Jake is propped up against the wall in the living room, wearing only his wrinkled undershirt and a pair of my sweatpants. His head is bent over the guitar, white baseball cap twisted backward, brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers run over the strings. He mutters something to himself, and the apartment fills with a few chords before he stops, readjusts, and begins again. I reach for my salt and pepper shakers, adding a few twists of each spice into the sauce to season it. I’ll be damned if I ever forget to season a dish again.
Dipping a wooden spoon into the pot, I scoop a bit of sauce and bring it to my lips. It’s perfect. I scoop up a bit more and, carrying a dish cloth beneath it, walk it carefully over to Jake for him to sample. He wraps his lips gratefully around the spoon and emits an approving moan.
“Heaven,” he sighs, a small smile playing across his lips. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as his fingers move over the guitar strings once more, bobbing his head along to a melody I don’t recognize.
“She’s got a certain way about her, an alchemy that’s all her own, something that makes me feel at home.”
Confused, I tilt my head to the side. I don’t recognize this song.
“Did you write this?” I ask. He responds with a sheepish smile, dipping his head before he continues.
“Found the key to my heart and what does she find? I’ve got the taste of blueberries on my mind.”
I snort and toss the dishrag at him. Jake holds his elbow out in front of his face to block it.
“Hey! Is that any way to treat a man who’s trying to write a song for you?” he protests. “Honestly, a million girls would die for this honor.”
“Talented and humble,” I muse as I return to the stovetop. “Besides, that song is less about me and more about your mounting obsession with my blueberry pancakes.”
“Touché,” he replies, propping the guitar against the wall. He strides into the kitchen, and I feel the heat of his body as he moves to stand behind me. When he wraps his arms around my waist, tucking my head under his chin, I instinctively run my fingertips over his forearms. It feels so right, being together like this. Too right.
“Ready to eat?” I ask. I turn around to face him, hoping my voice sounds more nonchalant than I feel.
Jake, however, does not seem convinced. His unsmiling eyesrun over my face, studying me carefully, and I feel myself blush under his gaze.
“What is it?” he asks softly after a moment. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, of course not,” I assure him. “You’ve been wonderful. Better than wonderful, really. But you’re also leaving.”
Jake’s frown deepens. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not like I’ll be gone forever. It’ll be two, three weeks, tops.”
“It’s just… maybe we shouldn’t ruin this.”What are you doing?my inner monologue shrieks, but I press it down as I continue.
“This thing between us. It’s been perfect. And maybe that’s all it was ever meant to be. One brief, perfect affair that we’ll remember fondly when we’re old and gray.”
Jake is quiet for a long moment. His eyes search my face as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Is that really what you want?”
I nod, staring down at the floor. There’s no way I’ll be able to hold it together if I look at him right now.
“Listen, Lexi,” he says. “I know we just met, and we barely know each other, but I feel like we have something here. A connection. And I’m pretty sure you feel it too.” Sighing, I finally look up at him. He reaches a hand up to rest his palm against my cheek.
My face burns and I’m sure he can feel the heat against his skin. I take a deep breath, swallowing the jumble of emotion that catches in my throat. How have I managed to get so attached to this man in one weekend?
Jake pulls me into his chest. To my horror, a few tears escape, spreading in warm, wet splotches across his shirt. Tears for him leaving, but also for the unfairness of something new wilting away before it even had the chance to fully blossom. A confusing feeling, since I wasn’t looking for a commitment to begin with. School needs my full attention right now, and the last thing I need is a distraction. So why do I even care?
“Hey, now, let’s have none of that,” Jake says softly. “Seriously, there’s no crying in meatballs.”
I let out a half laugh, half sob, burying my face deeper in Jake’s shirt. “That’s not the expression!” I protest into the fabric.
Jake chuckles as he pulls my hands away from my face. “How about we eat this absolutely insane-smelling dinner, and afterwards, we take a walk?”
FORTY MINUTES LATER, WE’REstrolling down the sidewalk, Jake’s fingers interlaced with mine as the lights of the city glisten behind us. We’ve just about reached the subway when we spot a playground on the street corner.
Jake turns, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
“Shall we?”
I’m about to tell him that public parks are closed at night and it’s illegal to go inside after hours, but before I get the chance, he releases my hand and races ahead of me. Reluctantly, I chase after him, and by the time we reach the swings I’m panting with laughter.
