Chapter Twelve Back Where We Started #2
That’s when the door to the classroom opens again and Jacob strolls right in, his eyes finding Owen immediately, like he just
knows where Owen is.
“Hi,” he says as he makes his way over to Ethel and Harold’s station nervously. “I thought I’d find you here.”
“Am I that predictable?” Owen asks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ethel and Harold eye each other, tiptoeing closer like they’re trying to make their
eavesdropping less obvious.
“Just a little,” Jacob says as he follows Owen back to his station. “I wanted to talk to you, and Kevin said that you were
already gone.”
“Yeah, I didn’t sleep too well last night.”
“I didn’t either,” Jacob admits, his hand going to the back of his neck nervously.
“So . . .” Owen stands there, bracing himself against his cane.
“Can I help you?” Mel’s voice makes them both jump as she comes around to Owen’s station again, her attention drawn to Jacob.
“Oh, I, uh . . .” Jacob stammers. “I was just here to see—my boyfriend.”
The words seem so sincere and so affected at the same time, hitting Owen right in his heart. He knows Jacob only says that
for simplicity. It’s easier to explain that they’re boyfriends instead of exes. Still . . .
“Well, it’s amazing to have you. But we do have a no-loitering policy. So if you want to be here”—Mel tosses him an apron—“suit
up!”
Jacob eyes the apron in his hands, then looks at Owen.
“You heard her” is all he has to say.
Jacob grins as he slips the apron on, joining Owen behind the counter. “What should I do?”
“If you want to start on the icing, you can,” he says, handing a bowl to Jacob. “Powdered sugar is there, and the recipe is
on the board.”
“Are you sure I can do this?” Jacob asks, grabbing the sugar bag.
“It’s three ingredients, Jacob . . .”
“Remember the last time I tried to cook ramen? I didn’t even get the noodles in the pot,” he says, laughing at the memory.
He’d completely forgotten that he’d set the water to boil, getting caught up in proofreading a friend’s paper. When Owen came
home from work, he found the pot still on the stove, the bottom completely burnt while Jacob sat on the couch reading.
Owen had loved that pot too.
“I have faith in you,” Owen says, almost instantly regretting his words.
Jacob scoffs. “That makes one of us.”
“I’m guessing you wanted to talk about last night?”
“Yeah,” Jacob says, still turned away. “I, uh . . . I wanted to apologize, for letting that happen.”
“Well, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Owen tells him. “So there. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Please don’t do this, don’t run away,” Jacob says. He tries to keep his voice a whisper, but the words are pointed, and it’s
clear that the nearby tables are at least attempting to catch the conversation.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Owen tells him.
“Well, I do,” Jacob says, his voice solemn.
Owen swallows, dumping the scone dough onto the counter so that he can fold it out. “Fine,” he says. “Say what you want.”
“I . . .” Jacob turns toward him slightly, letting his head hang low. “I think I’ve been really confused. On this trip, and
a bit before, if I’m being totally honest.”
Owen can’t help how his ears perk up. “Confused about what, exactly?”
Jacob lets out a deep sigh. “I told Kaitlyn before I flew back to San Francisco that I could keep my feelings in check, that
I’d be okay with being around you again. But it’s become clear to me that I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
Owen pauses, taking in the words.
“What feelings?”
“I’m still in love with you,” Jacob admits.
Hearing the words aloud shocks Owen enough that he drops the dough cutter he’s holding, letting it clatter to the floor. Thankfully, he’s already done using it.
“I’m sorry,” Jacob says, squatting down to pick it up for Owen. “You asked.”
“I did,” Owen says. “I just didn’t think . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think you were going to say that.”
“Sorry, again.” Jacob sets the cutter in the sink.
“Don’t be,” Owen says to him. “I’m not upset, I—” Owen’s not really sure what he feels, but it’s suspiciously similar to relief,
knowing that Jacob feels the same way he does.
So he admits it.
“I’m still in love with you too.”
If only so that Jacob will know that he’s not alone.
There’s a moment between them, the silence stretching on and on while the rest of the class continues to move around them.
Bowls clatter, a sink is turned on, someone smashes blueberries that splatter all over their white blouse and Mel races to
help them try and clean it.
And Owen and Jacob just keep staring at each other.
“I wish that it wasn’t true,” Owen continues before he regrets the words. “Actually, no . . . I don’t wish that. I don’t want
to stop loving you, Jacob.”
“I—” Jacob pauses, hesitating enough that Owen can tell he doesn’t want to say the words. “I really thought that you’d never
want to see me again. I’d hate me after everything I put you through.”
“Like?” Owen can’t help himself from pressing.
“Like leaving. Neglecting you those last weeks . . . The worst part was that I knew I was losing you, that we were drifting
apart. And instead of fixing it, and just talking to you, I—”
“You make it sound like none of it was my fault,” Owen interjects.
“It wasn’t,” Jacob replies. “What did you do?”
“I could’ve been kinder to you, more patient,” Owen admits, opening the oven door to slide the scones in. “And I certainly
didn’t make the decision easier for you. And I could’ve been an adult, gotten over myself and just gone with you, figured
out how to make things work.”
Because making sacrifices for each other is a part of being in love.
“It was selfish of me to ask you to pack up your life,” Jacob says to him. “San Francisco is your home.”
“I don’t think the situation was fair to either of us,” Owen admits. They stare at each other again, Owen wondering where
they go from here now that they’ve admitted the truth. It’s not like they can do anything with their feelings. Then Owen continues,
“Maybe it needed to happen. You’re doing what you always wanted, and I’m going to . . . open the shop, maybe . . . The breakup
was the kick we both needed.”
“Yeah, I guess it was,” Jacob agrees, but he doesn’t seem pleased. “What do we do now, though? I mean . . . with what we both
said, and last night—”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? This cruise will be over soon, and you’ll go back to work and so will I, and that’ll be that.
Right?”
“Right . . .” Jacob hesitates before he nods. “So, I guess we’re back where we started?”
“I guess so,” Owen says pointedly. “Yeah.”
Jacob turns back to face Owen, then he lets out a chuckle.
“What?” Owen asks.
“You’ve got a little . . .” Jacob starts to say, motioning to his own cheek.
Owen reaches up to wipe away whatever it is he’s gotten on himself. Jacob just lets out another laugh. “No, on the other side—” And Owen wipes again, only for Jacob to reach up with his thumb, wiping at the skin underneath Owen’s left eye.
“There.” Jacob’s thumb is coated in a fine dusting of powdered sugar.
“Thanks,” Owen says, sure that his cheeks have turned beet red.
“Um . . . again . . . about last night, I—”
“It was a mistake.” Owen swallows. “We were tired, high, I was probably woozy on ibuprofen. Nothing happened anyway, so why
linger on something we would’ve regretted?”
“Who says I would’ve regretted it?” Jacob dares, before he turns away, the words said quietly enough that Owen can’t really
be sure that he heard Jacob correctly.
Except he did. He knows that he did.
The timer on the oven dings and instead of Owen asking Jacob to clarify what he means, he slides on an oven mitt and pulls the scones out of the oven.
They’re perfectly flaky, with a buttery-golden top, the burst blueberries filling the air with a fruity, sugary scent that
makes Owen’s mouth water. He doesn’t ask Jacob what he meant, because he knows the answer to that question already.