Distantly, a phone vibrates. Jack eases away, and then he’s talking, voice low. I can’t make out what he’s saying over the buzz in my ears.
Eventually, he holds out the phone. It’s mine; the scuffed pink case is unmistakable. His brows are pinched together, mouth twisted like tangled fishing line.
“It’s your parents.”
Before Florida, the longest I’d gone without talking to my parents was approximately twelve hours. Even when I was limping my way through SUNY Binghamton.
Hearing them exclaim over the phone isalmostenough to make me forget why I decided to put distance between us in the first place.
“Thank god you’re okay, honey,” Mom says, relief palpable in her tone.
“If you need us, we can be there in a few hours,” Dad adds.
I struggle to sit up. This bed doesn’t make it especially easy. Jack moves away, or at least he tries; I grab his wrist before he can stand. He sinks back into his chair. “No, I’m fine. I’m being discharged soon.”
“Jack said you didn’t have your EpiPen.” That’s Dad.
“I must have forgotten it in my other purse.”
He sighs. “Poppy—”
“Douglas, it was a mistake,” Mom says. “She’s fine.”
Longing hits my chest, my bones, at their little tiff. Whatever my frustration with my family, I can’t deny that we’re closer than most. I wish, suddenly, that I was in Rye. It’s mid-October. The leaves must be all kinds of colors by now. I’m sure Mom put Miso in a sweater at the first sign of chill. I miss our family dinners. Watching old movies with my dad and shopping with my mom.
“Usually, it’s pretty easy to avoid pineapple.” I rub my tired eyes, suppressing a yawn. Any sign that I’m less than peachy, and it’ll be all the ammunition my dad needs to hop on a plane.
“And yet you didn’t, and now you’re in some random hospital in Fort Lauderdale, of all places,” Dad grumbles.
“It’s Fort Lauderdale, not the moon,” I put in.
“She was lucky that Jack was there to help,” says Mom. “Poppy, he tasted whatever you ate and recognized the pineapple immediately.”
“Of course he did. He’s a chef.” I meet Jack’s gaze, still charged from before. I clear my throat. “He, uh, called you?”
“First thing from the hospital, and again this morning.”
My throat is thick. I link my fingers with Jack’s. “Sounds like overkill.”
“This has gone on long enough,” says Dad, a familiar, commanding note in his voice. “Sweetie, we’ve given you the space you wanted. But it’s time to come home now.”
All at once, my stomach sinks. Something tells me he’s been planning to say this since the moment Jack called to give them the news about the hospital. “Dad, what? No. We’re less than a week away from the pop-up! Two weeks from opening night.”
“Exactly. Perhaps your job is done.”
“It’s barely started.” I comb my fingers through my knotty hair. I must look awful. Despite the conversation, part of my brain lights up at the realization that Jack kissed me despite my horrible hair and an ill-flattering hospital gown and probably bad breath, too. Butterflies tickle my insides. A lesser man would have run in theopposite direction. Ryancertainlywould have. “You’ve seen what I’ve been doing, right? With Fable’s branding?”
“I have. But I still don’t know why you had to do it while pretending your family doesn’t exist.”
“You know. Don’t act like you don’t.” I realize I’m squeezing Jack’s hand a little too tightly. He’s looking at the floor. “This is my chance to prove myself to you.”
“You don’t have to prove—”
“I do.” I stiffen against the wave of emotion threatening to come ashore. “I want a position with the Winfield Group, Dad. One I earn. Not some pity job you throw at me because you’re worried I don’t have a future.”
Dad is quiet. I chew my thumbnail, resisting the urge to keep talking. He doesn’t do well when I ramble on and on.
“You’ve never shown much interest in the restaurant business before now,” he says eventually.
