Jack pauses halfway up the steps and turns back toward me. “Why would I get you a library?”
“We’re going to the forbidden wing.” I furrow my brow at the confusion on his face. “Have you actually never seenBeauty and the Beast?”
“I liked superheroes.” He shrugs and continues walking up the stairs.
Now I’m fully intrigued. I have no idea what to expect from this mysterious third floor, but when Jack pushes open the door and gestures for me to enter the space, I still manage to be totally and completely shocked.
The space isn’t as big as the full footprint of the brownstone, butit’s pretty damn close. Meaning, it’s huge. And completely wide open. The floor is the washed maple you might find in a dance studio, the walls exposed brick and dotted with large, airy windows. The ceiling is broken up with two massive skylights. It’s already dark outside, but the space must be absolutely flooded with sunlight during the day.
“It’s incredible.” My attention is focused solely on the skylights at the moment, so I don’t see what Jack is pointing out at first, until he pulls my eyes from the ceiling.
“I hope this setup will work for you, but if not, we can rearrange it however you want.” He leads me over to a large kitchen island, simple white cabinets, and a butcher-block top, just like we have downstairs.
There’s also a sink in the corner with more counter space, and off to the side, two big cooling fridges, the kind you might find in an actual florist’s shop.
It finally starts to sink in what is happening here. This is for me. He arranged this space for me and Bridge and Blooms. I run my hands along the worn wood countertop, taking a minute to collect myself. Pesky emotions swirl around in my mind like a damn whirlpool and I’m caught in their pull.
“You did all of this for me?” My words are thick with unshed tears, and fuck, I’d give anything to not actually cry right now, as if letting out my tears is tantamount to cutting myself open and baring my soul. Which it kind of is.
“I didn’t really have to do much. The space was just sitting up here unused.” He steps closer to me, closing the distance between us to just a couple of feet. “I’m tempted to pretend I wanted my kitchen back, but we both know how I feel about cooking.”
I appreciate his attempt at humor, but I can’t make myself laugh. Or even smile. It’s too much. It’s all too much.
Wetness streams down my cheeks, and I don’t even try to stop it. I’m not sure I could.
“Shit, Sadie. Why are you crying? Did I fuck it all up?” He reaches out a hand and covers one of mine.
I pull away, under the guise of needing to wipe at my eyes, but mostly I’m just afraid of what his gentle touch will do to me.
He crosses to the sink in the corner and comes back with a wad of paper towels. “Will you talk to me, please? Whatever it is I screwed up, I promise I’ll do what I can to fix it.”
Rubbing at my eyes with the scratchy paper leaves them more raw than they already were. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” I gesture helplessly to the space around us. “This is the nicest, most perfect, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He steps back into my space, and this time I let him. Removing the paper towels from my hand, he gently wipes away my last stray tears with the pads of his thumbs.
I force myself to look in his eyes, grateful when my own tear up again, blurring this perfect vision in front of me. “I don’t deserve you, Jack. Not as a roommate, or a friend, or...” I don’t finish the thought, but it ends withI sure as fuck don’t deserve you as any kind of romantic partner.
“Why would you say that?” He continues to catch my falling tears, his thumbs gentle on my rubbed-raw skin.
“Because I’m a selfish asshole, and you’re the kind of person who does this”—I throw my arms out wide to encompass the entire space—“for someone you’ve known for five months.” I know whatthose fridges cost, not to mention the logistics of purchasing them and getting them set up on the top level of the house without my realizing what was going on.
Jack drops his hands from my face and takes a step back. “Why do you continue to think the worst of yourself, Sadie?”
“It’s not thinking the worst if it’s true.” I know I sound like a petulant teenager, but I don’t care. My reaction to his generosity only serves as further proof of how terrible I am.
“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me. “I’m not letting you do this. Tell me why you think you’re a selfish asshole.”
“You’ve lived with me for months; I would’ve thought you’d seen enough of it for yourself by now.” The overwhelming emotions—many of them of the happy and positive variety but also guilt and confusion and embarrassment—are starting to coalesce into one big emotion: anger. Anger is so much easier to deal with than all those other feelings tap-dancing around inside my heart. Rejection and self-doubt and inferiority and self-loathing.
Jack refuses to be cowed by the venom I’m dripping into my voice. “Give me one example.”
I mimic his pose, arms crossed defiantly over my chest. “I forced my friends to work for me for free for half the summer.”
“Your friends are grown adults who were happy to help you because they love you. Myself included.” A dart of something flashes through those green eyes on that last sentence. “Next.”
My breath hitches in my chest. I know he didn’t mean it like that, and I’m not backing down. “I moved into your house and took the whole place over without ever even asking you if it was okay.”
“Have you ever once heard me complain about that?”
