We’re already sitting so close that our knees are touching, but that microscopic point of contact doesn’t feel like nearly enough anymore. I reach over and rest my hand on his denim-clad thigh before drawing my gaze up and looking him dead in the eye. I don’t want there to be a shred of doubt in his mind that I’m telling him the truth. “Jack, I’m not seeing anyone else.”
Those few words are all it takes for his hand to land on mine, his fingers wrapping around my palm and squeezing with gentle pressure. It’s as though I can feel his whole body relax through the flex of his hand.
“The night I needed a rain check was because I was going to a Celine Dion concert with some girlfriends. I didn’t share it with you because it’s the kind of thing that guys love making fun of us for, and I wasn’t about to hand you live ammunition.” His lips start to twitch and I raise a finger. “And before you open your mouth, do not speak awordagainst Queen Celine.”
He clamps down on his smile. “I would never.”
I side-eye him skeptically as I ponder how to address his other concerns—namely, my erratic behavior—without exposing my duplicity in the process. If I’m not going to write the story, there’s really no reason to come clean, right? Frankly, there isn’t even anything to come cleanabout. Sure,I may be letting myself off on a technicality, but I think this lie falls under the “for his own good” category. And technically, it’s not even a lie. It’s more like... a sin of omission. A justifiable half-truth, if you will. A victimless crime!
Alright,fine, I’m chickening out. I’m being a gutless, yellow coward. Right on cue, “The Great Pretender” starts streaming in the background, and I could howl at the irony.Even Spotify is calling me out.
But I can’t help it.I can’t let him hate me.
I clear my throat. “As for the texting and my general... elusiveness, I’m sorry if my behavior’s been confusing.” He tries to break in but I won’t let him. “No, you’ve been up-front about your intentions from the beginning, and you shouldn’t have to wonder about mine. And I... I’m...”
I trail off, losing my nerve, but it’s like I can hear Gran whispering in my ear, prodding me forward with her invisible hand:Keep going, Cass. Say the scary part out loud.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure how to explain myself except to say that you’ve caught me by surprise. I... well, I didn’t expect to like you this much.” It’s the understatement of a lifetime, but it’s also the naked truth—and it’s such a relief to finally admit it. “The truth is, I’ve met plenty of men who seem great at first, but I always seem to wind up disappointed. So if I feel a little distant, it’s because I know better than to get attached too quickly. Especially to a guy who appears a little too good to be true.” I nudge him with my shoulder, feeling so exposed and vulnerable I could die. “A girl’s got to guard her heart around a guy like you.”
I don’t think I realized the reality of it until this moment, that I’ve been holding myself back for reasons beyond Betty and this story—namely, that I’m scared shitless.
The thing is, men like Jack are dangerous. He’s thePrince Charming you dream about when you’re little, the one you’re sure doesn’t actually exist, who’s so full of appealing traits that you’d stack them together like a living, breathing paper doll if you could. He’s literally tall, dark, and handsome; smart and successful; both interesting and interested. He’s generous but modest, never flaunting his wealth or connections. He’s been patient and gentlemanly, even with the near-Amish restrictions I’ve placed upon us. He’s the type of man who acknowledges waitstaff by name, then looks them in the eye to thank them; who stocks your favorite wine even after you’ve blown him off for a week. He willingly met my family on our second date, for crying out loud. He’s practically perfect in every way, as Mary Poppins would say. You could fall in love with a guy like Jack before you even know what’s hit you.
He’s the kind of man who’d hold your hair back when you’re sick.Gran’s words echo in my ears and my heart nearly stops, awareness knocking the wind out of me:
I have real feelings for Jack. I may even befallingfor Jack.
I think I’m gonna be sick right now. My stomach is seizing and my palms are slick with sweat, which I belatedly realize he must know since he has yet to let go of my hand. Frankly, the way he’s looking at me is enough to give me a hot flash.
He is lit from within. His smile is so dazzling that I briefly wonder if I’ve just confessed my feelings aloud before realizing that he must be able to see it in my eyes. He reaches up to cup the back of my neck, drawing me closer until we’re breathing the same air. His thumb strokes a featherlight path along my jawline and my nerve endings detonate like a row of fireworks. We’re a tinderbox ready to explode, and I’m holding a lit match.
And it’s in that moment—our faces an inch apart, our breath gone shallow—that we both notice the same thing at the same time.
“Do you—” I start to say.
“—smell something burning?” he finishes, and before the words have even left his mouth, we’ve bolted off the couch and made a mad dash for the kitchen.
I manage to get there first, only to find smoke billowing out the sides of the oven. “Oh, fu—” I start to say, until Betty jabs me with a cattle prod. “—dge.”
Jack goes to open a window while I throw on the oven mitts and pull out the now-charred bird, skin blackened and burnt to a crisp. To add insult to injury, the smoke detector starts blaring, and it’s so loud that I start panicking about fire trucks showing up. I imagine being frog-marched out of the building in disgrace by Cliff the kindly doorman and have to talk myself out of crawling into the oven myself and ending it all. Somehow I don’t think the FDNY—or Jack’s richie-rich neighbors—will be amused by my tale of Engagement Chicken gone wrong.
The Joy of Cooking, my ass.
Jack fans a dish towel in the direction of the alarm, his forehead creased with concern. “I thought you said it needed to be in for ninety minutes? It hasn’t even been an hour.”
“That’s what it said!” I say defensively. “I followed the recipe exactly.”
He abandons the dish towel and bends over the oven display, squinting at the screen and frowning.
“I don’t understand what could have gone wrong,” I insist weakly, inspecting the outer layer of char. Maybe it only looks ruined. Maybe I can skim it off like aSilence of the Lambs–style skinsuit. “This has never happened before.” It’snot technically a lie; the fact that I’m a poultry-roasting virgin is neither here nor there.
He makes a noise likehmph. “Well, I think I may have diagnosed the problem—it was set to broil, not bake.” He presses a couple of buttons and the screen goes dark.
Are you freaking kidding me? His stupid space-age oven conspired against me?!I don an appropriately sheepish expression, but inside I’m unleashing a stream of profanity that could rival a Scorsese movie. If karma is real, then this oven better wind up stripped for parts and rusting at a junkyard.
But almost as quickly as the anger burns me up, humiliation takes its place. Tonight wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. This recipe was supposed to be foolproof—so easy a child could do it—and like everything else pertaining to Jack, I’ve screwed it up royally. Suddenly, this still-smoking carcass symbolizes just how far this stupid scheme has gotten away from me, how out of control this situation has become.How much trouble I’m in with him.
What am I supposed to do now? What am I going to tell Cynthia? Is there a way out of this without hurting anyone?CanI even walk away from Jack? I feel the hysteria mounting—and to my utter dismay, my eyes start to smart.
