Chapter 6
Jonny
“Thank you for coming tonight,” I say to Sarah as we head down the street. The sound of Christmas carols and the crowd fades, replaced by the rumble of an occasional car passing. “Made it a lot easier.”
She seems surprised. “Easier?”
I shrug. “My family…they should come with a warning label: high-decibel levels, unwanted opinions, and frequent chaos.”
“Yeah, they’re a lot,” Sarah says, smiling. “But not in a bad way.”
I glance over at her. So damn pretty. Tonight, she’s wearing a navy wool coat over an ivory sweater, her dark hair pulled half-up with a sparkly clip, and tiny earrings that catch the light when she moves. There’s something so…put-together about her. Sophisticated but relaxed. Effortless.
“You held your own like a champ tonight,” I say, then bump her shoulder lightly with mine. “Now c’mon, tell me about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Everything? That could take a while.”
“I’ve got time.” I slow my walking speed dramatically. “We’ll start with the basics: where you’re from, what you do for fun, then we can move into your deepest, darkest secrets…”
She laughs, warm and easy, and it makes me smile. Then she tells me she’s always lived within two hundred miles of Chicago. She left to go to college in Indiana but moved back home after graduation and started working for Conor.
“I love Chicago,” I tell her. It’s where I met Conor, though for some reason I don’t feel like sharing that. Maybe because it’s clear he’s a dick boss, and I don’t want her to think I’m like him. “I lived there for a couple of years.”
“You did?” Her eyebrows lift.
“Ah, the look of utter shock that I’m not just a small-town hick.”
She flushes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I’m teasing you.” I flash her a grin. “Chicago’s a great city. Amazing food, friendly people, beautiful lake. Terrifying winters, though. Almost lost a toe to frostbite.”
I shudder, and there’s that laugh again. It’s nice to see her loosening up a bit. Getting comfortable with me.
We turn onto Main Street as we chat about Chicago.
Turns out we’ve got a few favorite spots in common including Saturday mornings at Green City Market and live music at Joe’s on Weed.
I manage to steer clear of why I lived there, though, and not just because of Conor.
My older brother’s voice is in my head: We get it, Jonny, you went to fancy business school.
No need to work it into every conversation.
And while I doubt Sarah would respond like that, it still makes me think twice about bringing it up.
“So…that lady at my shop earlier said something about you being back,” she says, glancing over. “You haven’t been living here recently?”
“Ah, Mrs. Barnes.” I rub the back of my neck, heat creeping in at the reminder. “Yeah, I’ve lived in a bunch of places. Most recently, L.A.”
Before that, Seattle, Denver, New York, Atlanta, Boston, even some time in London and Amsterdam.
Other than Chicago for business school, I haven’t stayed anywhere longer than a year since college.
It’s been eight years since I graduated from the University of Texas at Austin, and I’ve barely spent more than a couple of days at a time in Texas since then.
“What brought you back here?” she asks.
I could tell her the truth—that I sold a start-up and I’m sitting on more money than I know what to do with. I know I should feel accomplished. Instead, I feel like a boat that’s slipped its anchor. Totally adrift.
But that’s not the kind of thing you share when you’re just starting to peel back the surface of someone.
“My family needed me, and I’m between jobs right now anyway,” I say, keeping my tone breezy. No need to mention how it gnaws at me, the question of what to do next. How unsettled I’ve felt.
She tilts her head, studying me. There’s curiosity in those big brown eyes of hers; I can tell she doesn’t quite buy my brush-off.
“Are you planning to stay here long-term?” she asks.
“Nah.” I flash a grin, determined to steer us back to safer ground. “I’m a rolling stone, baby. Can’t pin me down.”
Her laugh bursts out, bright and unguarded, and my chest loosens. This is better—Sarah smiling, leaning in, sparks catching between us instead of illuminating the stuff I’m not quite ready to face.
I guide the conversation around to her again—her job, her goals, where she falls on the deep-dish pizza debate (she’s Team Pequods, which I can respect).
She talks with her hands, and it’s cute, the way her gestures get bigger the more passionate she is about the topic.
And it’s clear that she’s passionate about her group of friends.
She tells me about the girls she met in college and all the things they do together—brunch on Sundays, wine on Wednesdays—but she doesn’t mention any family.
“And you’ll be staying here until Christmas?” I ask.
She nods, but her expression tightens, like I brushed against a bruise.
“Are you okay with being away from your family for the holidays?” I say, more carefully.
Another pause.
“My parents split up when I was sixteen,” she says slowly. “Holidays aren’t really a big family thing anymore. Not everyone has a whole mess of siblings and nieces and nephews like you, Jonny.”
The teasing lilt in her voice doesn’t quite cover the sadness beneath it. I want to ask more, but before I can, a pickup slows as it nears us.
“Be careful, girl!” a voice calls. “Jonny McKay’s gonna hit it and quit it, like always.”
It’s Dusty Hermanson, one year below me in school, arm dangling out the open window.
“Move along, Dusty,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
Instead, he pulls the truck to a stop, eyes a little glassy as he leers in Sarah’s direction. “You really want to be another notch in his belt, sweetheart?”
She tenses, and I shift so she’s behind me. “Dusty,” I say, voice sharpening. “Get on home. Now.”
His gaze shifts back to me. “Can’t blame you, man. Girl’s got a hell of an ass—”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” My voice drops, and my fist clenches. “Bet you’ve got some open containers in there. Should I call the sheriff and let him know?”
That wipes the stupid grin off his face. Dusty mutters something under his breath and peels out, tires spitting gravel.
I roll my shoulders, adrenaline still buzzing through me. Turning back to Sarah, I see her watching me with wide eyes. “I’m sorry about that,” I say, gentling my voice. “He’s an idiot, still bitter that his high school girlfriend asked me to Sadie Hawkins.”
And made out with me in front of him.
Her lips press together like she’s trying not to show how shaken she is. I want to reach out, tuck her closer, prove she’s safe with me. But after what Dusty just said, I don’t want to overstep.
Then her hand finds mine. Soft, deliberate.
Our fingers lace, and warmth creeps up my arm.
My muscles loosen, and I catch a whiff of her scent, vanilla and something floral.
We start walking again, slower now, like we’re both trying to drag out this moment.
Overhead, the moon peeks out from behind a cloud, and across the street, the diner door swings open, letting out a wave of laughter and Christmas music.
For the first time since coming back to Azalea, I’m almost at peace.
Something about this girl makes me feel relaxed and excited at the same time. It’s been a while since I’ve dated, too busy to put much time or effort into it. Maybe I’m just lonely, stuck in my tiny hometown, and it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t from here?
Especially a very pretty someone who smells good and laughs at my dumb jokes.
“What’s your story, Jonny McKay?” she asks after a bit.
“My story?”
“I’ve now heard three people reference your bad reputation.” She says it lightly, but I can hear the genuine concern beneath.
I hesitate, considering how much to get into.
There’s the shoplifting, the cheating in school, the underage drinking.
I made my mom cry more times than I can count, got myself declared a public disgrace by my then-mayor dad.
And of course, all those times I got caught in “compromising positions” with girls who were definitely not innocent bystanders—but somehow it became my fault.
Such a cliché. The rebellious kid from the upstanding family.
“It’s all deserved,” I say finally. “I was a pretty rotten teenager.”
Her eyebrows raise. “But that’s got to be, what, more than a decade ago?”
I nod, mouth twisting. “Small towns have long memories. Once you get a reputation, it’s hard to shake. Part of why I don’t spend a ton of time here.” Before she can ask more, I say, “I’d like to hear about you as a teenager. Let me guess: good kid, straight A’s, maybe student government?”
She blushes. “Yeah, actually. Student council president.”
“Knew it,” I say, grinning with satisfaction. “Tell me, Madam President, what was your big platform?”
Soon, we’re laughing again as she describes her grand plans to revolutionize the school’s cafeteria offerings, and how it all went wrong when the school board switched to a vegan vendor who put beans in everything, leaving everyone so gassy that the teachers signed a petition, forcing the board to switch back.
Before we know it, we’re standing in the driveway of the Petersons’ place.
She’s renting out their mother-in-law suite, a free-standing cottage back behind their house.
Hopefully Mrs. Peterson hasn’t mentioned anything to Sarah about the time during senior year when I brought her daughter Katie home two hours after curfew smelling like Jack Daniel’s with a couple of new hickeys on her neck.
“This is me,” Sarah says, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps.
We’re still holding hands, and neither of us seems in a hurry to let go. I tug her a little closer, and her gaze lifts to meet mine. My pulse kicks up.
“I had a really nice time with you tonight,” I say softly.
“Me, too.”
“Want to do it again?” I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe without my circus of a family hanging around?”
She nods, smiling. “I’d like that.”
The porch light spills across her face, highlighting the soft curve of her lips, the shadow of her lashes. Her eyes drift to my mouth, her lips parting slightly in an invitation that’s impossible to ignore. I lean down—
A car rattles past, someone whistling out the window.
I pull back with a sigh. “Well, that’s one way to kill the mood.”
She gives a nervous laugh and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Um…do you want to come in for a bit?”
My gut reaction is yes, hell yes, but then Dusty’s voice pops in my head: He’s gonna hit it and quit it.
After all the shit Sarah’s heard about me—and after I basically confirmed that it’s true—I hate the idea of her thinking I invited her out tonight to get her into bed.
Not that I’d mind getting her into bed. In fact, the thought is damn appealing.
But for some reason, it feels important that Sarah doesn’t believe that’s all there is to me.
My mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. I search for the right words, but none come.
Her smile falters.
“Never mind.” She steps back, dropping my hand. “It’s late, and I’ve got another busy day tomorrow, so…yeah. Have a good night, okay?”
Shit.
Before I can tell her I’d love to come in, she’s disappearing behind her front door. And I’m left standing on the sidewalk like a dumbass who just fumbled the final moment of an otherwise perfect night.