“Jakob?” My jaw drops. No, it can’t be. I squint at the man behind the counter, trying to superimpose him on the scrawny, earnest boy who was my debate partner in high school and one of my best friends. Until he wasn’t. Just then the demigod turns and glances up and for a moment the world slams to a halt.
It’s him. Same intelligent, piercing blue eyes. Same amused, questioning tilt to his mouth. Oh good heavens, why am I staring at his mouth? My gaze snaps up to meet his, and he arches one blond brow quizzically. I realize my mouth is hanging open slightly. Also, I suddenly remember that I have a smear of scorched fudge down the front of my shirt. Why oh why did I decide today was the day to skip makeup and a shower and just pull my hair back in a ponytail? All I’m wearing is Burt’s Bees lip balm. I duck my head and concentrate hard on the pastries in the case. Ugh, this could not be more embarrassing. We haven’t seen each other in sixteen years and Jakob Kristensen just caught me ogling him.
“Come on, you have to try his sticky buns,” Dani orders, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the bakery. I pull back, but resistance is futile with Dani. The bell on the door jingles and we are instantly enveloped in a warm, welcoming embrace of cinnamon, butter, and melted sugar.
“Hi, Jakob.” Dani saunters to the counter and greets him brightly. We are the only ones in the shop. “Welcome back to Poulsbo. I don’t know if you remember us, but we went to schooltogether. Dani Diaz and Emmie Wynne?” She waves her hand at me as though she is a game show host presenting a new prize—a set of matching rolling luggage or a Jacuzzi tub. I am the Jacuzzi tub. I want to sink through the floor.
Jakob wipes his hands on a towel, looking from Dani to me with a neutral expression. “I remember you, Dani,” he says finally, then turns to me. Something pained and surprised flickers in his eyes for a brief instant. “Hey, Emmie.”
His voice is deep and a little rumbly sounding. I feel the vibration of it in my stomach. I can feel his gaze on me and I flush pink. Be cool, Emmie. Be cool. I raise my chin and try to smile confidently. “Hey, Jakob.”
“Are you back home for good?” Dani asks, shamelessly prying for information.
Jakob hesitates and shoots her a small, noncommittal smile. “Back for now,” he says finally. He watches us both evenly, giving nothing away. Whatever emotion I saw in the first split second is gone now, replaced by a cool self-containment.
“Well, it’s this lovely lady’s birthday, and since she’s currently single and not getting any bedroom action, I want you to give her whatever you make here that’s better than sex,” Dani announces.
“Dani!” I hiss, scandalized. I thought Jakob catching me ogling him was the low point of this interaction, but I was wrong. This definitely just got more embarrassing. In fact, this now ranks as the most embarrassing moment of my life. I can feel my cheeks flushing scarlet. To his credit, Jakob doesn’t bat an eye.
“That sounds like a tall order,” he says slowly, glancing at me and then over the pastries. “But I’ll do my best.” I see a small smile quirk up the corner of his mouth. There’s a faint trace of irony in his tone. “You like raspberry, right, Emmie?” He’s looking at me. I think he finds my discomfort amusing.
I nod, trying to gather my dignity. I’m surprised he remembers I like raspberry. It’s been years. The first time I went to the Kristensens’ house to study with Jakob for a debate, we polished off an entire box of leftover Danishes. I quickly grew to love studying at their house because they always had boxes full of day-old baked goods on their counter and we could eat our fill. Jakob would always opt for the sweet cheese Danishes and leave the raspberry for me, since I’d confessed that first day that raspberry was my favorite. I found out years later that he actually didn’t care for the cheese flavor. His favorite was also raspberry. He was always like that, thoughtful to a fault.
Jakob pauses and then selects the most decadent-looking raspberry-filled Danish and slips it into a small waxed paper bag. He moves confidently for such a large man, with an economy of motion that is almost elegant. He seems to be perfectly in command of himself. He reminds me of a wolf somehow, lean muscle and power and quiet, keen observation. He’s always been tall, but he was gangly and awkward in adolescence, all acne and elbows and the same buzz cut his mom Astrid gave all three of her sons. He’s certainly filled out nicely since then. I clear my throat and glance away. This day is taking an uncomfortable turn, and it isn’t even midmorning.
“Happy birthday, Emmie.” Jakob hands the bag to me, our fingers brushing. “On the house.” The light hairs on his forearms are dusted with flour, I notice. Suddenly I forget how to draw a breath. I clear my throat and lift my chin to meet his eyes. No use trying to hide the fact that I look washed-out and tired. Might as well own it. I read somewhere that a woman’s sexiest attribute is confidence. That appears to be the only attribute I have at the moment, so I lean into it. “I’m surprised you remember I like raspberry. That was a long time ago,” I say lightly.
“I remember a lot of things,” he says, meeting my eyes and holding my gaze without blinking. His eyes are a pale bright blue, the irises shot through with silver, like the Arctic, like a glacial milk Alpine lake. In a flash I remember what he’s talking about, the things he might remember. The questions I was left with, and the regret. It all hits me in the stomach like a well-aimed kick. I flush, drop my gaze, and mumble a thank-you, then hurry from the shop, not waiting for Dani. So much for rocking cool confidence.
I duck around the corner and lean against the yellow wooden storefront of a boutique that sells bespoke Norwegian-inspired baby items. I press my hand to my chest, trying to still my erratic heartbeat. What in the world just happened?
Once, Jakob and I were as comfortable together as a pair of old shoes. We’d share packets of Twizzlers and cans of Coke at my parents’ store as we studied for debates. Slowly we learned how to read each other’s nonverbal cues, grew familiar with each other’s moods, and shared our worries and hopes and dreams. We laughed at the same bad ’80s movies and suffer through the assigned reading in Mrs. Fitz’s AP English class by reading aloud to each other while we ate snacks in the Kristensens’ den. Jakob and I were almost as close as Dani and I were. Maybe closer. He was my best guy friend, and the standard by which I’ve measured all other guys since.
But that was years ago. Before high school graduation and the horrible moment I ruined our friendship forever. Before Jakob abruptly left town and shocked everyone by joining the Marines. Before I left for Switzerland and Gus came into the world and my dad left it. And now here is Jakob, standing a scant few yards away, confident and beautiful and strangely familiar in a way that makes me feel like I want to crawl out of my skin. I clutch the bagwith the raspberry Danish. He made this Danish with his own hands. And then he remembered what I liked and gifted it to me. What does that mean?
I remember a lot of things.
Did I imagine it or had his tone held an edge of challenge? It’s been years since that day, but the regret and the questions still burn like a hot coal in my throat. I didn’t mean to hurt him, and I never got to apologize. I never got to explain. I wonder if he even thinks about what happened.
I open the bag and peer down at the Danish, my mouth watering. One thing is for certain. No matter what else happens today, this is not going to be a birthday like every other birthday, because out of the blue, Jakob Kristensen has come home.
Chapter 3
“Happy birthday, darlin’!” Dot leans across the table at the Longboat, Poulsbo’s iconic waterfront Scandinavian restaurant, and clinks her glass of beer against my chilled chardonnay.
“Thanks for coming to celebrate with me,” I reply. Beside Dot in the booth, Mom is sipping sparkling water, and next to me Gus is sketching a black hole swallowing the Milky Way on the back of his kids’ menu. After we closed the shop for the day, we dropped Mr. Butters off at home to enjoy his carefully portioned-out kibble for senior dogs and then met Dot here. Dani is on her way.
I sip my wine and gaze out the huge plate glass window at the harbor. The Longboat is located on the second floor of a building built on a pier over the bay just a couple of blocks from our store. We’ve been celebrating birthday dinners here since I was a kid, and the menu and décor haven’t changed at all since then. It’s five thirty and the place is almost empty, just us and a few seniorcitizens here for the early bird special. I’m feeling increasingly nervous and off-kilter despite the tranquil setting. It’s almost time to see if this will be the year I finally get my wish…
Outside the window, the light is golden on the water and seagulls wheel and cry. The longest day of the year is right around the corner, so we have hours of daylight left. It stays light now well past ten thirty at night—a fact Gus likes to mention when he’s pressing me for another half hour of reading.
“You shouldn’t fight circadian rhythm, Mom,” he told me gravely last night. “It’s not good for my nervous system.”
Mean mommy that I am, I made him go to bed anyway, because circadian rhythm or not, he’s still six years old and needs to sleep or he’s a grouch monster in the morning.
“Hey, birthday girl!” Dani calls loudly across the restaurant as she rushes in the door, late as usual. She’s off duty and out of uniform now. She worked a night shift last night, and after taking me for our humiliating little pastry outing this morning, she went home, slept for a few hours, and is back for dinner looking refreshed and mischievous in a cherry-red romper and espadrilles. She’s also carrying a big sign that screams in huge red letters:SLAY, QUEEN! CONGRATS ON ROCKING 34 TRIPS AROUND THE SUN!And below the words she’s pasted a hideous, grainy black-and-white photo of me. I recognize it as a terrible school photo from one of our middle school yearbooks. I’m grinning, all braces and straight blond hair and dark eyeliner, channeling Avril Lavigne. She’s written“Reinita!!!!!!!”in red Sharpie across the bottom of the poster with seven exclamation points.
I shake my head and roll my eyes at her. She’s carried that all the way through town from her apartment, no doubt. Everyone has seen it. She chortles when she sees my embarrassment and sticks it to our booth with a roll of duct tape she pulls from hergiant, slouchy purse. She carries everything in that purse—Band-Aids, airplane-sized bottles of booze, bear spray, gum, a pair of handcuffs—you name it, she’s probably got it in there. It’s like blue-collar Mary Poppins bag.
