“Me too,” I add, attempting to backpedal from my earlier outburst. “Seriously, that’s incredible.” Jake’s features flood with relief, and I feel his hand brush mine underneath the table. I thread our fingers together and he smiles, his brown eyes warm as he squeezes my hand.
“Thanks.”
Trish stands, pushing back her chair.
“Well, I think we’re ready for dessert.” She looks at me, her eyes bright. “And in lieu of pie, I’ve got something in the kitchen for the birthday girl.”
She disappears through the doorway, and I turn to face Jake. “You didn’t,” I whisper.
“How could I deny her the pleasure?” he whispers back. “Besides, itisyour birthday, and you deserve to be celebrated.”
Trish returns a moment later, placing an expertly decorated cake with vanilla frosting and a single lit candle in front of me.
“Jake said you don’t like to make a big deal of your birthday, so we won’t embarrass you by singing,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But go ahead and make a wish.” As I glance around the room at Jake, his mom, and even his less-than-stellar dad, I realize the wish I’ve been making for years has already come true. But then Trish slices the cake and I spot the tiny dots of color inside. She places a piece in front of me, and my heart leaps into my mouth.
“A little birdie told me Funfetti is your favorite.” Speechless, my gaze travels to Jake’s. Something silent but powerful passes between us. And in that moment, I know that Jake Taylor and I will never be just friends.
Jake leans forward and presses his lips against my forehead.
“Happy Birthday, Lexi,” he whispers.
WHEN WE FINISH EATING,everyone carries their plates into the kitchen, and I offer to help Trish with the dishes.
“Thanks again for dinner. Everything was delicious,” I gush,setting a few glasses beside the sink. “I can’t even remember the last time someone cooked for me.”
Trish squeezes my hand before reaching around me to pick up one of the glasses. She gives it a quick rinse under the faucet before placing it carefully into the dishwasher. “Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Nora Ephron, it’s that food is love.”
My stomach flutters at the familiar words. “My mom used to say the same thing.” Trish tilts her head to look at me. Her eyes, which are far too like Jake’s for comfort, regard me carefully.
“Jacob told me about your mother,” she says sympathetically. “It must be really hard for you, especially around the holidays. But I want you to know that you are always welcome here. Consider this an open invitation to come over anytime.”
I nod, attempting to smile. I’m touched by the sentiment, by the prospect of having a new, adoptive family to replace the one I lost. Yet I can’t help but feel simultaneously heartbroken. What if her offer never comes to fruition? What if history repeats itself and Jake and I lose touch again? The thought is almost too much to bear.
“I also want to thank you for taking such good care of Jacob,” she continues. “You don’t know what it means to see him so happy again. And I know it’s all because of you.”
I struggle to formulate a response.
“He’s been doing great, with his career and all,” I finally manage.
Trish shakes her head softly. “It’s not the music career,” she muses. “I’ve been married so long that I forget what it’s like sometimes, to be young and in love.”
“Oh, we’re not… I mean… we’re not even together.” My face betrays my mortification as I stammer over the words. Despite my efforts, it’s getting harder and harder to bury my feelings for her son.
“Your generation has such an aversion to labels.” Her voice is laced with an unmistakable trace of amusement, and she shakes her head again. “Doesn’t change what’s clear as day to everyoneelse. I know my son, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in my throat. Instead, I turn my attention to drying. When we finish a few minutes later, we head back into the living room, where Jake is seated at the piano again. Jeffrey’s lounging in an easy chair, a newspaper in one hand and a tumbler of bourbon in the other.
Curiously, I approach the wall-to-wall white bookcases on the other end of the room, which are filled with books, trinkets, and, most interesting, a handful of framed photographs. My eyes drift over each image. Jake as a toddler in a soapy bathtub. Jake seated at the top of a red plastic slide, a sunhat clipped under his chubby chin. Jake in his soccer uniform, several teeth missing. And then—
“Um… is this a photo of you tap-dancing?”
Jake’s head whips around, his panicked eyes locked on me as Trish laughs softly from the sofa.
“Ah yes, Jake’s tap-dancing days,” she reminisces. “I could never figure out what to do with him when he was that age. So much energy—he was always bouncing around, showing off to anyone who gave him the slightest bit of attention. The worst was when it was my turn to host book club. We’d all be gathered in the living room, and here comes Jake, wearing my sunglasses and leaping off the furniture, singing Elvis Presley to all the ladies.” She appears wistful at the memory. “I had to do something to help him get his energy out, and let’s face it, the boy belonged on the stage.”
Jake rises from the piano bench and walks purposefully toward me, his hand outstretched. “Give me the photograph, Lexi.”
“Absolutely not. This belongs to me now.” I clutch the frame tightly to my chest. “I’m going to turn it into wallpaper and cover my room with it. It will be the last thing I see when I close my eyes at night, and the first thing I will see when I wake up in the morning.”
