“Come here.” Jake advances toward me. I bury my face in my chest and his arms encircle me tightly, folding me into a hug. We stand there for a few minutes, my tears dampening his chest. His nose brushes against my hair as he rubs small circles on my back.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, pressing his lips against my forehead. Inhaling his familiar scent, I feel the tension in my chest loosening, replaced by a crushing sense of comfort I definitely don’t care to read into.
“I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat. “Really.” Jake doesn’t answer. His eyes bore into me, and the silence stretches thin between us before he cuts it.
“You know, I’ve been planning to visit my parents in Marietta. Why don’t we go together this weekend? I know you don’t want to make a big fuss, but no one should be alone on their birthday.”
I bite my lip contemplatively. The offer is enticing. Plus, it would alleviate some guilt, since I wouldn’t be lying to my dad about having plans.
“Well, I don’t work on Thursday. I guess I could take Friday off, as long as we’re back in time for my shift on Saturday?”
Jake’s face lights up. “Yes! You’ll love it out there. You can meet my family and get away from the city for a little while. It will be great!”
My earlier trepidation is already melting into excitement.
“Okay,” I say, offering him a smile. “Let’s do it.”
IT’S A FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVEfrom the Atlanta airport to Jake’s childhood home in Marietta. As soon as Jake pulls out of the parking lot in the black Jeep he’s rented, I plug my phone into the aux cable, turn on the stereo, and scroll through my playlist. Moments later, the first track ofRedblasts through the speakers.
“Taylor Swift? Seriously?”
“What? We’re in the South! I need to get in the mood,” I reply defensively when he pulls a face.
“Taylor Swift is from Pennsylvania.”
“Thatisthe South.”
He shoots me a sideways glance and shakes his head, but I notice one corner of his mouth rising in a tiny smile.
“Only according to New Yorkers.”
When we finally pull into the driveway, my breath catches in my throat. Jake’s childhood home is positively stunning, with a facade constructed entirely out of dark stone that stretches across a well-manicured lawn.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m expecting when we knock on the dark-wood-paneled front door, but when it swings open, I immediately recognize the petite woman standing there as Jake’s mom. She has the same chocolate-brown eyes and chestnut hair, though hers is styled in a half ponytail. Her face instantly breaks into a warm smile.
“My baby!” she cries, throwing her arms around Jake and pulling him into her chest. He wraps his arms around her, placing his chin on her forehead as he pulls her closer.
“I’ve missed you, Mom,” he whispers into her hair. They stay like that for a moment, and when Mrs. Taylor finally pulls back, she wipes a tear from her eye with the back of her knuckle.
She turns her head to look over at me. “You’ll have to excuse me, blubbering on like that.” Her accent is a tad more pronounced than Jake’s, and her apple cheeks are rosy as she beams at me. “I am so glad to finally meet you, Lexi. You’re even more beautiful in person than Jacob said you were.”
“Mom,” he groans with the exasperation of an embarrassed teenager. But she ignores him, stepping forward and folding herself around me. Her touch sends a spark through my core. It’s been years since I’ve felt arms wrap around me in a warm, maternal embrace, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.
“I am just so thrilled that you both are here.”
“Thank you so much for having us, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Please, call me Trish,” she says, waving a dismissive hand.“Well, there’s no need to stand out here on the porch all day. Let’s go inside.”
As I take in the elegantly appointed home, with its high, vaulted ceilings, white paneled walls, and clusters of wrought-iron chandeliers, I’m grateful for my outfit of choice: a pair of black knit pants and a pale pink, ruffled pullover. It’s a more formal look than I’d normally choose for a flight, but it was my first time flying first class, and I’d wanted to look the part.
Mrs. Taylor hangs our coats in the hallway closet, and then leads us into the kitchen. I gasp audibly at the sight.
The farthest end of the kitchen is wall-to-wall windows, which flood the kitchen with natural light and overlook a lush, green backyard. An enormous island with a black-and-white marbled countertop sits in the center, surrounded by half a dozen black leather barstools. A heaping bouquet of flowers in a blue-and-white chinoiserie vase sits on top, alongside an oversized wooden charcuterie board filled to the brim with prosciutto, cheese, fig jam, and breadsticks. An enormous ivory chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft light over the entire space. It’s official: I have died and gone to heaven.
“This… is the kitchen of my dreams,” I declare before I can censor myself, and Mrs. Taylor breaks into an easy laugh.
“One of the many benefits of being married to an architect,” she admits. I throw a questioning look at Jake—why hasn’t he ever mentioned his dad is an architect?—but he’s already helping himself to the charcuterie board. It’s only then I realize I never did ask him about the family business.
