CHAPTER TEN
I’m back to standing in my living room, looking at my work stuff spread out on the floor. The only difference from ten minutes ago when I was sitting here is now I’m wearing company-worthy lounging clothes of yoga pants (that rarely see an actual yoga mat) and Spice Girls shirt instead of the baggy sweatpants and super-comfy-but-hole-riddled sweatshirt I donned when I got home from work.
I told Gwen she could send Jasper over whenever. When I mentioned she should warn him I only had canned soup to feed him for dinner, she said she’d have him stop for pizza on his way—her treat for helping her and Evan get their much-needed alone time.
After disconnecting our call, I hopped up and flitted around my apartment, fluffing couch cushions and putting away clean dishes that hadn’t made it to the cupboard yet. Jasper has already seen the place, so he knows how small it is and he also knows to expect the crammed shelves and surfaces. I culled a lot of my belongings before moving back to Bellevue, but I couldn’t bear to part with the majority of my books and fandom-related collectibles. Even though I have fewer things now, this place is easily half the size of my Toronto apartment, so what once appeared pleasing to the eye is now all smooshed in together, making things look cluttered.
“Oh well,” I say to myself, giving the apartment one final scan. “It’s just Jasper. It’s not like I need to impress him.”
That being said, I also don’t want him to slip on one of the pens littering the floor, so I scoop everything up and deposit it on a TV tray near the far end of the couch to deal with later.
Jasper arrives bearing a bottle of wine and a cheese and mushroom pizza from Luigi’s, where we had our group dinner the other night. I had a moment of panic after he buzzed up, wondering how I should greet him. A hug? A kiss on the cheek? A fist bump? Most of the people in my circle have known each other for a long time, so we all hug and kiss. Thankfully, with Jasper’s hands full, the decision is one I can put off for now, and I greet him with a smile.
“Are you enjoying your time off work?” I ask, taking the pizza and wine from him while he removes his lightweight jacket and shoes.
“I am,” he says slowly. “It’s nice not always having to be somewhere, and yet I find myself unsure how to fill the bulk of my time. I’ve come to the rather alarming conclusion that I don’t necessarily enjoy my own company. Is that ridiculous? Equally as ridiculous as not wanting too much time to sit and think, so I sit and read, but then feel guilty if I spend too much time doingthat?”
Wow, okay, we’re diving right into the deep end tonight. With my back to Jasper as I set the pizza on a small folding table in front of the couch, I allow myself the smile that’s been fighting to break through. Gwen always told me Jasper was a man of few words when it came to talking about himself, although he could talk at length about ideas, theories, art, or various other topics. The fact he’s been incredibly open with me since the beginning makes me feel good.
Schooling my expression, I straighten and turn to face him. The smile returns immediately, followed by a surprised laugh when my gaze snags on his socks: bright blue with a fluffy cat pattern.
“Ahh, yes,” Jasper says, following my line of sight and wiggling his toes. “These were a gift from Lina. She had them custom made for all of us. The cat is her ragdoll, Mitzy.”
“What a wonderfully weird gift.” I raise my head to meet Jasper’s eyes. My breath catches at the fond amusement in his eyes. I motion for him to sit while I answer an incoming text from Cami, and then grab plates, napkins, and wine glasses from the kitchen.
“I’m not sure if your question before was rhetorical, but I’m going to answer it anyway,” I say as we load our plates with pizza. My mouth waters as the scent of herb-filled marinara and buttery crust hits my nostrils. The owner and chef at Luigi’s—not, in fact, named Luigi, but Don—has told me he’ll let me in on his secret blend of spices if I give him my top secret recipe for my grandmother’s Welsh cakes. I’ve always wondered which of us will cave first.
“While I actuallydoenjoy my own company, it took me a while to get to that point,” I tell Jasper. “As for whether it’s ridiculous to feel guilty for having downtime?” I wave a hand toward the pile of notebooks nearby. “It’s Saturday night, I don’t have to work, and yet this is what I was doing before you got here. Mind you, it’s something Iwantedto do, even though it’s still technically work.”
Jasper wipes his fingers on a napkin and reaches for the top notebook, pausing to ask, “May I?” At my nod, he picks it up and peruses my messily scrawled notes, then turns to the next page and the next. “Did you study marketing and public relations?”
“No. I’ve picked up a lot of tips over the years from Gwen and Ivy, and by observing what seems to work and not work for similar businesses. I’ve had a bunch of these ideas since way back when Marisol and I first started talking about owning our own bakery.”
“These are brilliant,” he says. “Very creative. Being in the Village must have its perks, but it comes with its own unique disadvantages too, I imagine.”
“Exactly! Business is largely dependent on Village traffic. You either have to beinthe Village and happen to pass the café or already know it’s there.Ordiscover it on social media. We may be close to the main entrance, but even that’s relative since the place is enormous and it takes a few minutes just to walk in from the parking lot. We lack the advantage free-standing buildings have of people walking in off the street on their way to work or when they’re out and about, or going through a drive-thru.”
Jasper nods along as I speak, notebook in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. “It seems you have some truly ingenious ideas to draw people in, though. Like this—is this a British afternoon tea?”
I take a sip of wine, giving myself a moment to bask in his praise. “It is. I originally thought it would be fun to do around Christmastime until it dawned on me we could do them year-round, maybe once a month. I thought I could do a small one in November to see if there’s enough interest, and then offer a few leading up to Christmas since it’s the Village’s busiest time of the year.”
“Ahh, yes, Hugh was telling me all about how the Village started as Santa’s Village and was only open around the holidays,” Jasper says. “It’s incredible how he and Ivy have expanded and what they’ve been able to do with the place.”
“The whole operation blows my mind,” I tell him. “My mom, Marisol, and I went to Santa’s Village one year before I moved to Toronto, and I thought what a shame it was for it to only be open a small fraction of the year. You’d never even know that now because it seems like all the shops and eateries have always been there.”
“Was Cravings a café before you and Marisol bought it?”
“It was, thank god.” At his questioning look, I add, “It cost way less to do renovations than we anticipated because all the necessary fixtures were already in place. We also got a good deal from the previous owner on a few things he no longer needed.”
“Amazing,” Jasper murmurs. He’s got that far away look in his eyes again. The hand holding his slice of pizza hovers halfway between his plate and his mouth. When he finally seems to remember it’s there, he sets it down and reaches for his wine instead. “To have the creativity and drive to accomplish all of this. The passion. It’s quite something, Willow.”
“Thank you.” His words, paired with the soft, admiring tone, make my throat tight with emotion and more than a little pride. There’s also a hint of sadness in there because Jasper is clearly struggling, even if I’m not exactly certain where the root of it lies.
“Have you ever thought of leaving banking?” I ask.
“No,” he says simply. “It’s what I know, what I’m good at. What I’ve always done. I can’t imagine doing anything else, especially at this point in my life. I think it’s true what they say: you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
I’m about to argue with him—tell him forty is still young and ‘too old’ is a bullshit social construct we’ve been led to believe by an ageist society, and ask him if he’s ever read anything about neuroplasticity—when my phone rings. “What iswithpeople calling me lately?”
