The warmth of his sentiment, however undeserved, or frightening, seeped through to her jaded heart. “Jake . . .”
“No wait, before you say anything . . .” He looked at her, held her gaze for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. “I feel that way about you, but at the same time, I know that I don’t have what you have—I will never have what you have.”
“Please, you have no idea what you are saying. I don’t have anything—”
“Looks to me like the only thing you are missing is your own country,” Jake said, sighing. “I’m only saying that I understand why your dad feels like he does. I can understand why my mom believes you are just messing around with me. But I guess the question is, how do we feel? How do we know this is right and we aren’t headed for a fall? How do you feel? I love you, Robin. But I need to hear you say it.”
Damn. Damn damn damn. She could feel it coming, the crash and burn—the Inevitable Question, the defining moment in a relationship where the couple must pass on to the next level or abandon their attempts at togetherness. The strange thing was, Robin could feel her answer to the Inevitable Question in the pit of her belly, where a horde of butterflies flit about every time she saw Jake. But she couldn’t deny the fear that what he said was true—he was not accustomed to her lifestyle, and by the looks of things, he would not achieve her lifestyle anytime soon. She had heard him grouse enough about his bills to know that he lived from job to job. It wasn’t that she didn’t have faith in him. That wasn’t it at all. If anyone would succeed, it would be Jacob Manning.
But at the moment, she had no faith in herself, no faith that she would not retreat to the cover of her shroud, no faith that she could turn her back on the Lear wealth and all its privilege and walk away.
Jake sighed. “I guess your silence is my answer, huh?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m thinking.”
“That’s not good.”
“Please don’t misunderstand me. I think you are wonderful, Jake. But I . . . I’m afraid of the expectations.”
He shot a quick, confused look at her. “What expectations?”
“Yours. Mine. Everyone’s,” she said, shrinking into her seat. “How do we live up to it all?”
“Ah,” he said, nodding slowly, and frowned, his brown eyes filled with confusion. And hurt. A lot of hurt. “Okay, I get it—”
“No, you don’t get it, you can’t get it,” she blathered helplessly. “I am just trying to figure out where I belong.”
“I think you belong with me,” he said gruffly, now staring straight ahead. “But you have to come to that conclusion yourself.”
“You’re angry,” she sighed wearily, her inability to explain herself dragging her down. “I am just trying to be honest. I am trying to say that . . . that expectations are inevitable, aren’t they? And we might not be able to fulfill each other’s list of them. Where will that leave us?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared straight ahead. After a moment he said softly, “I don’t know where anything leaves us right now.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way.
An hour later, Jake pulled into her drive and roused Cole from his sleep, directing the stumbling teen to his pickup. He hoisted their bags onto one shoulder and turned to face Robin. She was standing at the passenger door of her Mercedes, silently watching him, despising herself for having hurt him. He looked at her for a long moment, his jaw working with the clench of his teeth, but then he looked away, down at the ground.
“Jake . . .” she said, but couldn’t finish, having no idea what to say, her confusion as deep as his hurt.
“No, never mind,” he said solemnly. “Don’t feel like you have to say anything, because you don’t. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to hear it.”
“Please don’t—”
“Look, I gotta go,” he said, and turned abruptly, headed for his truck.
From the truck cab, Cole was watching, and as Jake pulled out of the drive, Cole turned and looked at her over his shoulder. Even though it was dark, and she could barely make out his face, Robin could have sworn that he looked as confused as she felt.
After a restless attempt at sleep, Jake passed Sunday at Hermann Park at a baseball game. He swung at the ball with fury, wrenched his back twice, but went three for four before it was all said and done. Part of him expected to hear her calling out to him to get up on his toes; another part of him hoped he never heard her voice again. The hurt or the disappointment was too much for his puny, unused heart to hold. And he resented the hell out of the fear, which, no thanks to her, had kept him awake most of the night. A dull fear he had once felt about the prospect of even falling in love was now a fear that he might not ever be in love again.