Chapter 11
I’m standing across the kitchen, watching as Evie finishes painting the last fingernail on Sam’s hand. Sam is smiling from ear to ear, and she keeps looking up at Evie with a studying look as if she’s memorizing every tiny thing Evie does so that she can perfectly replicate her actions later. Sam adores Evie, that much is apparent. And honestly, I understand the sentiment.
The woman is gorgeous. Funny. Strong. Kind-hearted. She lives with a difficult disability and thrives. And she has the most tempting full pink lips I’ve ever seen. Okay, I doubt that Sam has noticed that last part, but believe me, I have.
Did I mention that Evie is painting a rainbow pattern on Sam’s nails? That probably doesn’t seem like a big thing, but for my little girl who has resisted everything happy and cheerful since her diagnosis, it’s huge.
I was quiet during dinner, partly because I have no idea how to interact with Evie, but also because I was enjoying hearing my daughter talk. I didn’t realize how starved I was for the sound of her voice. It wasn’t heavy with sadness like it has been lately. She didn’t give short, clipped answers. She told Evie things that I had no idea about. (Jenna Miller already got her first kiss?! Where have
I been? And isn’t ten years old a little young for that?)
Evie should have been bored by a young girl’s monologue on preteen romance, but she wasn’t. She was enthralled, sitting on the edge of her seat, one leg propped under her (I’m realizing Evie will never sit normally in a chair) and those emerald eyes wide with interest. I was floored when she asked Sam if there were any boys she was interested in. Even more floored when Sam said yes.
Note to self: hunt down Tate Bradley and explain to him in perfect detail what will happen to him if his lips get anywhere near my little girl.
After dinner, Evie helped me clear the dishes. When she came to stand next to me at the sink, every muscle in my body tightened with awareness of her. She feels like a magnet. I’m being pulled to this woman, and I’m helpless to stop it.
I want to stop it. I need to stop it. She’s too young for me. Too wonderful. I bet she has drooling men trailing after her everywhere she goes. Her options are endless right now, and there’s no way she’d ever want to settle for a guy with as much baggage as I’m carrying. When it comes to Evie Jones, I am nothing but a blob of insecurity.
But at the same time, I see what a good impact she’s having on Sam. She has connected with my daughter in a way that even my sisters haven’t been able to since Natalie left. I can’t overlook that. Does this mean that I’m coming around to the idea of dating again?
“Dad, can Evie tuck me in tonight? I want to show her my room.”
I sigh and rub the back of my neck. What’s the protocol for this? Do I let Sam get attached? Do I protect her already broken heart? I don’t know what the right answer is here.
“It’s fine with me if Evie wants to. But I don’t want to hold her up if she doesn’t have time for it.” I give Evie a questioning look. I’m putting the ball in her court because I don’t know what else to do.
She smiles down at Sam. “Plenty of time. Show me that room, cutie.”
I hug and kiss Sam good-night and watch as the two disappear up the stairs, Charlie and Daisy following close behind.
While I’m rinsing the dishes and loading them in the dishwasher, I’m aware that I should feel nervous at the amount of time they are spending together upstairs. I don’t. It feels right. Like this friendship between them was always meant to be.
And as I’m loading the last bowl into the dishwasher, Evie’s white running shoes enter my sights. I know for a fact I’ve never been so excited to see a pair of shoes before now.
“You’ve got a great kid up there,” she says, and that answers the question that’s been flying around my brain for the last half hour.
I don’t want to push Evie away anymore. I’ve been trying and it’s not working. If she’s up for a friendship, so am I. But only friendship. I need to dip my toes in and see if the water’s warm before I’m ready to take a dive.
“I wish I could say I had something to do with it. But it’s all Sam. She came out that great all on her own.”
Evie smiles, and I want to let my eyes trace the outline of her mouth, but I don’t because, yeah . . . friends. “Somehow I doubt that’s completely true. I’ve seen how you are with her.” We stare at each other for a moment, then Evie shuffles her eyes around the room. “Well. Thanks again for dinner. Have you seen my phone? I need to call an Uber.”
She looks around the kitchen, and I wait until her back is turned to me to say, “It’s a nice evening. Do you want to go sit on the porch until your ride gets here?”
Evie’s body freezes. She looks uncomfortable. “Do you mean you want me to wait for my Uber outside and not in your house?”
“What? God no. I meant . . . do you want to sit on the porch with me? You know, talk together. With words.”
I’m ten years old, and she’s the cutest girl in class. I’m begging her to accept my Valentine heart, and she’s staring at it like it’s poison.
A grin finally cracks on her mouth, and she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Words? I wasn’t sure you knew how to use those. At least, not outside of insinuating I look like a man or accusing me of extortion.”
I smile and shrug. “Occasionally, I can find a few nice ones.”
“And are you going to use those nice ones if I sit on the porch with you?” I hate that she’s skeptical. I hate that she has a right to be. But I love the southern lilt to her voice.
I cross my heart. “The nicest.”
She brushes past me with narrowed eyes as if I’m some feral predator lying casually in the tall grass and she’s a doe, prancing by but cautious that I might pounce at any moment.
She doesn’t know just how much I want to, but not in the way she thinks.
When we make it out onto the porch, I gesture for her to sit down on the swing first. I could swear she blushes before she sits. And then a secret smile hovers on her mouth. I briefly glance at my pants, wondering if my fly is down or something.
Still zipped.
I take care to sit as far away from her on the swing as possible, but my body still hums with awareness of her. We start swinging, and the dogs settle down on the porch by the front door. It’s a deep swing, but I’m tall enough that my feet are fully planted on the ground. Evie’s toes are barely touching, and for some reason that makes me smile.
Seconds pass, or minutes, or hours, I’m not sure. All I know is that we are both quiet and sitting stiff as boards, and I’ve never felt more awkward. I steal a glance at her and find her stealing one too. I’m not alone in this awkwardness.
“Okay. What are we doing here, Jacob?” she finally asks.
“Call me Jake. Everyone else does.”
She laughs a little laugh that sounds borderline annoyed and pulls her legs up under her to face me. She’s wearing a long burgundy skirt today that’s kind of flowy and has a slit up to her knee. It’s paired with a fitted white tee, but about an hour ago she got cold and pulled a gray crewneck sweatshirt from her bag and put it on. Her hair is down and wavy like she’s been swimming in the ocean today and then let it dry in the sun. She looks casually beautiful, and yes, I realize I shouldn’t be noticing any of this, but I freaking am because I have no self-control.
“Alrighty then, Jake.” She says my name almost like she’s giving me a friendly shove to the chest. “Now I really want to know what we’re doing out here. What’s happening right now?”
I like that she’s direct. That’s not been my experience with relationships in the past. Especially not with Natalie, who one day woke up and seemed like she was a completely different person. I wonder, sometimes, if things would have been different if she’d just been honest with me about wanting more out of her life. I never even knew she had a dream of acting until she threw it in my face that she had lost that dream to raise Sam. It was so strange. Like she’d been sitting on it and feeling resentful for years but never voicing it.
If I’d known, would I have encouraged it? Or were Natalie and I always meant to break paths at some point?
“Well, Evie, this here”—I put on the same playful, sarcastic tone she’s using and gesture between us—“is called friendship. It’s a concept where two people—”
This time she really does shove me in the arm, and I break off with a chuckle. “I know what friendship is! I just want to know why you are suddenly feeling buddy-buddy with me, when it’s been clear up until this point that you don’t want me around.”
It’s time for me to be direct too. I purposely meet her gaze. “I’ve wanted you around.”
That statement cracks through the air like a bullet from a gun.
She wants to smile—I know it because there’s tension at the corners of her mouth—but she doesn’t. “You have a funny way of showing that.”
“Turns out, I’m . . . not good at having female friends since my divorce. Especially beautiful and single ones.”
She lifts a brow, barely restraining her grin. “You think I’m beautiful?”
I laugh and meet her sparkling eyes, glad to know she’s not making a run for it after what I just admitted. “Are you fishing for a compliment?” My tone is light—and probably too transparent that I’d be all too happy to shower her with them.
“Maybe. I’ve never gotten a compliment from you. I was just curious to see what one would be like.”
I think we both realize the openly flirtatious ground we just stepped into, because I drop my gaze and Evie scoots around in her seat. She shifts forward and then bunches her long hair up on her head and wraps a hair tie around it until it’s an oversized bun that somehow makes her look even cuter.
She clears her throat. “So, friend. Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.” She’s deflecting, but I can still tell that her face is flushed.
“I started my architecture firm five years ago.”
She scrunches her nose, shakes her head, then turns to fully face me on the swing. As she pulls both of her legs up under her, one of her legs brushes against mine. Her back is leaning against the armrest, and I couldn’t get away from her gaze even if I wanted to.
“I don’t want to talk work,” she says, her gaze soft. “Tell me something personal about you. Like . . . what color Skittle is your favorite?”
“I don’t like Skittles.”
Her mouth falls open. I’m a serial killer in her eyes now. “You don’t like Skittles?!” She shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”
I laugh. “Many things.”
“Wait. Do you not like all candy? Are you one of those guys who only eats lean proteins and greens? I mean, it would make sense based on the way you look, but . . .”
My smile is wide and cocky. “The way I look?”
“Now who’s looking for compliments?”
I laugh fully and realize I could sit here and talk to her all night. That thought scares me as much as it excites me. “I like brownies—extra fudgy and with chocolate chips, slightly under-baked.”
Her blond brow raises. “Really? Okay, I can respect that. I love chocolate.”
Are we really having this conversation? It’s so casual and sweet and unimportant and . . . exactly what I’ve been missing in my life lately.
“What’s your favorite color Skittle?” I ask.
She rests her head against the back of the swing and pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her fists. “Red. Do you have any siblings?”
“Four sisters.”
“Four! Goodness gracious,” she says, sounding as southern as apple pie. “Are you close with them?”
“Very. I couldn’t have gotten through this year without them.” I can feel the conversation drifting toward the therapist’s couch again, so I steer it away. “How about you?” Somehow, I can picture her fitting in with four sisters.
She shakes her head. “It’s just me and my parents. And before you ask me that question, no, we do not get along.”
“Really? Why not?”
She chuckles a little, but it doesn’t sound like the happy kind. “They want me to be someone I’m not. They have very clear expectations for me and who I should be. From the day I flung my toddler beauty pageant crown in my mom’s face, I’ve been letting them down.”
“I’m sorry. That’s gotta be hard.” I can’t imagine anyone ever being disappointed with this woman. I mean, she trains service dogs for a living. That’s pretty saintly.
Her smile is soft, and her green eyes pin me in my seat. We are locked in a stare as the porch swing continues to sway us back and forth, and I never want this game to end. Except, it does when Evie’s eyes fall to my lips. Did she look there intentionally? My stomach swoops, and I’m wondering how friendly it would be to tug her over to me and find out if her lips taste like strawberries. I’ve been dwelling on that important question since I saw her apply a pink lip balm earlier.
“Can I ask you something that’s a little out of line for the business friendship we have?” she asks, her voice breathy and nervous.
“Sure. I’m all ears.”
Her smile is tentative, and I wonder if she’s going to ask me out. Do I want her to? Truthfully, I think she can do so much better than me.
“Will you consider letting Sam go to the slumber party with her friends?”
And just like that, I’m a popped balloon—air rushing out of me as I fall and land deflated on the ground.
In the tiny span of time between her potential and actual question, my mind has taken a hundred different turns. None of which I can voice out loud because I’m too much of a gentleman—
or at least I pretend I am.
“The slumber party?” Now I’m just stalling, feeling like I need a minute to reel my thoughts back in.
“Yeah. Sam told me about the slumber party at her friend Jenna’s house. She really wants to go, and I think it would be good for her.” She bites the bottom corner of her lip, and I realize that she’s nervous. She’s afraid I’m going to revert back to my caveman ways and beat the ground, telling her to get out of my house.
I’ve got news for her: I’m not going to be that guy again. I’m done being the jerk around her, so I smile and purposefully relax into the swing. “She gave you her doe eyes, didn’t she?”
Evie’s face lights up. “The biggest eyes I’ve ever seen! I think she even managed to let a single tear pool in one of them. How does she do that?”
I laugh. “She’s an impressive human being. But honestly, Evie . . .
I don’t know about the party. I don’t think I’m ready for her to do something like that.”
“But Sam is.” Her words feel like a hammer to my chest. “She and Daisy are doing great together. Trust Daisy to do her job. She’s going to take care of Sam if she has a seizure, and she’ll alert Jenna’s parents, and they can call you.” I don’t respond right away, so Evie reaches out and lays her hand across my forearm that has been draped over the back of the swing. “You can’t keep her in your pocket forever, Jake. Just because your daughter has epilepsy, it doesn’t mean that she has to be treated like a toddler for the rest of her life. She’s going to need to grow up and learn to live with her disability. Trust me.”
I do trust her. Or at least . . . I’m starting to.
I puff out a breath, trying for once not to overthink anything. “All right. I’ll let her go.”
There’s relief in her eyes as she squeezes my arm. I swear I’m going to lean across the swing and kiss her. I have to. Every inch of me is aching for it.
Honk. Honk.
Evie and I both jump, and she pulls away, springing to her feet and grabbing the dogs’ leashes like we were just caught after curfew doing something we shouldn’t. I wonder if she could read my thoughts a moment ago, because she seems suddenly reluctant to meet my eyes. Would she hate a kiss from me?
Get it together, Jake. You can’t kiss her! You’re not ready for this, remember?
“I think you’re making the right decision about the party,” Evie says as she’s running down the porch stairs in a full gallop. “I’ll see ya tomorrow!”
I’m watching her leave my house, and I hate it. I want her to stay—and that realization freaks me out. But just before she gets in the Uber a thought hits me, and I call out to her. “Evie, wait.”
Charlie and Daisy jump in the back seat, and Evie pauses to look at me before getting in. “That’s what Sam was trying to get you to ask me earlier, wasn’t it? When she pushed you into the kitchen? She wanted you to ask me about the slumber party, but you knew I’d say no, so you covered by inviting yourself for dinner.” I state this like I’m at a murder-mystery dinner and I’ve just solved the case.
A smile grows on her lips, confirming that she threw herself under the bus to protect my daughter’s chances of happiness. “Night, Jake.”
“Good night, Evie.”
Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.