Only pasta. That’s my one dish.” He’s tucked his towel around his waist, and I somehow can’t make myself stop staring at his chest and his smattering of hair. The smattering leading down to the waistband of his bathing suit.
“I’m always good with pasta. Is it cool if I shower?” I might actually need a cold one at this point.
“Of course. I’ll get this going in the meantime.” He waves me off and retreats to the kitchen.
Bounding up the stairs and into my room, I grab my toiletry bag and pj’s before checking out the attached bathroom. While it’s not super huge, there is a nice-sized tub I’m tempted to wallow in, but even I know pasta doesn’t take that long to cook, and I don’t want to keep Jack waiting. I curl my hair into a bun so it doesn’t get wet and take a quick (but very hot) shower. I pull on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old T-shirt, wishing I’d brought something a little warmer to wear for the evening, but I figure the wine-and-fireplace combo should be able to take care of it.
Jack is still in the kitchen when I come downstairs. He’s changed, and from the looks of his damp hair, also taken a short shower. He’s wearing a fitted white T-shirt and flannel pajama pants that are doing... things... to his rear view. Good things.
He gestures to a full glass of wine on the kitchen island. “I figured you’d want some of that.”
“It’s like you’ve known me my whole life.” Sliding into the seat in front of the wine, I take a large sip.
He gestures to the chair next to me. “I also pulled that out. Wasn’t sure if you remembered to bring a sweatshirt.”
I turn to my right. A navy blue hoodie with the Captain America shield is draped over the back of the stool. I immediately tug it over my head, relishing its instant warmth and softness. “You know, in some cultures, giving a woman your hoodie is tantamount to a marriage proposal.”
Jack stirs something in a large pot positioned on one of the eightburners on the other side of the huge island. “Would those cultures happen to consist primarily of middle schoolers?”
“Maybe.” I tuck my hands into the sleeves, pulling myself farther into the cottony warmth, hopefully disguising the large inhale I take to breathe in the scent embedded in the fabric. Coffee and paper. “I do hope you know you’re never getting this back.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “You planning on walking around Brooklyn in a Captain America sweatshirt?”
“Hardly. It’ll never see the light of day again.” I cackle like some evil supervillain.
He turns off the burner and dumps the pasta into a strainer. “This probably won’t surprise you, but I have plenty of hoodies, so you’re welcome to keep it.”
“Well, that takes away all the fun, then, doesn’t it.”
“So you’ll give it back?”
“Fuck no.” I already know I’ll be pathetically curling up into it the next time Jack goes out of town and leaves me in the brownstone to fend for myself.
