Chapter 10 #2
“He’s an excellent judge of character. Or terrible. I haven’t decided which.” She pours two cups with slightly shaking hands. “Sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
She hands me the cup, and our fingers brush. That same electric current from this morning.
Neither of us pulls away quite as fast.
"So," I say. "What did you want to talk about?"
"I wanted to—" She stops. Starts again. "This morning on the beach. You said some things."
"I did."
"About wanting to fix the lease situation. About working on something you couldn't tell me about."
"I remember."
"What did you mean?" She looks at me directly, and I see vulnerability there. "Because I need to know if that was real or if this is some kind of strategy. If you're trying to—I don't know—make me feel like I owe you something."
"Jessica, no. I would never—"
"Because I can't figure you out," she continues, words rushing out. "One minute you're all business, hiding behind board decisions and market rates. The next, you're sitting on a beach at dawn looking like you haven't slept, offering to fix things and looking at me like—" She hesitates.
“Like what?”
“Like I matter.”
The words land between us like a confession.
“You do matter,” I say quietly. “You matter more than—more than I know how to say.”
“Then say it anyway. Say something real. Please.”
And I want to. Want to tell her everything. Want to explain that I’m Scott and V. Langley and Coastal Quill in the letters. That I’ve been loving her in three different ways. That she matters more than anything in my carefully constructed life.
But the words stick.
Because if I tell her one truth, I have to tell them all. And I’m not brave enough yet. Not quite.
“I’m trying,” I manage. “I’m trying to be honest. To be—better. Different.”
“Why?”
“Because you make me want to be.”
She stares at me, the air between electric.
“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I know.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“I know that too.”
We’re standing too close in her tiny kitchen. Austen is watching us like we’re his personal entertainment. And I can feel myself about to do something incredibly stupid or incredibly right, I can’t tell which.
“Scott—”
“Jessica—”
The shop’s bell chimes.
We both jump.
“I locked that,” Jessica says, confused.
“Hello?” a voice calls. Grandma Hensley. “Jessica, dear, are you here? I need a book recommendation for my—oh!”
She appears in the kitchen doorway and stops short, taking in the scene: Jessica and me standing very close, both holding coffee cups like weapons, Austen purring smugly.
“Oh my,” Grandma Hensley says, eyes twinkling. “I’m interrupting something.”
“No,” we both say simultaneously.
“Nothing,” Jessica adds.
“Just coffee,” I finish.
“Mm-hmm. Well, I just needed a recommendation for my book club. But I can see you’re busy with very important coffee business.” She’s backing away with a knowing smile. “I’ll just—I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Grandma Hensley—” Jessica starts.
But she’s already gone, the bell chiming her escape.
Jessica and I look at each other.
“That’s going to be all over town in an hour,” she says.
“Your reputation will be ruined. Seen having coffee with the enemy.”
“Maybe you’re not the enemy.”
“No?”
“Maybe you’re just...complicated.”
“That’s generous.”
“I’m feeling generous.” She sets down her coffee cup. “Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting. With you. With myself. With—everything.”
“Jessica—”
“I’m trying to be brave,” she says suddenly. “I’m trying to take my own advice. About walls and windows. About choosing connection over protection.”
“What advice?”
“Something I—something someone told me. About how safe is suffocating. About how you have to jump even when you’re scared.”
She’s quoting her own letter.
She’s telling me to jump while not knowing she’s the person I want to jump toward.
The irony is killing me.
“What if you jump, and there’s nothing there?” I ask.
“Then at least you tried. At least you know.” She looks at me. “What if you jump, and someone catches you?”
We’re moving closer without deciding to. Pulled by gravity or fate or just desperate longing.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You’re my tenant. This is inappropriate on multiple levels.”
“You’re right.”
“I should go.”
“You should.”
Neither of us moves.
Austen meows loudly, breaking the spell.
Jessica laughs, steps back, puts safe distance between us. “It’s late.”
“Right.”
“Thanks for coming by.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
We’re being absurdly polite after almost—whatever we were about to do.
I’m at the door when she calls my name.
“Scott?”
I turn.
“Whatever you’re afraid to tell me,” she says softly. “I promise I’ll listen. When you’re ready.”
The words break something open in my chest.
She knows I’m hiding something.
And she’s giving me permission to be honest.
“Soon,” I promise. “I’ll tell you everything soon.”
“Okay.”
I leave before I can do something stupid like actually tell her everything or kiss her.
Or both.
Outside, I sit in my car and pull out my phone.
I need to write her, tell Jessica I’m ready. That I’m done being a coward.
That tomorrow, or maybe the next day, or maybe the day after that, I’m going to jump. And I’m going to trust that when I do, she’ll catch me. Even if she doesn’t know it’s me she’s catching yet, one honest word at a time.
Starting now.