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“There’s this recipe I want to try. Beef Stroganoff. My mom cooks it, but it’s time-consuming. You’ll be my guinea pig, trying all the new dishes.”
Jace smiles, staring down at his plate. “Thank you for cooking.”
“My pleasure. It’s nice to have someone to cook for. B is not a big stay-at-home person. Neither is Tito. They’d rather go to restaurants.”
I keep talking, only after some time noticing that Jace sits motionless, his eyes on the plate.
I go quiet.
Did I say something to upset him?
The distant sounds of the traffic from the street reach even up here. A police siren somewhere far, screeching brakes, and honking. The breeze is nice, and it feels like we’re sitting on top of the world.
The sun is setting, the orange and pink glares dancing along the steel railing and the windows of the nearby buildings. The dark blue-gray of the eastern sky is pushing the pinks to the west.
I should paint New York like this—the concrete jungle drowning in liquid orange.
“I’ve been in this city for over a year and never had a rooftop dinner,” I say quietly, gazing at Manhattan in the distance. “Until now. Until you, Jace. I never loved this city so much either.”
Until you.
Jace lifts his eyes to Manhattan Bridge. “You know, besides Roey and my army buddies, no one has ever cooked dinner for me,” he says quietly with so much sadness in his voice that my heart clenches with tenderness.
I study his hair, his face, and the sharp edge of his jaw that seems to soften when he smiles. I’ve painted it so many times, I know his face by heart.
Feelings surge through me.
Jace takes my breath away, especially in moments like this. Not when he’s happy or dangerous or dancing, but when he’s quiet like this, when his strength lingers on the surface. The strength of someone who grew up on his own, who knows the value of things, appreciates others’ kindness, learned to carry on in life without complaints no matter what happens because there never was anyone to complain to.
“You know, I learned what it’s like to have friends from movies,” he says quietly.
He tells me about the group home he lived in and why he enlisted in the army as soon as he turned eighteen. And I let him talk about his past, because he rarely does and because I want to know everything about him.
“The army was a better option than anything I knew,” he explains. “I didn’t have a family, a place to go, or a particular career in mind. I needed a direction.”
“Why a group home? Were you a bad kid?”
“Not at all. Just shitty luck, I guess.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly the A-team either. And I wanted to be. And not a bully but the guy who saves the world, you know.”
He smiles, but it’s not a happy smile, and he doesn’t look at me but stares at his plate again.
This is the first time I see him so vulnerable.
I don’t know what to say to make him feel better, so I say the silliest thing that comes to mind.
“I’d cook every day if you saved me from Becky and Tito and the outings they drag me to.” An awkward chuckle escapes me. “I’ll cook tomorrow if you are home,” I add softly.
“It’s… Thank you.” A smile flickers on Jace’s lips, but he wipes it off with his thumb—a gesture that I learned means he’s shy or uneasy.
Truth is, I never had anyone to share quiet evenings like this. This is New York City. Everyone feels obliged to keep up with the trendy events and go to the busiest places. Missing out is the biggest fear. Staying at home on weekends is a crime. But for the first time, I feel like being a criminal and breaking the city rules.
I steal a glance at Jace.
Something’s wrong.
“Hey, do you want more potatoes? Salad? I can—”
“One second.” Jace rises from his chair so abruptly that I stall in surprise as I watch him walk inside.
