Chapter Sixteen
Jesse
Jesse was about to finish cleaning up in the kitchen, purposefully leaving behind a single bowl of bean stew for Giuseppe to eat once he came home, when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
His heart stuttered as he turned toward the sound.
Every night for the last week, Jesse had been leaving the ground-level door to his home unlocked while he cooked with the hope that Arthur might come by to try to talk to him.
Even though he still had no clue if he could ever manage to move past his lingering resentment and shame enough to even have a civil conversation with the man, he still found himself hoping that Arthur might try, regardless.
How nonsensical it was.
Letting out a breath, Jesse rotated his shoulders a few times to try to relax away the sudden tension that had settled there while also trying to ignore the creaks on the staircase.
It was probably only Giuseppe coming back from the mill.
Forty minutes or so earlier than he had been for the last week, but Jesse’s roommate’s schedule could be fairly erratic, so there was no real reason for him to think that it was Arthur.
Please let it be Arthur.
Giuseppe burst into their living space with a grin.
“Do I smell stew?” he asked, taking off his coat.
Jesse forced a half-hearted smile in return. “Bean and carrot,” he confirmed.
“Perfect. I’m starving.” Giuseppe raked the bottoms of his feet over the mat before strolling into the kitchen area. He fished something out of his back pocket and thrust it into Jesse’s hands. “Here.”
Jesse arched an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Arthur’s inviting you to a party.”
Jesse blinked a couple of times, stunned.
Giuseppe had blurted out this life-changing statement with complete casualness, as though such a thing wouldn’t land in Jesse’s ears like a spark onto a heap of blast powder.
The subsequent explosion caused Jesse’s thoughts to fragment into what felt like one hundred tinier thoughts, each whizzing through his consciousness so fast that he could barely even register them properly.
Arthur was inviting him to a party? Where? When? Why?
Also, Arthur had spoken to Giuseppe? And Giuseppe hadn’t immediately punched Arthur in the nose? Or maybe Giuseppe had struck him. Maybe Giuseppe had broken Arthur’s nose but had still taken the envelope from him in the end.
While Jesse was busy trying to contend with the flurry of questions inside the confines of his head, Giuseppe looked up from his soup and snorted a teasing laugh.
“I think you’re supposed to open it.”
Jesse’s eyes fell to the folded-up paper. On the front was his name—Mr. Jesse O’Connor—written in barely legible script that had to have been Arthur’s, though the man surely couldn’t have scrawled that chicken scratch on the rest of the invitations. It would have invited ridicule.
Ridicule.
Instantaneously, the memory of that stupid, terrible evening came back and forcefully pushed every other thought out of Jesse’s head. Shame crept up the back of his neck, turning his ears and face hot.
What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t have been hoping for reconciliation.
Arthur had insulted him. Arthur had been more concerned about what Mr. Russell had thought of him rather than how Jesse might have felt from being called a “random man” and subsequently being told that he was neither poised enough nor polished enough to even come inside to warm up by the fire.
Why should it have mattered that Arthur was inviting him to a party?
It wasn’t as though Jesse should—or even could—go.
Jesse could only imagine the way that such an event would inevitably unfold.
He would arrive at the party in his best suit and still, he’d stick out like a sore thumb.
And that would be the thing—the very thing—to make Arthur realize that Jesse was too far beneath him for them to continue seeing each other.
Either that or Jesse would feel so Goddamned humiliated comparing himself to the other guests that he’d bolt for the door, thereby obliterating his chances of ever being with Arthur himself.
Scowling, Jesse walked over to the trash. He tossed the invitation into the bin without even opening it. Giuseppe sprang up from the table.
“You have to at least read it,” Giuseppe argued, taking it back out.
“Why?”
“Because the man waited for me for God-knows-how-long in the blistering cold this morning so that he could ask me to get it to you.”
Jesse shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, that was his choice, wasn’t it? Why should I care if he had to be chilly for a little while? Actually, I’m sure he was plenty warm in that expensive overcoat of his.”
“Come on, Jess,” Giuseppe implored. He held out the invitation. “Just open it. I promised him that I’d make sure you’d read it. Don’t turn me into a liar. I thought we were friends.”
Jesse snatched the invitation back and tore it open. He nearly burst out laughing when he saw the intermittently faded text. It looked as though Arthur had been the one to print it.
Jesse’s stomach tumbled. Holy hell, Arthur had printed it, hadn’t he?
“Did Arthur, uhm, say anything unusual when he handed it to you?” he asked.
“Not really. Only that he’s smitten with you.
Not that it’s unusual that he likes you—you’re lovely enough, I suppose, not that I’ve ever been interested in climbing into your bed myself—but I thought it was bold of him to talk like that in the middle of the steel mill.
Lucky for him, it was loud in there, and none of the fellows I work with would ever bother someone who looked like him, even if they had heard him, what with his fancy clothes and everything. ”
“Right.” Jesse’s throat tightened. He’s smitten with you. He swallowed thickly. “Did he mention whether or not he printed this himself?”
Giuseppe shrugged. “No. Why? Did he print it wrong?”
“Not wrong. Just . . . it’s messy.”
“I’m not surprised that someone like him couldn’t figure out how to work a printing press properly,” Giuseppe replied with a snicker. “Guess I am surprised, though, that he’d bother to print the invitations himself, rather than pay someone else for the pleasure.”
Jesse chewed on his bottom lip. He wasn’t so surprised. Arthur really had enjoyed working the Jobber. Jesse tried to keep his burgeoning smile contained as he began to picture Arthur flinging the finished invitations onto the floor of the print shop. He read on.
Mr. Arthur Hughes requests the company of Mr. Jesse O’Connor at a party on March 18th at eight o’clock in the evening.
This event is intended to celebrate the upcoming World’s Fair and acknowledge the tireless efforts of those involved in its planning.
Dancing and cards. Come in your finest morning clothes.
Jesse crooked an eyebrow. Finest morning clothes? That had to have been a mistake. Or . . .
Jesse’s stomach fluttered. Or was Arthur sending him a message?
Come in your finest morning clothes.
Jesse thought back on the night when Arthur had sent him home. He recalled the comments that Arthur had made about his clothing. And he realized, then, exactly what this invitation—this party—really was.
It was Arthur’s way of apologizing.
Come in your finest morning clothes.
Christ, that might have been the sweetest sentence to have ever been printed on paper. Especially this poorly.
“Do you think I should go?” he asked.
“Yeah, maybe,” Giuseppe said with a shrug.
Jesse hummed. “I thought you’d be more against the idea.”
“Well, I would have been, before he talked to me, but”—he set his spoon back in the bowl—“I felt a little sorry for him earlier. And I know that you’re still heartbroken over the whole thing.
Doesn’t make sense to me, with how short of a time that you two knew each other, but maybe sometimes .
. . maybe sometimes when you meet someone, you somehow know that they’re the person for you.
Just like how I know that I’ll never meet anyone who I find interesting enough to pursue.
So, well, maybe it does make sense, then. It’s nonsensical in its sense-making.”
Jesse laughed and shook his head. “What?”
“Ah, forget it. I’m tired.” He waved one of his hands like he was shooing away a fly. “Go to the party. Reconcile with your beau. Leave me out of your future feuds.”
Warmth rushed to Jesse’s cheeks. He chuckled some more before rereading the invitation.
Mr. Arthur Hughes requests the company of Mr. Jesse O’Connor—
The warmth from Jesse’s cheeks slowly spread, causing his whole body to flush. Again and again, Jesse reread the invitation, savoring every word, every uneven impression of ink. Uncertainty sat heavy in his stomach, even as his heart thrummed with hopeful, foolish excitement.
Mr. Arthur Hughes requests the company of Mr. Jesse O’Connor—
Jesus Christ, Jesse was going to let the man break his heart completely.
***
On the eighteenth of March at eight forty in the evening, Jesse was standing on the sidewalk in front of Arthur Hughes’s home, his stomach in knots.
By virtue of showing up, he was taking Arthur back, wasn’t he?
His presence would signal forgiveness. And he did want Arthur back.
Mostly. But he was so Goddamned tired of being made to feel like he wasn’t enough.
Still, he’d been miserable for the last few weeks without Arthur.
So now, Jesse had a choice to make. He could turn back and break his own heart a little more by rejecting Arthur’s plea for reconciliation, or he could head inside to the party and thereby risk that Arthur would continue to make him feel terrible about himself, either intentionally or unintentionally, possibly, probably, leading to heartbreak then, too.
Oh, hell.
Jesse stepped onto the walkway.