“Later, Hallie.
I slide into my car, smiling up at my best friend’s oldest brother with new eyes, seeing the boyish crinkles that are turning into fine lines. His tan from a summer of working long days on the farm has faded, and his thick mustache over his lip needs a trim. His hair is getting a bit too long as well, with locks of it curling around his ears and at his neck beneath his hat. His neck has always been hot to me, corded and thick and disappearing beneath the collar of a flannel that I know hides strong, broad shoulders.
I’m probably being much too obvious with my perusal, but really, a woman can only be so strong for so long, and I can’t seem to feel weird about it, not when he’s looking me over as well. For a moment, I wonder what he’s seeing, but when his look turns to a scowl, I don’t have to guess anymore.
“Those shoes are shit for the winter, Hallie,” he says, eyes locked on my warm, suede, and fur-lined slip-ons.
“They’re winter boots,” I say, my lips spreading into a teasing grin. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this argument, after all.
“No, they’re not. They’re glorified house slippers, and you’re going to break your neck in them.”
I give a dramatic eye roll. “Whatever. See you tomorrow, Jess,” I say, closing my door and turning the key in my ignition before waving and driving off. But as I do, Jesse King stays in my rearview mirror until I’m out of sight.
FIVE
On Sunday, I roll out of my bed bright and early, then get ready as quietly as possible, knowing my brother, who owns a bar and thus typically has late nights, is still asleep and will be for some time. I rent one half of the duplex from him, but the walls are paper-thin, and we’ve had more than one argument about our contrasting schedules.
Once I’m ready, I gather all of my things together and head toward the front door. When I slip my foot into my boots, I smile, knowing that it’s going to annoy Jesse. The drive over is short and familiar, something I could probably do in my sleep, and before I know it, I’m at Jesse’s front door.
“Hallie! How was your morning? I love your jacket! What’s in your bag?” Emma asks, opening the door before I even get the chance, words spilling out fast.
“You’ll find out in due time, my girl,” I say with a laugh. Stepping inside, I look over Emma’s head and see Jesse.
“Morning,” he grunts out, and I bite back a snort of laughter, shaking my head and stepping inside.
“Don’t seem too excited to see me now, Jesse, or I might start getting ideas.” For the slightest moment, there’s a twinkle on hisface that’s so reminiscent of how he used to joke with me, and it causes an ache in my chest.
“Don’t worry, I’m not.” He leans in the doorway of the kitchen, a mug that says#1 Dad, one I know Wren helped Emma make for Father’s Day years ago. His hair is a tousled mess, a small smile is on his lips, and that fucking mustache is a tease I remind myself to ignore. Unfortunately, Jesse King hasalwaysdone it for me, regardless of whether or not we’ve been on speaking terms.
I was fourteen the first time I realized he was the hottest boy known to mankind. He’d come home from college for Thanksgiving, something he hadn’t done since he left in August for school, despite being barely an hour away. His hair was messier than his usual short-cropped look, which his mom forced him into during high school; his posture was more relaxed, and a new, effortless cool surrounded him.
At nineteen, he ignored me, waving hello when he walked in on Wren and me helping Mrs. King bake pies for the big dinner, but never acknowledged me any more than that. I barely said a word to him the whole week he was home, despite my being at the King’s house nearly every day, too tongue-tied and dazed to attempt it.
My childish crush started then, writingMrs. Jesse Kingin the margins of my diaries, cutting out pictures from magazines of models with the same thick, floppy hair and hazel eyes to add to my vision boards as my ideal match, and each visit home, he got more and more handsome, and my crush grew deeper.
Three years later, my girly dreams were crushed by reality when, during a sleepover, Wren whispered the real reason he was home out of the blue and why Mrs. King was crying: Jesse had gotten some girl at school pregnant, and he was going to be a dad. He finished school over the next year before moving Emma and Emma’s mom into the house that the Kings had cleanedup for him. By then, my crushes had become more appropriate: boys my own age or pop idols I’d never actually meet, and in the years since, I’ve buried the merethoughtof Jesse King beneath metaphoricaltonsof reality.
But mygod, when he’s standing there all sleepy and casual and none of the everyday stress of the farm and life as a whole weighing on him this early, it’s hard not to see the boy I once daydreamed could be my everything.
Plus, now he has a mustache. A fuckingmustache.It’s basically my own personal catnip. If Nat were here instead of a literal child and it wasn’tJesse, I’d probably whisper some joke about riding it.
“This is your doing?” he asks, knocking me out of my thoughts and gesturing to his kid with his mug. I furrow my brow, not understanding in the least, my mind still stuck on much more inappropriate places.
Get it together, Hallie. You’re being weird,I silently chide myself before speaking aloud. “I’m sorry?”
“I normally have to drag her out of bed.” His smile goes wide as he rinses his mug in the kitchen sink and puts it into the dishwasher. Once it’s closed, he leans on the counter and crosses his arms across his chest, those muscled arms honed not from a gym, but from hours working on his family’s tree farm, flexing beneath the dark green Henley he’s wearing over jeans. “She’s not what you’d call a morning person.”
“One time, Dad threw me in a bathtub filled with ice water,” Emma adds happily, sitting at the island again and spooning more cereal into her mouth.
Jesse turns to her with an exasperated look. “Okay, it wasn’t ice water, Em. It was just cold. And I didn’tthrowyou into it. I simply placed you.”
“Well, itfeltlike ice.”
I bite back a laugh and shake my head at their back-and-forth. Jesse said he’s been having problems with her lately, with the two of them clashing over her sass and his inherent stoic sarcasm. I can see it, but I don’t know if he realizes how much she adores her father beneath her age-appropriate attitude.
It’s bittersweet to see, as it always has been, Wren engage with her parents, knowing I will never have the same close relationship with my parents. From the age of ten on, I was raised mainly by a single dad who never imagined himself as the primary parent but did the best he could with the hand he was dealt. It’s not to say I never felt loved or appreciated or supported, just that I don’t have…this.
I’m glad Emma has Jesse, considering the stories Wren has told me through angry whispers when she gets on a tangent about how shitty Kim, Emma’s mom, is.
