For a few minutes, we sit in silence, eyes glued on the water and the slowly setting sun.
“I think you should keep the house.”
“Yeah, me too.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps out a quick message. “Realtor appointment canceled.”
“Does that mean you can come home with me tomorrow?” I try to not let the obscene amount of hope I have color my question. “It’s not a big deal if you can’t, of course, and you should totally stay if you need to. Or want to.”
“I can definitely come home with you tomorrow.” His phone buzzes, probably the Realtor calling to beg him to change his mind. Jack stands. “I gotta take this.”
I nod and wave him inside. “Of course.”
He hesitates for a second, like there’s something else he wants to say.
But I don’t know if I can hear any more. My heart feels like a deflated bounce house. “Go, before he decides to show up at the front door.”
Jack grimaces, swiping his phone to accept the call while stepping through the back door.
I turn my attention back to the ocean, losing my focus in the ebb and flow of the waves.
This heartbreak shit is overrated.
Twelve
The next monthpasses in a blur of avoidance. Avoiding Jack. Avoiding addressing the huge emotional elephant sitting between us on the couch every Sunday night—the only time I don’t go out of my way to not see his face. And sure as fuck avoiding dealing with my feelings.
Because feelings are dumb, and surely if I just ignore them, they’ll go away.
That’s how these things work, right?
Luckily, business at Bridge and Blooms is, well, blooming. I was worried orders would die down after the social media hype, but they keep coming in. I still work my shifts at the bar, not ready to give up my one source of sure income just yet, but every other hour of the week is spent managing emails and social media, sourcing flowers and trying to stay local about it, and actually creating and delivering the arrangements themselves. It’s beyond exhausting, and there are several days when I don’t think I can take another step. But I keep pushingand pushing, determined to prove I’m capable of some sort of success. Terrified it’s all going to fall away at any minute.
I still haven’t bitten the bullet and hired any employees, but now that Gemma is back in full-time teaching mode, I think I’m going to have to. And even though Jack has never once complained about the literal garden his kitchen has become, it might be time to start looking for a studio. Bridge and Blooms is on the way to outgrowing its space. It also probably wouldn’t be a terrible idea for me to have some space from Jack.
Because in the rare moments we cross paths during the week, just the sight of him leaves me as wilted as a hydrangea cut from its stem and left without water.
And on Sundays, when we still carve out the time we’ve dedicated to hanging out together, I feel his eyes on me, almost pleading with me. I want so badly to know what those eyes are trying to tell me, but I’m too chickenshit to actually look at them and see.
Jack clicks off the TV one Sunday night mid-September, shifting himself on the couch so he’s looking right at me instead of at the screen.
I stay curled tightly up in my corner, a blanket wrapped around me as both a comfort and a shield.
The intensity of his gaze is burning me up, heating me from the inside out like I’m a clay pot in a kiln. Only the heat has been turned up too high and I’m about to shatter.
“Sadie.”
Yeah. My name coming out of his mouth does nothing to soothe my burning core.
He sighs when I don’t respond, scooting closer to my end of the couch. “Look, I get that shit’s weird right now, but can you look at me, please?”
I purse my lips so tightly I’m surprised they don’t glue themselves together. But I manage to look at him without screaming or bursting into tears, which I take as a win.
“I have something I want to show you. If that’s okay.” He stands up and holds out his hand.
I don’t take it because I’m pretty sure any skin-to-skin contact would result in combustion, but I push myself off the sofa and gesture for him to lead the way.
He does, without acknowledging my hand snub, heading upstairs. Instead of stopping at the second floor, he continues to the staircase leading up to the top level of the brownstone.
“If you got me a library, you really haven’t been paying much attention.” The comment comes out louder and snarkier than I intended.
