He snorts. “You and me both.”
“I want you to know, I regret the role I played in all this. I know it affected you, too.” I take a deep breath. “And even if I am mad at him, I still wish I could fix things . . . but I think Jack’s made up his mind about me.”
“The man’s stubborn as hell, always has been. It’s both his best and worst quality.”
I hate that he doesn’t even try to contradict my statement—and the worst part is, as his best friend, Tom would know exactly how Jack feels. Any residual hope I may have felt bubbling up vanishes as if pricked by a pin.
“Well, it certainly seems to have paid off. What with the deal, I mean,” I say, trying to steer us back into neutral territory. “I’m glad everything worked out. I know how important it was to him.”
He hums his agreement. “He’s been ready to move on for years, though I sure did everything I could to get him to stay. I can’t be too upset with him, though. We had a good run.”
I pass a house with several giant leaf piles dotting the front lawn; some kids would have a field day jumping in those. “What about you? Going to cash out and live the high life?”
“Me? Hell no. I’m going down with the ship.”
I chuckle at that. “Hope it’s not too lonely up there at the top.”
“One thing I rarely am is lonely,” he says wickedly. A cad ’til the end.
I make a gagging noise. “Set myself up for that one, didn’t I? Forgot who I was talking to.”
He laughs, and there’s a brief lull in the conversation as I fight a losing battle against the question I swore I wouldn’t ask. “How is he, Tom?”
There’s a pause. “He’s doing okay. He won’t really say much about what happened, but that’s sort of par for the course with him. When he’s upset about something, he throws himself into work. Although now . . .” He trails off. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. I’m keeping him busy.”
Something about the way he says it—or maybe it’s his reference to never being lonely—just makes me feel worse. What does “keeping him busy” even mean? Knowing Tom, he’s probably taking him on an exhaustive tour of New York’s finest strip clubs.
I feel sick. All this time, I’ve been imagining Jack alone in his ivory tower, shut away in his apartment full of extravagant, untouchable objects, mourning the loss of our relationship like a younger, hotter Miss Havisham. But who am I kidding? Jack’s not sitting home alone, licking his wounds. I’m sure there’s a long line of women who’ve been waiting in the wings for their chance to win over one of New York’s most eligible bachelors . . . who are only too willing to help him forget the duplicitous ex who once tried to screw him over.
“You know what, Tom, I’ve gotta run.” Literally run, away from the disturbing visuals now invading my brain. My hands start shaking in my pockets and I ball them into fists. “I’ll email over the story as soon as we hang up.”
“Sounds good. And hey, Cassidy—take care of yourself, alright? Don’t make me have to look after you, too.”
I force a half-hearted laugh, promise him I will, and hang up.
I exhale slowly, staring up into the rapidly darkening sky and taking a couple of cleansing breaths—then pivot and march back to the house with those leaf piles. Because why the hell not? Kids shouldn’t have all the fun.
I pick the biggest one, throw my arms out, and fall backward into it like a snow angel, trusting that the world’s going to catch me.
Chapter 20
I’m back,” I call out a couple of weeks later as I let myself in the front door, trying not to drop any grocery bags as I shrug off my coat. So Gran won’t be left home alone, I time my errand-running to coincide with her thrice weekly in-home physical therapy appointments or, in this case, a visit from Lois, her longtime friend and neighbor.
“We’re in here,” Gran calls out from the kitchen.
“Guess who I saw at the store,” I singsong as I head their way. “Your favorite, Bernie the butcher. And the first thing he did was ask about you, so you can lord this over Dottie’s head at your next bridge—”
I reach the kitchen and stop so abruptly, my feet probably leave skid marks on the floor.
Jack is sitting across from my grandmother at her kitchen table. Twin cups of tea are set in front of them, along with a plate of table crackers and Gran’s favorite garlic and herb Rondelé cheese spread. Wow, she broke out the good stuff.
“Jack?” I say in disbelief.
I’m so stunned by his presence that I have to stop myself from reaching a hand out to touch him to prove he’s not a mirage, or maybe one of those creepy holograms of dead musicians concert promoters are so into these days. Am I dreaming? Did I conjure him? Did I accidentally mix up my coffee with Gran’s meds-spiked Ensure?
Jack stands immediately, holding eye contact as he wipes his hands on his jeans. “Hi.”
The mirage speaks! I’m so thrown by the sound of his voice that I jolt like I’ve been shocked by a doctor’s paddles. My eyes drink him in, but instead of taking dainty birdie sips I’m gorging myself after a long spell of dehydration. I’m instantly inebriated, totally drunk on the sight of him. I don’t know where to focus my eyes first, so I start at the top and work my way down: from the familiar tousled brown hair and piercing blue eyes to the rounded caps of his broad shoulders, over the soft fabric of the navy sweater that’s hugging his biceps just so, to the solid chest and tapered waist I once fit so seamlessly against.
He looks . . . perfect. Brilliant and striking and so handsome, I can hardly draw in a full breath. He looks like the exact thing I’ve been missing.
Every cell in my body wants to bolt across this kitchen, jump into in his arms and cling to him like a koala, but that would be crazy, right? I’m supposed to hate him. I’m supposed to be holding a grudge. Annoyingly, my first instinct is to fluff my hair, but I resist the urge to groom myself—he doesn’t just get to waltz in here and fluster me, no sirree.
I suddenly realize I’m making this weird, standing here mute and motionless at the entrance to the kitchen. In an attempt to reanimate, I reach over to set my keys on the counter but miss entirely, sending them clattering to the floor, and when I bend to retrieve them I come face-to-face with a puppy, curled up contentedly underneath the table. Okay, now I know I’m hallucinating.
A thousand competing thoughts swirl around in my brain, jockeying for attention: How did he find me? What took him so long? I’m so angry at him. I’ve missed him so much. How has he gotten even better-looking? The audacity! If he had even a shred of decency, he’d have shown up looking haggard and pale instead of healthy and fit (or warned me he was coming so I could’ve applied some self-tanner at least). How dare he just show up here like nothing’s happened? How could he have abandoned me the way he did? Why is he here now? But what comes out is: