I chug the remainder of her cocktail, even though it’s mostly melted ice at this point. Whatever. Liquid courage is liquid courage. “I don’t want to just kiss him. I want him to be my— Fuck, I’ve literally never even had a real one. Not once.”
“You want him to be your boyfriend!” Gemma squeals, punching both arms in the air triumphantly.
I bury my hands in my hair. “I want him to be my boyfriend.”
Harley claps her hands, and I’m pretty sure the entire restaurant is staring at us. “This is so exciting!”
“It’s not exciting at all. It’s nauseating. And terrifying. Why do you people put yourselves through this?” My head falls onto my arms, crossed on top of the sticky table.
Harley runs a soothing hand through my hair. “It’s worth it.”
“What if he thinks I’m not worth it?” I mutter into the crook of my arms, mostly hoping they don’t hear my question.
“Then he’s an idiot and we’ll kick his ass.” Gemma could do it too.
I sit up and look at each of them. “I don’t deserve you guys. And I’m scared I don’t deserve him either.” That’s the sentiment I was trying to convey to Jack the night of the studio surprise. I don’t feel like I deservehim, and I don’t know what I could possibly bring to the table, to a man like him.
Harley grabs my right hand, holding it tight in hers. “You absolutely deserve him. He’d be lucky to have you, Sadie.”
Gemma takes my other hand. “And you deserve us. And we know how fucking lucky we are to have you.”
“You guys are the best, and I love you.” That blasted wetness springs up in my eyes again, but at least this time I can blame it on the margaritas.
I wake up the next morning, notnotwith a hangover. It’s a weird haze of too much emotional conversation combined with too much tequila and not enough water. My head aches, but not so much as to be debilitating. I’ll be able to function, but movements will be slow today.
The weather is starting to cool down as we head further into October, so I pull on my favorite jeans and a light sweater before heading out the door and straight to Bagel World for the biggest breakfast sandwich they make and coffee for me and Jack. The air is crisp and cool on the walk back home, and the long cleansing breaths I take help further clear the alcohol-and-emotion fug from my brain.
Even after talking things out with Harley and Gemma, I still can’t piece together the puzzle that is me and Jack. I know I like him. I’m pretty sure he likes me. I know we both have some serious mental blockages due to our unfortunate parental situations. I think these are things we could work out, and work on, together.
I’ve never wanted to work on anything with anyone, together ornot, so this thought alone should be a good indicator of just how deep I’m in. But knowing this frisson with Jack isn’t just some lust-fueled fling doesn’t do much for me in terms of filling in the blanks. I’m still left wondering if he feels the same way. If he’ll ever be able to get past his hang-ups.
The not knowing, and the living in a constant state ofWhat the fuck is happening here, is a lot. It’d probably be a hell of a lot easier to just cut my losses and bail now, but the whole living-together situation kind of makes that impossible. Unless I want to move out. Which I definitely don’t.
So I guess I just have to hang in there and wait, see whether he returns my feelings and whether he eventually wants to be with me too. And I just have to hope he’s worth the wait.
Actually, that’s the one thing I don’t need to bother to hope for. I know he is.
I leave Jack’s coffee on the kitchen counter, sending him a quick text to let him know it’s there. Climbing an additional flight of stairs multiple times a day to get to the studio is hopefully doing wonders for my butt, because damn, it’s tough sometimes. I stop in my room to change into an old T-shirt I don’t mind getting dirty, kicking off my shoes in the process. One of the best parts about working from home is never having to wear uncomfortable shoes ever again.
I grab my laptop and head up to the studio space, which I have lovingly dubbed BaBs (for Bridge and Blooms). I dump all my stuff on the counter and climb onto the bar stool I found at one of the local flea markets. Going through my calendar, and emails, and DMs, I put together a to-do list for the day. Since I don’t have any deliveries scheduled, today is mostly about catching up on admin stuff, which, notgoing to lie, has been kicking my butt. I love spreadsheets, but I’ve fallen so far behind on inputting info, I’m going to need the whole day to catch up.
When my eyes feel like they might actually fall out of my head, I push the stool back and go for a walk around BaBs. The space is big enough for me to do a couple of laps when I need a break. Normally it’s just a quick jaunt to give my eyes a rest and get the blood flowing, but today’s jaunt brings a small surprise.
Jack’s forbidden tarp still lives in the corner of the studio, and typically I breeze on by it, continually impressed with my no-peeking restraint. But today, said tarp has been haphazardly replaced, leaving a whole corner of the hidden contents exposed.
I check over my shoulder, even though Jack rarely comes up here when I’m working and usually sends me a text beforehand to give me a heads-up. Creeping on tippy-toes, I inch my way farther into the corner, low-key expecting some serial killer–esque corkboard with red string and pictures of his victims.
But that’s not at all what I find.
My brow furrows as I take in the smallest sliver of what’s revealed. And then I throw caution to the wind and push the tarp to the floor to get the full picture.
The full picture is three paintings, of three very familiar images. Images I’d know anywhere, because I created them. I take a step closer to the one on the far left, examining every inch. It’s almost an exact replica of one of my floral arrangements, the colors and shadows and details of the flowers captured as brilliantly as my camera caught them. I move along to the middle painting, another one of my arrangement photos. Jack has transformed the image I posted to Instagram,of the arrangement posed in front of the brick wall in the living room, so painstakingly perfectly someone might mistake it for a photograph. The third painting isn’t finished yet, but I can tell by the background and the rough sketch marks it’s going to be another one of my Bridge and Blooms pics, completely brought to life by this new medium.
“What the fuck?” I mutter.
“My thoughts exactly.”
I freeze, like Jack is a T. rex and he won’t be able to see me if I don’t move. “Shit.”
