Sam finds himself oddly emotional at the sight of Jake’s old green Jetta, many years worse for wear. It’s clear it changedhands at some point, unless Jake never mentioned being incredibly into a specific sorority or the Kent State football team, but there’s no doubt it’s the same car Sam used to peek through his backyard fence looking for.
The trunk is open. Sam, thinking it might send the wrong impression to load anything into the car, gently shuts it, and sets the boxes down on top.
Then he takes a deep breath, turns around, and says, “I read the article.”
Jake does him the courtesy of not playing dumb; his eyes, which had been starting to look a bit calmer, bug out again. He says, “How? It doesn’t even come out until—” and then, darkly, “Marty.What else did he tell you? About how I made a fool of myself begging for his help, I bet,andthat I’m moving in with my sister, who currently forty percent hates me, because I inadvertently destroyed her relationship! And now you feel like you have to help me, but you don’t, Sam! You don’t! I didn’t want him to tell you because I’m not—I didn’t do this to make you—toobligateyou?—”
“Jake,” Sam says, quiet, calm. He smiles. “Can I talk for a minute? Please?”
Jake opens his mouth and then, looking relieved, closes it. He takes a breath. He nods.
“I read the article,” Sam says again. “And I talked to Marty, and I think—what I think is—is I don’t want to waste any more time. I mean, what, am I going to waitanotherthirteen years, and then bump into you at some gas station, and gear up to spend the rest of my life with you only for some insane circumstance to throw us off course again? I’m tired ofalmost, Jake. I’m tired of wanting you and not having you; I’m tired of waiting for anything else to come close. I don’t want to be as old asAl Fiskarand staring at you from across the room at someoneelse’s wedding, realizing I wasted whole decades just wanting! I refuse.”
Jake’s mouth has fallen open. He stares at Sam with it hanging like that a few beats too long, before, sounding dazed, he says, “Who the—sorry, this isn’t important, but who the hell is Al Fiskar?”
“Our pickle guy,” Sam says. Slightly ruefully, he adds, “Apparently, he’s what the people in my life consider a fitting romantic option for me, which, I’ll admit, may have helped me find my forgiving spirit.”
“Did you read thewholearticle?” Jake demands, sounding almost angry now. “The part about me basically taking abribe? Letting my sister’s stupid fiancé trick me into tanking your review without ever setting foot inside? I’m a disgrace to the profession, Sam! To the whole point of critics! You’re not supposed to forgive me!”
Sam shrugs. “So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“So,” Sam says, taking a step closer to him, “what? I get that I’m notsupposedto forgive you; what happens if I do anyway?” More quietly, holding Jake’s gaze, he says, “It’s not like I don’t know how it goes. I’m sorry, for what that’s worth. It sounds like it’s been…hard.” He pauses, and adds, “Wait, what do you mean your sister’s fiancé?—”
Jake’s face screws up in irritation, and he practically spits. “Brian. Full name Brian Matthewson; might ring a bell?”
“Wait,” Sam says. “Like the Matthewson Restaurant Group? The place that keeps trying to convince us to sell the building?”
“That’s the one.” Jake runs a hand through his hair; Sam’s not sure if the disgust on his face is for Brian or himself. “Not that it’s any excuse, but he’s the one who told me Silverman’s was infested with rats and roaches. He also brought me some truly nasty takeout that I think, now, must have been fromsomewhere else? And he had four different people text me their food poisoning stories. That was convincing, until I did some digging and realized they all worked for him.” Scowling, Jake adds, “That makes me sound like I deserve credit for researching things—Ireallydon’t. I didn’t work it out until I saw the letter from his firm at your place that last morning.”
“Shit,” Sam says, his heart clenching as he realizes just how awful these last few months must have been for Jake. “I’m sorry, man. To use you that way—I mean, I wouldn’t be able to civil with someone after something like that. I kind of want to find this guy and yell at him on your behalf. It sucks that your sister’s marrying him; bound to make family holidays kind of awkward.”
“Oh, she’s not.” Jake’s smile looks more like a grimace. “I told her about it, and she got really mad and called him. And she said, ‘Brian, how could you do something so sneaky and underhanded?’ and he said, ‘Calm down, Lila, it was just the one time and only second base, I swear,’ so. Wedding’s off.” Jake takes a breath, and then, before Sam can reply, adds, “Also, are youinsane? You should want to yell at Brian on your own behalf! You should want to yell atmeon your own behalf?—”
“But I don’t.” Sam shrugs, and adds, with a wince, “Given all the givens, I wish I could undo the yelling I already did, or at least redistribute it where it belongs.”
“You’re serious,” Jake says after a beat. “You read the article, and you—you know what I did, and you’re—it’s just—okay? Just like that?”
“I mean,” Sam says, with a small smile, a little shrug, “maybe try to curb the urge to give me star ratings on anything for a while? Unless it’s five stars, obviously. In that case, I want it in writing.”
Jake’s mouth compresses in a thin line; then a small sound escapes him; a second later, clearly against his will, he’s cackling, one hand pressed against his mouth to hold the soundin. He reels forward—Sam meets him, catches him—Jake puts his head down against Sam’s shoulder and laughs so hard he might as well be crying.
Surprise, relief, joy; whatever it is, it takes Jake a few minutes to calm down. Sam spends those minutes thinking, rather blissfully, of nothing beyond how good it feels to share space with Jake again after all these weeks apart. Maybe it’s down to the ways they grew up together, or maybe Sam’s going to have to radically readjust his personal belief system towards a concept like soul mates, but even his body feels comfortable with Jake’s in a way it never has with anyone else’s.
That’s probably why, when Jake’s finally caught his breath, Sam realizes he’s wrapped Jake up in his arms without even noticing he was doing so. Jake seems to be suffering from a similar lack of self-awareness, because he has twined himself tightly into Sam’s grip, both hands fisted in the back of Sam’s T-shirt. Sam moves back the barest fraction of an inch and then they’re kissing, and then…
…well, if he’s honest, then Sam loses track of things for a bit. They kiss for a long time, he knows that; he knows there’s a heat to it, a hunger, that’s somehow deeper and richer than it was the last time they did this. That was only a few weeks ago, but Sam feels like he’s a different person now than he was then; a different person than he was at seventeen; a different person than he was at sixteen, the day Jake’s well of personal gravity drew Sam down from the light booth. And Jake—God, Sam thinks he could kiss Jake every day for the rest of his life and find under his lips, every time, both a completely different person and exactly the same one.
It’s a good kiss, that’s the point, and things are right on the edge of becoming indecent when Sam becomes aware of the hollering.
He ignores it, at first. What could it possibly matter? It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in agony—Sam didn’t hear anything explode—they’re all excited about something, whoever they are. Good for them. Honestly, it’s probably just the staff?—
—who all watched him run out here after reading the article?—
“Oh, God,” Sam says, pulling away just enough to let the words out and slightly afraid to open his eyes. He’s remembered, too late, that the spot where he and Jake are standing is just below the large window that sits against the far wall of the deli’s kitchen. The window starts at a height of roughly Sam’s shoulders, which means: “Here’s a horrible question for you: Is, uh…”
“Is the entire staff of Silverman’s,” Jake says faintly, “including a woman who I assume to be your aunt, staring at us through the kitchen window?Yes, Sam. Yes they are.”
