Gemma hands me a bowl of macaroni and cheese, Nick pours me a glass of wine, and we all sit and eat together. Nick does the dishes after dinner while the girls head down to the basement for some Real Housewives. Harley and Nick head home shortly after, both of them with early wake-up times on Monday. But Gem stays with me, telling me she already called for a sub and is going to hang with me at the shop the following day.
She and I curl up in my bed, me with the hoodie still wrapped around me, and with my best friend next to me, I sleep better than I have in weeks.
I schedule my therapy appointment for Tuesday in the late-afternoon hours, when deliveries will be mostly done and Lucy can handle any problems that might come up at the shop. I don’t let myself contact Jack until after my hour is up, even though I’m desperate to hear hisvoice. To apologize. And to let him explain himself, and actually listen this time.
My phone is pressed to my ear the second I enter the brownstone, but he doesn’t answer. It rings twice and goes to voicemail, so his phone is on, he just doesn’t want to talk to me. Which is fair. I don’t know if I’d want to talk to me either. But I can’t just not say anything, so I text instead.
ME:Hi. So, totally cool that you’re not ready to talk. I get it, and I certainly don’t blame you.
ME:Ugh. I’m just going to put this in one giant paragraph, otherwise your phone is going to be beeping every two seconds and you’ll hate me even more than you already do. Because I know you hate me, and that’s totally justified because I said a horrible thing to you. Like the worst thing. And I’m so sorry, Jackpot. Yes, I was mad because you sort of lied (which is like a whole other thing, but let’s just focus on me for now, yeah?), but that doesn’t excuse what I said. Anyway. I’m sorry. So so so sorry. I want to talk to you. And I want you to come home. And I can move out, of course, but I really hope you’ll find a way to forgive me because I miss you, Jackpot. And I love you. So much.
ME:And I’m sorry. Did I mention that yet?
JACK:I could never hate you, sweet pea. And I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you. But I need some space. Some time to get my head straight and figure some stuff out.
ME:Of course. Take all the time you need.
ME:Is it okay if I text every once in a while?
JACK:Of course. I might not respond, but I’m here. Always.
ME:Therapy was really good today. Did I mention I’m back in therapy? Clearly I needed it. Need it. And today’s session was good. By that I mean I cried my face off. Apparently in professional terms that’s known as a breakthrough. In Sadie terms it means I’ll be drinking lots of wine tonight. Some might consider that an unhealthy coping mechanism, but I prefer to think of it as a reward for good behavior. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me because I definitely don’t need or want that. I just really wanted to tell you about my day. I wish I could hear about yours too. I miss you. Like a lot. I love you. Also a lot.
JACK:I’m proud of you, sweet pea. And I love you too.
ME:So I fucked up at the store today. Totally got wires crossed and ended up missing a delivery for someone’s anniversary. I felt terrible. The guy ripped me a new one, which I fully deserved because it was definitely my bad. But when he left the store with a refund and a bomb-ass arrangement, Lucy hugged me and told me shit happens. And I definitely felt bad for the whole rest of the day, but I also kind of moved on. When my internal voice (I named it Chad) started going in on me, I told that asshole to shut the fuck up. Because everyone makes mistakes, and one missed order isn’t going to sink the business. Baby steps.
ME:Also, miss and love you.
ME:So this week is Valentine’s Day, aka the Super Bowl of floristry, and I’m super excited but also scared shitless. I don’t know if I can do it, but I’m going to. Everyone is taking the day off work tocome help out with deliveries and I don’t know what I did to deserve all these amazing people in my life but I’m so grateful for them. You’re included in that group, of course. Even if I haven’t seen your face in two weeks. God I miss your face. I never really had a Valentine before because honestly I think the whole thing is dumb (except now it’s not dumb because I’m going to make bank this week), but if I were going to have a Valentine, I’d want it to be you. Only you, Jackpot.
ME:Also, once the rush of this week is over, I’ll start looking for an apartment.
ME:Also, I love you. So much.
JACK:Don’t even think about moving out.
JACK:I love you too.
I wake up the day after Valentine’s Day, warm and cozy in my bed. My muscles ache and I have blisters on both heels, but I also feel better than I have in, oh, say, two weeks or so. Thankfully, I already decided to keep the shop closed today. If I hadn’t, I’d be calling in sick. If you can call in sick to your own business.
I loll around under the covers for way longer than I should,relishing these moments of doing nothing. It’s been a while since I just did nothing. Eventually my full bladder forces me out of bed, and my caffeine addiction forces me downstairs.
Where there’s a very rumpled, very bedraggled-looking man sitting at the kitchen peninsula. With a large latte and a bagel.
He stands up when he sees me, and my heart absolutely shatters. Jack looks terrible. Worse than I feel even.
I tuck my hands under my arms, crossing them over my chest as if I can hide the shield blazoned across his hoodie. A hoodie I’ve been wearing every day at home and haven’t yet washed. “Hi,” I finally manage to say after we’ve stared at each other for at least two silent minutes.
“Hi.” He gestures to the counter. “I brought breakfast.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I hate this. I hate this so hard. Standing here and staring silently like we’re total strangers. Worse than strangers. We’re not even able to make small talk. It’s worse than when I first moved in, both of us stilted and awkward.
He clears his throat. “Well, I missed Valentine’s Day, so breakfast was the least I could do.” He gestures again, this time to the bar stools.
I sit, taking a long sip of my latte, hoping it’ll magically make my brain function again. “Jack, I’m so—”
“Stop.”
