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“Sure. Don’t you worry about it. Poor lady, she’s been getting worse and worse. Her son comes by almost every day, and he’s devastated.”
“Really? Sebastian?”
I can’t picture him caring, though this is his mother we’re talking about, so…
But the girl shakes her head, and her cheeks turn red. “Sebastian? No, his name’s Jarett.”
I stare back at her and two things occur to me:
One, she has a crush on Jarett, and I want to headbutt her for it.
And two, Jarett has been visiting his mom, when her own flesh and blood hasn’t. Why doesn’t that surprise me?
Then it hits me why. Not just because Sebastian is a prick—but also because Jarett isn’t. He’s kind and protective. I knew that back when we were friends.
Looks like that side of him is still there.
“Do you know when he’ll come by next?” I place the cake on the desk, in its box and plastic bag, and do my best to sound nonchalant and only vaguely interested in the answer.
“Oh, he used to come in the morning or noon, but now he got a different job, and he comes in the late afternoon. In fact, you just missed him. He left a minute ago.”
He did?
“Thanks.” Forgetting all about the cake and appearances, I hurry back out into the rain. I have a feeling it’s important to see him now, right now.
A rational voice in my head says he must be far away by now, by cab or Uber or the bus, or even on foot. How will I catch up with him?
Dashing through the rain, my purse held over my head, I scan the street right and left, barely able to see in the downpour. My excitement starts to fade when I realize the rational little voice was right. No way can I find him. I was a little too late—and I don’t even know what I’d tell him, just…
There’s a guy standing in the rain on the sidewalk. Despite the rain that’s blurring my vision, something about him feels familiar.
Blinking cold water from my eyes, I start toward him.
“Jarett,” I whisper, and as I take a closer look at him, my heart starts to pound. “Jarett.”
He’s soaking wet, standing there like he doesn’t know where he is, water sluicing down his dark hair and over his face and clothes. I grab his hand, and it’s ice-cold.
His gaze slowly swings around to me. He blinks, long lashes wet. He blinks again, as if trying to wake up. “Gigi?”
“What are you doing out here?” I tug on his hand. “Are you okay?”
He just keeps staring at me, and yeah that was a dumb question. He’s obviously not okay.
“Come with me,” I tell him. “We’re going home.”
“Wait, Gigi.”
“My home,” I clarify. “To dry you, warm you up and eat cake my mom baked. Best thing for the soul, I swear.”
His mouth twists, and trembles, and suddenly all I want is to hug him. The receptionist’s words come back to me—about his mom getting worse, about him being devastated.
My heart aches for him.
“Why?” he whispers. “Why are you doing this?”
Because the good things you do deserve a reward, even a small one like this. Everything you do has a consequence, good or bad, and you visiting your mom, caring for her, deserves cake.
But I don’t say that, not even sure it makes sense.
