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Twenty-One
Saturday afternoon came and he showed up at the house, apron in hand. No, really. The black canvas apron read “Pasta la Vista, baby” in bold stencil print.
Gia bought it for him last Christmas. Got a big kick out of herself for being so clever. But amidst the joking and ribbing, she also went on and on about how he’d made the best homemade pasta she’d ever eaten. And that even the best local Italian place in River Grove, Garlíc, couldn’t best his skills. It’d made him proud, truth be told.
He’d gone home that night and made pasta by hand, no pasta maker to be seen since he’d left that piece of equipment with Gia. He’d made enough to feed an army but hadn’t taken her any of the leftovers. It seemed too personal. Too much of a throwback to the last time he’d made her pasta—on their wedding anniversary. And after they’d nearly slept together at Addison and Brannon’s wedding, he hadn’t wanted to risk sending the wrong message.
He found said pasta maker now, an item his ex-wife had insisted having on the gift registry, exactly where they’d put it after they moved in. Bottom cabinet on the island and all the way in the back. As he wrestled it from behind baking dishes and a large stand mixer, he wondered if she’d forgotten about it or if she kept it on purpose. If she’d been planning on learning to make pasta herself—unlikely—or if she couldn’t part with the piece of machinery because it reminded her of him.
That seemed even more unlikely.
He’d ask her why she kept it, but she wasn’t home. She’d told him to let himself in, that she had errands to run.
The last time she’d left him on his own, she’d gone on a date with a billionaire yacht owner. It still chapped Jayson’s ass, even though he supposed it shouldn’t. She was as single as he was and allowed to date whomever she chose. Lately that’d been a bitter pill to swallow.
She didn’t disclose where she was going or who she was going with so those feelings of jealousy threatened to rise. He ignored them as he piled flour and dug a well, hand mixed in eggs and slowly folded that into a dough.
He was beginning to see that letting go was an art. One he hadn’t mastered yet, but he hadn’t been trying until now. Not really.
Over the last eighteen months he’d seen and talked to Gia almost every day. She was part of the fabric of his existence. That he no longer climbed into bed with her was a disappointment he’d managed because he had to. Then the morning after Royce’s and Taylor’s wedding, he’d realized something important.
Gia wanted him, too.
In the heat of the moment, they’d been caught up, time traveling back to their very first encounter, in the same damn bathroom. Which wasn’t that surprising given how lackluster their wedding dates had been. But expecting to be able to continue forward without repercussions or emotions was a fool’s dream.
When he’d brought the champagne over, he’d learned just how much of that baggage existed for both of them. The memories, the arguments. Sex—even really great sex twice—wasn’t going to be the magic wand that erased their past.
He’d admitted his faults to her, but that was also too little too late. If he’d been a man who’d recognized in the moment what she needed, maybe they’d still be together.
He punched the dough, more frustrated with himself for being a dumbass than anything and decided that while he couldn’t change the past, he could change the future.
Jayson and Gia weren’t going to live happily-ever-after, but they could find joy together right now. Even briefly.
“Hey, Siri,” he called to his phone. She answered, in an Australian accent, because why not, and he requested what he’d nicknamed his “Badass” playlist. His favorite song, and Gia’s for that matter, was the theme song for Rocky.
The drumbeats started playing, those initial first few beats reminding him who he was and what he was capable of. He was going to move forward from here, as he was in this moment. He knew how to treat Gia and what she liked, and regardless of the future—whether they had one or not—they had this moment.
And this moment was what mattered.
After a shopping excursion that had yielded zero shopping bags, Gia walked into her foyer and into a wall of music. Jayson’s singing voice was on point. She’d always admired his ability to carry a tune, her own talent having ended up somewhere between Brannon and Royce. Bran was an abysmal singer and Royce wasn’t half-bad. She guessed that made her about a quarter good.
Jay must not have heard her walk in. Lingering at the mouth of the living room/kitchen area she watched as he shook his ass at the stove. A black apron was tied at his waist—the one she’d bought for him last Christmas, she’d bet.
A drum solo lifted on the air and he raised the wooden spoon in his hand and pounded the invisible drum set. Upon spinning around, presumably for a final cymbal crash, he spotted her.
“Hey.” He dropped his arms, wooden spoon still in hand, steaming pot behind him on the stove. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You don’t say.” She allowed herself a laugh, because how charmingly taken aback was he, and stepped into the kitchen. Her senses went wild. “Oh my God, it smells incredible in here.”
Looked pretty incredible too: her hunky ex-husband, forearms bared, scruff decorating his jaw, wearing that silly apron.
“Homemade sauce.” He gestured to a pot on the back of the stove, lid on, and then to the pot he’d been stirring. “Pasta’s almost done. Made-from-scratch garlic bread is in the oven.”
“You went all out.” She was touched. The last time he’d done that they were celebrating an anniversary. Their last, as it turned out.
“I lost fair and square. You didn’t expect a jar of Prego sauce and a box of frozen garlic rolls, did you?”
“No. I didn’t.” His attention to detail was one of the main reasons she’d fallen in love with him. He didn’t miss a thing. And he’d wanted to give her everything. When they were married, his attention felt smothering. Once he’d moved out, she thought she’d feel free. Instead she found herself struggling to befriend the man she’d vowed to love until the end of time.
