Chapter 10
Jonny
It’s Sunday dinner at the McKay house, and Sarah isn’t here.
I mean, Shira. Who I’ve hardly seen since rushing out of her place on Friday evening.
Kara ended up being fine, but the doctors kept her overnight for observation.
She was pretty scared, though, so I stayed awake with her until Kyle arrived in the morning.
Even though I hadn’t slept, I felt bad about how I’d left things with Shira, so I stopped by the bookshop to bring her an apple cider donut from the bakery at the market.
Everything between us seemed fine then, and I went home and slept until mid-afternoon. As soon as I woke up, Dad had me fixing a stretch of fence he could see through the window. He barked out orders from his recliner, while I worked outside in the cold, cursing under my breath.
When I finally had a chance to recheck my phone, I saw a text from Shira saying she couldn’t make it to Sunday dinner because she’s not feeling well.
Now here I am, sitting in the dining room with the whole family, wondering what happened.
Everyone’s laughing and talking over each other, the table is crowded with smoked brisket, potatoes, and enough side dishes to feed the neighbors if they happen to drop by.
I moved Dad’s recliner so he can sit in his usual spot at the head of the table, and even Kara’s here, released from her bed rest for a couple of hours as long as she doesn’t lift more than her fork.
The little kids are wiggling in their chairs, and the dogs are under the table, begging for scraps.
It's the kind of noisy chaos I grew up with, but my mind keeps drifting to Shira. I can’t stop the little nagging worry in the back of my mind that I screwed up somehow.
Maybe it was my brilliant idea to “slow things down” that turned her off.
If she’s just after a hookup, the invitation to family dinner probably didn’t help.
Or was it the way I reacted to the whole thing about her name? Or—
“Earth to Jonny,” Dad booms.
I snap to attention. “Huh?”
“Bianca was saying the new Christmas Market has been a huge hit,” Mom says, patting Dad’s arm like she’s reminding him to use his inside voice.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s great.”
“I do have to point out one thing,” Isaac says, dishing himself up another serving of potatoes. “Mom said you invited that bookseller, but I don’t see her here. Guess all those college degrees can’t help you get a date?”
I roll my eyes. “She was going to come, but she isn’t feeling well.”
“That’s too bad,” Mom says, frowning.
“Does she got a cold?” Maggie chimes in.
“Is she frowing up?” Emma adds.
“I don’t think so.” I’m taking another bite of brisket when I notice my sisters exchanging one of their looks. “What?” I demand.
Kara shakes her head. “You really are duller than a drawer full of spoons.”
I bite back the urge to point out that I’ve built and sold multiple companies. None of that counts when your siblings still remember you peeing your pants during a thunderstorm in third grade.
“Yeah,” Bianca says. “If a woman says she doesn’t feel well, there’s usually something else going on.”
I set down my fork. “Like what?”
“Like you did something stupid?” Isaac suggests.
“Such as… calling her the wrong name for days?” Bianca suggests, and everyone at the table snickers.
Kara grins. “His brain’s too full of knowledge to bother with little details such as a person’s name.”
I press my lips together. That was how I decided to explain the Shira-Sarah thing to my family: that I initially misheard her name. And of course, now they’ll never let me live it down.
“She’s been working long days at the bookshop,” I say. “She’s probably tired.”
“No, you did something wrong. More than just the name thing.” Isaac points his fork around the table like he’s conducting a survey. “Ladies, am I right, or am I right?”
“He’s not right,” I say, but it’s useless—Kara and Bianca are nodding in unison, Annabel’s hiding a grin, and Mom has the same expression she gets when the dogs track muddy paw prints on her clean floor.
Meanwhile, my brothers-in-law, Kyle and Chad, are giving me sad smiles of solidarity, which… doesn’t help.
“Oh, Jonathan,” Mom sighs. “What did you do?”
“Nothing!” My voice cracks like I’m fifteen again, and then the whole table erupts.
Kara’s saying I probably put my big dumb foot in my big dumb mouth, Bianca’s claiming that most of a woman’s problems come down to something a man said or did.
Isaac’s laughing around a mouthful of potatoes, and his wife is giving him an earful for riling everyone up.
The baby’s fussing, the twins start fighting over the last roll, and Kyle and Chad just sit there shaking their heads like they’re tired of this circus.
Voices pile on top of each other, louder and louder, until—
“That’s enough!” Dad bellows, and everyone goes silent. He points his butter knife straight at me. “Whatever you did…fix it.”
“For the last time, I didn’t do anything,” I say, even though a voice in my head says, Did I?
“Well, go figure it out,” Dad says. “The rest of us would like to enjoy our meal without having to look at that expression on your face.”
I scoff. “What expression?”
“Like you’re some kind of slack-jawed moron.”
Isaac snorts, then turns it into a cough when Annabel elbows him.
“And take that girl a plate of food,” Mom adds. “I worry about her getting enough to eat, living all by herself. I bet Donna Peterson never feeds her.”
“Fine.” I shove back my chair, shaking my head. “Happy now, all you meddling McKays?”
My sisters nod, identical smug grins on their faces.
“Yeah, I’m happy,” Dad says, picking up his fork. “Happy you’re gonna do something purposeful instead of sitting on your ass.”
“Language, Dad,” Bianca scolds.
“It’s in the Bible!” Dad bellows, triumphant. “Look it up!”
A few minutes later, I’m parking Dad’s truck in front of the Petersons’ house. My mind is bouncing between what the hell am I doing and what if she doesn’t want to see me and if I somehow hurt her feelings, I’m going to punch myself in the face.
I grab the foil-covered plate from the passenger seat and climb out of the truck. I’m halfway down the driveway when I freeze.
The window to Shira’s place is lit up, the curtains open. I can see her through the window, walking around holding her phone up like she’s FaceTiming with someone. She’s smiling. Laughing.
Definitely not sick.
But now I’m not feeling great. Clearly, she had something better to do tonight, even though it’s just over the phone. What if it’s some guy back home she’s talking to? Some fucking dickhead guy making her smile and laugh like that?
My stomach clenches in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. She ends the call after a bit, pocketing her phone and turning away. When she comes back over to the window, she’s carrying something and sets it on the windowsill.
A menorah.
And then it all crashes down on me: what a complete and utter dumbass I truly am.
I’m frozen, watching as she strikes a match. Her lips start to move. She lights the center candle, then touches it to the first one. Her face glows in the candlelight, peaceful and soft, and for a minute, I just stare at her, transfixed. She really is so damn pretty.
But then…a tear trickles down her cheek. Her shoulders fold in on themselves. She buries her face in her hands—and starts sobbing.
The sight hits me like a punch to the throat.
This is so much worse than when I thought she was talking and laughing with some guy.
I should go to her. I should do something.
But before I can, she disappears from the window.
A few seconds later, the light turns off, leaving only the two glowing candles.
I stand there in the dark, clutching this stupid foil-covered plate, feeling split right down the middle. Part of me wants to run up those steps and knock until she lets me in. The other part—louder, meaner—is telling me I’ll just screw things up more.
So I get back in the truck and drive home, my mind a whirling mess.
Why didn’t she tell me? Or, no—better question: Why didn’t I put the pieces together myself? My brain is sifting through our interactions over the past couple of weeks. Her name is Shira Schwartz. She didn’t sing any of the religious songs at the tree lighting. She doesn’t eat fucking bacon.
When I stop at a red light, I grab my phone and google BBYO, from that T-shirt she wore. Turns out, it’s a Jewish youth group. Which, of course, it is.
Groaning, I lean my head back on the headrest. I am so fucking stupid.
But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is realizing I’m not someone she trusted enough to share this with. That she’d rather sit in her rented cottage alone, lighting candles and crying, than open up to me.
I know she was nervous to come here, but I thought she was relaxing around me. Letting me get to know her. Apparently not.
It’s like having the rug yanked out from under me—only I’m also the one responsible for the yanking. I should’ve made her feel comfortable. I should’ve paid attention. I don’t know what it’s like to be Jewish, but I do know what it’s like to feel out of place in this town.
I should’ve been the guy she could lean on. Instead, I’m just another clueless idiot she thinks she has to hide herself from.
I drive around for a while, until I’ve calmed down enough to think this through.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from growing start-ups, it’s that you can’t control everything that happens, but you can control how you respond. Doesn’t matter if a vendor flakes, an investor bails, or the market takes a nosedive—my job is to take responsibility, adapt, and move forward.
That’s the deal here, too. I can’t force Shira to trust me. But if she doesn’t feel comfortable being herself around me, then I sure as hell can take a hard look at why.
And I can do better.
By the time I get home, I’ve got a plan cooking in my brain. The house is quiet and dark, and my mom’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counters.
The dogs greet me at the door, and I absently pat them. “Where’s Dad?”
Mom glances at me, brow furrowing. “Watching the game. Is Shira okay?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is it your fault?”
My jaw clenches. “Pretty much.”
Before she can ask more, I head into the den and slump into the recliner next to my dad’s.
“Well?” he says, eyes on the TV.
“I’m a slack-jawed moron,” I say, sighing.
He nods, once. “Figured.”
“Can you help me fix it?”
At that, he mutes the volume and faces me, his expression softening. “What d’you have in mind?”
I fill him in on my plan, and as I talk, a slow smile creeps over his face. “You must really like this girl,” he says when I finish.
“I…” Swallowing, I remember that gut-squeeze when I saw her laughing on the phone, then the sucker punch when she started crying. “I just don’t think anyone should feel that alone on a holiday,” I say, finally.
“Uh-huh.” Dad studies me, eyes narrowed. Then he clears his throat and leans back in his chair. “Now listen, you’ll have to take the lead on this. Your mama’ll have my guts for garters if she catches me in the shop.”
“I’ll do all the work. I just need some direction.”
He hums, stroking his beard with one hand. “How big do you want it?”
“As big as we can make it.”
His eyes twinkle. “You know what your Granddad McKay used to say—the bigger the screw up, the bigger the apology.”
“Think we could put it in the town square?” I ask. “The opposite end from the Christmas tree.”
“I’ll talk to the city council—they’ll approve it,” Dad says. “We can have it ready by Tuesday night. Maybe Wednesday.”
“You’re gonna need food,” Mom says from the doorway, where she’s clearly been listening in. “Can’t do something like this without food.”
I nod, slowly. “That’d be great, but I don’t know—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she says, turning and walking away.
I glance back at my dad, who rubs his hands together, grinning. “Guess we’re about to make history in this town. Let’s get started.”