Page 31 of Speak from the Heart

Reaching for the wine next, he distracts himself by peeling back the wrap on the neck and popping the cork.

“Glasses?” I question, noting his bag of treats looks empty.

“We’ll just share. You first.” He hands me the bottle, and I do something I haven’t done since I was underage. I drink straight from the bottle, taking a long pull as I stare at him over the neck. Holding his gaze. Swallowing deep. This is how I’d take him. My mouth around his tip. My tongue swirling. My chest heaving.

He holds out a hand for the bottle, and once I hand it to him, he runs his tongue around the circular opening, watching me before his mouth closes over the lip. When he tips it back, I know this is how he’d savor me. He’d guzzle and gulp, lapping up every drop.

My fingers twitch to fan my face. I’m suddenly too warm.

“Uh. Too sweet for me,” he says, breaking up my naughty thoughts when he finishes his swig, and I chuckle.

“Prefer it a little rougher, do you?” Has my voice dropped? Why am I speaking like this? What am I asking him?

His eyes dance and I learn a playful Jess is a dangerous Jess. He wiggles his brows, something I’ve never seen him do, and I laugh harder. “Are you drunk?”

“Not enough,” he mutters, and I wonder what he means.

“Rough day?”

“Rough year,” he quickly states and then clarifies with an emphasis on the last letter. “Years.”

My bent elbow rests on the cushion, and I place my temple against my fist so I don’t reach for him to comfort his weary spirit.

“What happened?” I question, keeping my voice low.

“Everything.” He sighs. He’s fallen back so his head rests on the cushions, holding the wine in his lap. The cake plate rests between us on the couch. He stares up at the ceiling when he speaks. “My dad. Debbie. Katie.”

“Your dad died,” I say although I don’t know why I’m clarifying something he’s already told me.

“Hit and run by a drunk driver as he was walking home from the Tavern.”

“Oh my God, Jess, I’m so sorry.” My arm drops from the cushion, and I do reach out for him. My thumb strokes over the heat of his forearm. He’s wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops and has his hair back in his signature ponytail but no bandana. The way I’m brushing my thumb against his arm feels like a continuous prickling of my finger. Like I can’t seem to withdraw myself from the shock, so it happens over and over again.

Jess sits forward, breaking the touch. He pulls the wine bottle to his lips and takes another long pull despite his claims he doesn’t appreciate the flavor. I process what he’s just said, and suddenly, it makes sense why he didn’t want me to walk home alone a week ago.

“When did it happen?”

“Just shy of two years ago. My mother was in shock, as we all were. I’d been struggling to keep it together with Katie. The shop was passed to Tom and me, and I decided to come home.” He exhales and hands the bottle to me, but drinking this way seems celebratory, and there’s nothing to celebrate in what he’s just told me. “I never thought I’d be back. Not like this, anyway.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone as his elbows rest on his thighs. His head hangs forward.

“Got a dream, Emily?” he questions me, and I’m taken aback at the quick shift in this conversation.

“I always wanted to be a journalist, and I am. But I wanted to write stories of interest, not just report the facts. It was fine when I started. I needed to get my feet wet, but over time . . .” I shrug. “It just doesn’t hold the same appeal as it once did.”

He nods in understanding. “I always knew I wanted to be an engineer. Be more than my dad working at a repair shop. I was on my way, but I’d been hit one too many times between Debbie, Katie, and then my father’s death.” He half smiles, not wanting my sympathy, and I don’t pity him. I understand. “I love this town. I love my family even more. It just seemed like the right decision to return.”

I don’t know why he’s sharing these things with me or explaining his history, but I appreciate learning his past.

“It’s been hard for me. I love this house and Nana, but I need to make decisions for her, about her, and I don’t like feeling helpless.”

“Because you’re so efficient,” he teases, looking at me over his shoulder, elbows still resting on his knees. He looks lost, and I feel like I understand him on some deeper level. Like there is a bone-deep frustration because he wanted certain things in life, and they just didn’t pan out. His marriage. His career. My frustration is due to the string of endless relationships, and because I’ve constantly been passed over for someone else—both in those relationships and in my work.

When will I be enough?

“You won’t stay,” he mutters, his voice low.

“Why would you say that?” I’m sitting across from him with the same question. Should I stay longer? I can’t just leave Nana. There’s so much still to be done, but on top of that, I don’t feel a rush to go home, to my home.