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He walks over close to me and appraises the juice pouches. Then he shrugs and reaches for one.
“Wait,” I say. I reach into the fridge and get him a cold one instead. He grins at me.
“You always did know the way to my heart, Katie,” he says. He pops the straw through the pouch and sucks it hard.
I snicker. “The last time I tried to find your heart, Jake, I found your dick instead.”
He chortles. “Dick…heart… It’s about the same thing when you’re a sixteen-year-old boy.” His eyes narrow. “You doing all right, Katie?” he asks, his voice soft.
I nod and avoid his eyes, which are skimming all over my face. I turn away and pretend to adjust the juice pouches in the refrigerator. “I’m fine. Happy to be here.”
“What brings you back to the lake?”
“Some much needed rest and relaxation.” I grab a stack of paper plates and get a handful of knives and forks out of the silverware drawer. “Grab those paper towels, will you?”
I turn to walk toward the front door, but Jake grabs my elbow. “Katie,” he says quietly.
I blow out a frustrated breath. “What?” He tugs a little harder on my arm until I stop completely and meet his eyes.
“Pop thinks there’s something wrong with you.” His eyes skitter around my face, and I wish my arms weren’t so full so I could pull the brim of my cap down a little. “Tell me there’s nothing wrong with you, Katie,” he says, his words as soft as a whisper.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I reply, but even I can hear the warble in my voice.
“Would you tell me if there was?”
“Why would I, Jake?” I toss back. “I haven’t seen you in eighteen years.”
He stares at me. “Because I’m here and I’m asking, Katie.”
“There’s nothing wrong, Jake.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.”
He reaches out a tentative hand and lifts the corner of my ball cap. “Where’d you get that shiner?”
I laugh, trying for a whimsical sound. But it sounds more like I’m choking on my own regret. I pull the cap off and toss it onto the table. “Oh, that,” I say. “I ran into a cabinet door.” I set the plates down on the counter and fluff my hair with my fingertips. “It hurt like a mother–”
Jake reaches out and drags his thumb across the fading bruise. “Don’t lie to me, Katie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Did your husband hit you?” he asks. “Tell me the truth, Katie, and I’ll never ask again. I just want to be sure you’re all right.”
“My husband would never hurt me,” I growl. He would never, ever lay a hand on me. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Jake.”
“You hit your face on a door. That’s all it was?”
“Yes. I hit my face on a door.” Technically, I’m telling the truth. Maybe that’s why it’s easy to lie to him. “It was stupid.”
Mr. Jacobson bellows through the door. “Jake! Better take the steaks up!”
“I had better get the steaks,” Jake says.
“You should.”
“Katie…”
