Jake nods, his expression remorseful. “I know. Trust me, I feel terrible. You’ve been nothing but supportive of my career, and I want to be the same for you. I’m going to do better.”
I pause, taking a moment to mull it over. “Your apology is accepted,” I tell him after a beat. Then I walk over to my dresser and pull out an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “Now, do you mind giving me a little privacy?”
“Oh, right. Of course.” He swivels to face the wall, and I let the towel fall to the floor as I slip into my pajamas. I pick it up to towel-dry my hair as I sink onto the bed beside him.
“Well, I’ll let you get some rest,” he says, pushing himself into a standing position. Without thinking, I reach out and grab one of his hands.Shit. What am I doing?
“No, stay. We can watch a movie or something until I fall asleep.”
He looks surprised but doesn’t protest as he slides back onto the bed, and I notice with bemusement that he’s left a generous,friendlygap of space between us. As if there’s enough space in the world to erase the memory of what happened last time we were in this bed together.
I hand him the remote and he starts flipping through Netflix, stopping when he gets to10 Things I Hate About You.
“Jackpot,” he whispers.
I snort, twisting to face him. “Seriously?”
“Who doesn’t like to kick back with a nice rom-com at the end of a long day?”
“Um, lots of people? They’re so contrived.”
“Well, not me. If anything, I hate the way I don’t hate them. Not even close. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.” His mouth curls into a lopsided smirk at his own joke.
“Do you think your fans have any idea that you’re such a massive dork?”
“Not a chance. Though I think they’re beginning to suspect it in Europe.”
I reach out to shove him playfully, and he grabs me by the wrist. Our faces are so close together that I can feel his warm exhale as his chest rises and falls. Electricity crackles between us, and the air grows thick with possibility about what might happen if he were to lean an inch closer.
Jake’s eyes drop to my mouth, and I know that despite what I said earlier, if he reaches forward to try and kiss me right now there’s not a chance in the world I would stop him.
“Lexi,” he says, his voice a low scrape. He dips his head, his lips a whisper from my own. My eyes have just fluttered shut when the sudden blare of a car horn outside my window causes me to jump back.
“Jesus, what iswrongwith New York City?” I groan. Jake laughs softly, wrapping one arm around me.
“Come here,” he says as we lay back against the headboard. I rest my cheek on his chest and he draws me closer. I feel my entire body relax as his fingers drift gently through my hair, and sleep overtakes me before I find out what Bianca loves more than her Prada backpack.
ASTREAM OF LIGHTpouring in through my window wakes me before my alarm. My comforter feels hot, much hotter than usual. I try to push it off before realizing it isn’t a comforter at all, but Jake’s body sprawled across mine. His head is cradled against my chest, and his left arm is wrapped around my waist. I close my eyes again, reveling in the feeling of our bodies intertwined. It’s warm and comforting and just so incredibly right. Too right. I need to get out of bed before I can overthink this.
I give Jake a gentle push so that I can free my arm. He rolls onto his stomach and murmurs softly but doesn’t wake. Grabbing a sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants, I dress quickly, then tiptoe over to the door. Unable to help myself, I steal a look back over my shoulder at Jake’s sleeping form.
His messy brown hair is sprawled in a halo around him, his cheek pressed against the mattress, his full lips soft and pursed. He looks so peaceful, so incredibly young. A completely different person from the fragile man who rang my doorbell a week ago. He’s already taking up a lot of space, in more ways than one, and I’m not sure what bothers me more: the fact that Jake has torpedoed his way back into my life, or that I don’t hate it nearly as much as I wish I did. Shaking the thought from my mind, I carefully pull the door shut behind me.
15
WHEN I RETURN HOMEfrom brunch shift the following Sunday, the first thing I see is Lionel pacing back and forth in the lobby, his expression strained as he stares at his cell phone.
“Hey, is everything okay?” I ask, taking a few steps toward him.
Lionel’s brow furrows. “Audrey’s got the flu. I’m trying to order her some soup, but I can’t figure out this damn app.” I put my hand over Lionel’s fist, still wrapped tightly around his phone.
“Don’t order anything. I’m going to head upstairs and make her some matzah ball soup. Trust me, there’s no better cure for the flu than Jewish penicillin.”
Lionel looks up at me, his expression flooded with relief. “Oh, that would be wonderful. You’re not too tired from work?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Absolutely not. It would be my pleasure.”
As soon as I get into my apartment, I pull an old composition notebook from the bookshelf and begin thumbing through handwritten recipes. I haven’t cooked matzah ball soup since the night I made it for my mom, and when the words appear in front of me, memories burst through my consciousness like a tsunami. My first attempt had been a disaster, to say the least, the dense orbs sinking to the bottom of the pot like cannon balls.
