“I’m not sure what I want,” I mutter, a little petulant.
Jakob shakes his head and swears, low and exasperated. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “At least the last time you broke my heart it was because you were going after something you really wanted. But this?”
He’s out of the chair and to the bed in a split second, looming over me. I shrink backward on the scratchy polyester comforter as he leans over me, bracing his arms on either side of my body.I feel a thrill, not of fear but of anticipation. But he doesn’t kiss me. His gaze bores into mine. He’s so close I see the silver shot through the ice blue of his irises, the pale blond of his thick lashes. He pins me to the bed with that gaze. He smells like Sprite and french fries and rising bread dough and sawdust. I want to bite into him, into the softness of his lower lip, but the steel of his gaze stops me cold.
“You know we’re good together, Emmie,” he murmurs. “And I think that scares you. You let everything else be in control of your life but you. Your martyr complex lets you focus on and fix everyone’s problems but your own. If you’re too scared to admit what you really want, by all means enjoy weak tea and dry kisses with Henry. But just remember what you’re throwing away when you do. Because I think we could have been great, if you’d just had the courage to give this a chance.”
Then he straightens abruptly, leaving me half prone on the ugly comforter, heart pounding, breathing in shallow bursts. He checks his phone and frowns.
“My buddy found the problem. Looks like it was a bad starter. He’s replacing the part and your car will be ready in fifteen minutes.” He glances at me, his gaze angry and dismissive. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the mechanic shop.”
He doesn’t look at me as he stalks out the door, nor does he glance my way on the seemingly interminable drive to get my car. At the mechanic shop, he introduces me to his buddy Dave, and they exchange a few words.
“Good to see you, man. Give me a call when you come south of the border again,” Jakob says, shaking Dave’s hand. “I’ll buy you a beer. I owe you one for helping us out.”
Then he gives me a curt nod. “Drive safe, Emmie,” he says, and then he gets into the cab of his truck and pulls away, disappearingfast around a corner. Miserably, I go inside to pay the repair bill and retrieve my car.
On the long drive home, Jakob’s words ricochet in my mind like a pinball in a machine. Against the angsty wails of Bonnie Raitt and Emmylou Harris, I hear his challenge to me. Over and over I picture his face hovering so close above mine, the frustration and the longing in his eyes.
He loves you,a voice in my head whispers, and I know it’s true. Jakob has loved me since we were teenagers. He loves faithfully and sacrificially. I hurt him, and rejected him, and still he came for me. I’m afraid of how I feel about him, afraid that I love him too, against my better judgment. What do I do? Go with my heart or trust the process that has guided my family for generations? I think of Mom’s admonition to follow my heart and trust that everything will work out, but I don’t see how it could. I’m afraid if I take control of my life and follow my heart, I’ll mess it all up. I feel trapped and panicky. What if I make the wrong decision?
Windows down and the hot night breeze blowing through the car, I head south toward home. I’m exhausted and disappointed and heartsick. With every mile I can’t shake the feeling that I’m letting something amazing slip through my fingers once more.
Chapter 34
It’s late when I finally reach home, and I feel completely wrung out. I sit in the car for a moment and answer a few texts. The first is from Henry. He called me as soon as I reached my hotel in Vancouver, but I was so distraught and embarrassed that I let it go to voicemail. I texted him right after, letting him know I was okay and telling him not to worry, that I’d be in touch when I got home. He texted right back. He was getting ready to present at the awards dinner but offered to help as soon as it was over. I assured him I was okay, just disappointed. I didn’t tell him about the car starter debacle or that I was stuck in Vancouver or that Jakob was coming to get me.
Now I pull my phone out and send Henry a text letting him know I got home okay. There are no texts from Jakob, although to be fair I’m not surprised. I text Dani too, promising to tell her everything tomorrow over lattes. I just don’t have the energy to go into it all today.
Mom has left a light on in the living room of our littlebungalow. When I open the door, it smells like Kraft Mac & Cheese, homey and familiar. I drag myself inside and toe off my shoes in the entry, feeling weary and off-kilter. Mr. Butters waddles out of Mom’s room to greet me. The sight of his big warm eyes and goofy smile soothes me, and I scratch behind his ears and murmur a greeting to him. Then quietly I tiptoe down the hall and into Gus’s room. I need to see my son. He’s the center of my universe, and as soon as I spy his little face, eyes closed, glasses off, mouth slack in sleep, it rights me somehow. I take a deep breath and slide into bed next to him, under his Milky Way galaxy comforter, cuddling him for a brief, greedy moment. He stirs and I gaze down at him, overcome with love. This is what matters. Gus, my family—this is what I have given my life for and would gladly give up anything for again. I want to do so right by them. I’ve given them all I have.
Gus is sleeping on his back, one arm flung over his head in abandon. The other hand is on his chest, with something clutched in his fist. It’s a screwdriver. I recognize the orange handle. It belongs to Jakob. Gus must have taken it from his toolbox at the shop. I carefully pry Gus’s little fingers from around the tool and slip it into my pocket. I’ll return it to Jakob next time I’m at the shop. Then I press a kiss to Gus’s forehead, breathing in his toothpaste and pasta scent.
“Sleep tight, baby,” I whisper, even though I know if he were awake Gus would instantly and vehemently object to being called a baby. He doesn’t yet understand what all of us parents learn eventually—that no matter how big they grow, our children are always our babies.
When I tiptoe into the hall and close the door, Mom is waiting for me like a slender wraith in a floral flannel nightgown. I jump, startled. She gives me a sympathetic look and wordlesslyputs her arms around me. I sag against her, feeling the prickle of tears against my eyelids.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod against her shoulder. “I’m sorry too. There was nothing I could do,” I whimper a little plaintively. “I tried so hard, but everything melted.”
“I know, sweetie. You did the best you could,” she says comfortingly, rubbing my back like she did when I was little and was sick or had a nightmare. She smells like Ivory soap. I inhale her, choked up with my failure.
“This was our big chance to get enough money to pay for the plumbing upgrades,” I murmur against her shoulder. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now.” I am heartsick thinking about how much money we need for the plumbing repairs, the renovations to transform the shop into my vision, and the county upgrades. It feels impossible.
She keeps rubbing my back. “Oh, honey, something will work out. It always does. Dad and I were in more pickles financially than you ever knew about, and somehow we always managed to pull through. I don’t know how, but we’ll manage this time too.” She pulls back and looks at me, holding me by the shoulders. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?”
I shake my head and say before I think, “Jakob brought me dinner.”
She frowns, a little V of confusion wrinkling her brow. “Jakob? What do you mean?”
I’d called Mom as soon as I paid the mechanic’s bill and headed home, and while I told her about my failure at the competition and the melting chocolates and that I was on my way home, I left out the part about Jakob driving up to help me. Now I sigh, going into the kitchen and filling a glass with water. I’mnot hungry, but I am so very thirsty, dehydrated from the hours in the hot car. I drain the glass and refill it. Mom follows me, Mr. Butters bringing up the rear.
“When I left the hotel after I bombed out at the competition, my car wouldn’t start,” I tell her, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I called Jakob and he drove up and took care of getting it to a mechanic friend of his. They got it fixed quickly so I could drive home. And Jakob brought me a burger before he drove me to the mechanic.” I don’t look her in the eye during this recitation of events. I try to make it sound like no big deal.
Mom searches my face in confusion. “Jakob drove up and helped you? But why didn’t you call Henry?” she asks. “Wasn’t he at the hotel where the competition was?”
It’s an excellent question, and one I don’t quite know how to answer. “Um…” I hold the glass to my flushed face. “He was hosting the awards dinner and was out with colleagues. I didn’t want to bother him.”
