“You’re a true gentleman, West.”
Bea’s boyfriend—West as everyone but Bea calls him—stands beside me at the sink while we tackle dinner dishes. He gives me an it’s nothing wave of his hand. “I’m happy to help clean up. And I meant it when I said you can call me Jamie. I’d actually prefer it.”
I peer his way, noticing how much more relaxed and happier he seems since I first met him earlier in the fall, when we struck up a fast, easy friendship. “You’re sure?”
He throws me a wry glance. “I’m sure.”
The tight-lipped man, with his starched shirts and serious demeanor, who introduced himself as West just a few months ago is nowhere to be seen. Now he’s Jamie Westenberg—casually rolled-up sleeves and loose-limbed contentment as we share dish duty at the double sink.
His mouth crooks at the corner as he dries a just-rinsed saucepan and notices me inspecting him. “What is it?”
“You just seem . . . good. You seem happy.”
The crook at the corner of his mouth becomes a full-on smile. “I am. Very glad for a holiday spent with people who actually feel like family rather than my family, which most certainly does not. That’s what got me thinking about what name I use, what made me say it over dessert—I don’t want to use West anymore. It’s a name that I got at boarding school, and I’ve used it like . . . armor, to keep people at a distance. I don’t want that armor anymore.”
“We all need our armor. There’s nothing wrong with needing distance.”
“From people who aren’t worthy of our closeness,” he concedes. “Boundaries are one of my favorite things, trust me. But I don’t want this boundary with the people I care about. That’s why I want to be Jamie, not just with Bea, but with all the people who matter to me. You’re one of them.”
“Well, I’m honored, Wes—I mean, Jamie.” After a beat, I give him a look, wiggling my eyebrows. “Have we just taken our bromance to a whole new level?”
He laughs. “Damn right, we have. It was written in the stars, Bea says. Not that I put much stock in astrology or the zodiac, but I’ll admit the more Bea foists it on me, the more compelling some of it is.”
“I’m not very knowledgeable about it. What’s the gist?”
“Well,” he says, “take the two of us. I’m a Capricorn. You’re a Taurus. Those born under those signs have a number of diverging traits but also fundamental compatibilities—both are Earth signs who align along core values such as dependability, stability, and pragmatism.”
I chuckle. “I can already hear rebel-child Bea explaining all of this to you and saying that, in short, we’re a snoozefest.”
Jamie chuckles, too. “We are, in her words, ‘inclined to be protective, practical—albeit deeply lovable—stick-in-the-muds.’?”
“Well, someone has to have it together and keep things in order.”
He nods. “Couldn’t agree more. Which is why you’re stuck with me and this astrologically ordained bromance. I’m in it for the long haul.”
“Makes two of us.” With no extended family living remotely close to me and my antipathy for romantic entanglements, friendships are the only kind of long-term relationship I have or allow myself. I value them deeply.
Refocusing on the dishes we’re surrounded by, I pick up the pan that the turkey was roasted in and plunge it into the soapy water. “Thanks again for helping out here,” I tell him. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I don’t mind helping. Though, judging by how tense things seemed during dinner, I have a hunch you’re thanking me less for the dish-duty assistance and more for the fact that my insistence on taking Kate’s place means she’s out there while you’re in here.”
I stare down at the greasy, crusted baking pan and focus on scrubbing the hell out of it. “She’s got an arm in a sling. She wouldn’t be much help.”
“Mm-hmm.” He sets down the saucepan he was drying and picks up the next rinsed pot from his side of the double sink.
I peer his way and catch him grinning. “What?”
“You’re really scrubbing that pan, Christopher.”
“It’s greasy!”
His grin deepens. “Mm-hmm.”
“Stop saying ‘mm-hmm.’?”
“Step away from the pan, my friend.” He plucks it out of my grip, rinsing it on his side of the sink. “You’re going to take the finish right off.”
Sighing heavily, I pick up a serving platter too big for the dishwasher and force myself to think only about scrubbing that. But my mind disobeys me, returning once again to dinner.
Seated next to Kate at the table, her long legs bouncing steadily beside mine.
When she reached across me for the bread basket and I breathed in her soft scent—a garden after a long, warm rain.
The moment Maureen asked about my bruised jaw and Kate’s bony knee knocked mine, then stayed there, as if she was stunned that I’d kept my word—instead of telling on her, I said I’d been sparring.
To be fair, it was sparring when I ran into Kate. Sparring is all we do.
From outside, Kate yells, “Three-pointer!” drawing our gaze to the driveway, where she and Bea are playing one-on-one basketball.
“Bullshit!” Bea yells back. “You landed over the line!” A sports car roars down the road, drowning out whatever she says next.
I tell myself to look away as Kate bends over in hysterics, the only hand she has available braced on one knee as she laughs so hard, a wheezing sound leaves her lungs. Bea throws back her head and cackles.
“Work still stressful?” Jamie asks, taking another saucepan from his side of the double sink and towel drying it.
I tear my gaze away and scrub the platter more. “It always is this time of year.”
Jamie stares at me, assessing. “But it’s a little more so than in the past, I imagine.”
“Yes,” I admit. “Nothing I can’t manage, though.”
I’ve been managing it for a month already, when my not-large-to-begin-with investment firm lost two team members in the same day—Jean-Claude, whom I fired, and Juliet, his former fiancée, who was reeling from everything that led to him being fired and to her breaking up with him. She’s been on leave for a month, taking the time she needs, which I’ve firmly supported.
I don’t say any of this out loud, because Jamie’s former friend and roommate, my former employee, Jean-Claude, is a delicate subject. Even though they’re unspoken, Jamie’s thoughts still follow mine.
He stares down at the pan in his hand, somber quiet settling between us.
There’s no getting around the fact that Juliet’s been gone from work for a month and she’s an ocean away from us now because of Jean-Claude’s emotional abuse. His possessive, irrational jealousy of my familial relationship to her led to a fistfight with me during my regular meeting with Jules, whom I retained as a PR consultant.
Jean-Claude’s out of all our lives for good. Now that some time has passed, and Jules is on her self-care getaway, it’s my hope that the echoes of his damage will finally stop lingering.
My hope seems reasonable, given Friendsgiving last night felt upbeat, albeit with a teary group photo that we texted to Jules, saying we missed her. Even tonight the Wilmot family managed a video with Jules post-dinner that put a smile on everyone’s faces. Bea and Kate seem happy outside after talking with her. Maureen and Bill are still content to sit on the front porch with the laptop between them, sipping their coffee as they chat more with Jules.
“It’s been a stressful season,” I tell him. We both know I’m not just talking about work. “But we’ll get through it. I’m confident.”
Jamie nods, a small furrow in his brow. After a beat, he peers up at me, an examining intensity in his gaze. “And after you wrap up this busy year, how do you plan to recharge over the holidays?”
I shrug. “I don’t have the time.”
“Have or won’t take?” he asks pointedly.
“I give my team the week leading up to Christmas through the week after New Year, but I don’t take it myself. Busy year-end or not, I don’t personally have much use for the holidays.”