Chapter 15
Jasmine
The chicken has been marinating for six hours, and the kitchen smells like tomato, scotch bonnet peppers, and thyme. I'm at the counter chopping onions when my phone buzzes.
Logan: Something came up with family. Dom has an announcement and wants everyone there tonight. I'm really sorry. Can we do tomorrow instead?
I put the knife down and read the text with onion juice stinging my fingers. The table behind me is set for two. I bought a bottle of red wine that the woman at the wine shop said pairs well with spiced food.
I stare at the text for a long time. Then I type back.
No worries. Have fun with your family.
I press send, put the phone on the counter, and go back to chopping onions. My eyes are burning, and it’s not from the onions. I reach for my phone again and call Harper.
“What's wrong?” she says when she answers.
“Logan canceled tonight. His brother has some family announcement, and his dad wants everyone there.”
“Okay. That sounds legitimate.”
“I know it's legitimate.”
“So what's the problem?”
I press the heel of my hand against my eye. “His father called and told him to cancel his plans and come to Long Island, and he did. That's the problem.”
Harper is quiet for a second. “Jasmine, people cancel dinners. It happens. His brother needs the family together. It doesn't mean what you think it means.”
“Yes. I know. It's just one dinner. I'm being irrational.”
“You're not being irrational. You're being scared.”
I lean against the counter and close my eyes. She's right. I'm not angry that Logan is having dinner with his family. I'm scared because I've seen this before. I know how it starts.
“He's not eighteen anymore,” Harper says. “Give him a chance. “And you’ve cooked dinner, so at least you'll eat well tonight.”
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Thanks, Harper.”
“Call me later if you need to. Love you.”
She hangs up. I put my phone down and finish the onions.
I cook the jollof rice alone, following Mom’s recipe to the letter. Blend the tomatoes and peppers. Fry the onions until they're golden. Add the tomato base and let it cook down until the oil rises to the surface. Toast the rice. Layer it in the pot with the chicken stock.
Seal the lid and let it steam on low heat for forty-five minutes.
The apartment fills with the smell of my mother's kitchen. It's the smell of Long Island, of Saturday afternoons at the stove, of Mom humming along to the radio while I sat at the table doing homework. Tonight, this dish makes me feel emotional and homesick.
The timer goes off. I open the lid and the rice is perfect, each grain separate, the color a deep orange-red. I serve myself a plate and sit at the counter.
The table is still set for two. I don't clear it. I eat at the counter instead, standing up. I don't sit in either of the chairs because sitting in one means looking at the empty one across from me.
The jollof is perfect. Mom would approve. I eat half the plate and put the rest in the fridge next to the untouched bottle of wine. After dinner, restlessness plagues me. Harper was right. It’s no big deal, except that it feels like a big deal. It feels like I’m making the same mistake twice.
My phone buzzes at nine-thirty.
Logan: Just got in the car. Dinner was good. Nolan says hi. How was your night?
I type back: Quiet. Glad you had a good time.
I read my own reply before I send it. It's cold and short. Nothing like the texts I've been sending him all week, the ones with photos, jokes and heart emojis.
I know I'm pulling away. I can feel myself doing it, building distance brick by brick, and the rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop because this man told me he loved me and he meant it.
But the other part of me, the part that sat on her mother's couch at eighteen and waited for a call that never came, is louder tonight.
I send the text.
He replies: What did you end up doing?
Me: Ate dinner. Watched a movie. I’m off to bed. Goodnight.
I turn my phone over and go to the bathroom and wash my face. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer.
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling, and I know I'm being unfair. One canceled dinner is not a betrayal. A man having dinner with his family is not a crime. Dom had an announcement. Logan went. That is what normal families do.
But we are not a normal family. We are Jasmine Bennett and Logan Shaw, and the last time his family came first, I lost him for a decade.
I turn over and close my eyes. Sleep doesn't come for a long time.
Sunday morning, I drive to Long Island. Mom's boutique opens at eleven, and I'm there at ten-forty-five, leaning against the door with two coffees when she turns the lock.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says with a smile. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“I missed you.”
She gives me a look as I follow her inside. The shop smells like lavender and fresh fabric. She turns on the lights, fires up the steamer, and starts unpacking a box of new arrivals while I sit on the stool behind the counter and drink my coffee.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I know what she means. We were together yesterday, and we had no plans for me to come to Long Island today.
“I’m good,” I say.
She holds up a blouse, checks the seams, and sets it aside. Then, she looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You drove to Long Island on a Sunday morning to sit in my shop at ten-forty-five. You're not fine.”
“I just wanted to see you, Mom.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“So now I can't see you two days in a row?”
She puts down the blouse, takes off her glasses, and folds them slowly. “Baby, I have known you for twenty-eight years. You hold your coffee with both hands when you're upset. You're holding your coffee with both hands.”
She's right. Both hands wrapped around the cup, fingers laced, knuckles tight.
“I'm just tired,” I say. “Work has been a lot.”
She studies me for a long moment. “You know where I am when you're ready to talk,” she says.
“I know.”
We work in silence for a while. She unpacks and steams, and I tag and organize, and the rhythm of it calms me the way it always has.
At noon, she sends me out for sandwiches. I walk to the deli and order our usual. Then I check my phone. Two texts from Logan. One from this morning saying good morning with a sun emoji. One from thirty minutes ago asking if I want to do something today.
I don't reply to either. I take the sandwiches back to the shop and eat with my mother in the back room, and pretend my heart isn't sitting at the bottom of my stomach.
I leave the boutique at two and drive back to the city. The traffic on the expressway is light, and I make it home in under an hour. I hang up my coat and kick off my shoes, and I'm about to run a bath when the buzzer rings.
“Hello?”
“It's me.” Logan's voice comes through the intercom.
My heart starts hammering. “Come up.”
I buzz him in and stand in my hallway waiting. Thirty seconds later, there's a knock on my door. I open it.
He's in jeans and his leather jacket. His hair is messy from the wind, and his blue eyes go straight to mine.
“You're not answering my texts,” he says.
“I've been busy.”
“You've been avoiding me.” He steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Talk to me, Jasmine.”
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“You've given me five-word answers for twenty-four hours. You haven't called. So don't tell me there's nothing to talk about.”
My throat tightens. I walk to the kitchen and lean against the counter because I need something solid behind me. He follows and stands on the other side of the island.
I take a deep breath. “I'm scared, Logan.”
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of us. Of what happens. You canceled on us because your father called. You dropped everything, including our plans.”
“Dom had an announcement, and he wanted the whole family there.”
“I know that now. But when I got your text yesterday, all I saw was you canceling on me because George told you to. And I've been here before.”
He's quiet. His jaw works, but he doesn't interrupt.
“I sat in my kitchen last night with a table set for two, and when your text came in, all I could think was here we go again.”
“It's not the same, Jasmine.”
“I know it's not. My brain knows it's not. But my body hasn't caught up yet. Ten years is a long time to carry a wound, and one week of being happy doesn't erase it.”
He comes around the island and stands in front of me. He doesn't touch me. He just stands there, close, his eyes on mine.
“Dom proposed to Sarah,” he says. “That's what the announcement was. He asked her to marry him, and she said yes, and he wanted to tell the whole family together.”
I stare at him. “Dom proposed?”
“Last weekend. They want to get married in the spring. Mom nearly had a heart attack. She told him they were too young and suggested a longer engagement, and Dom told her no. He knows what he wants.”
“Good for Dom.”
“My mother spent the rest of the evening being passive-aggressive about it and Dom didn't flinch. I should have told you why. I should have called you instead of texting.
“I should have explained that Dom needed us there for something important instead of sending you a message that sounded exactly like my father had overruled my plans.” He takes my hand. “I'm sorry. I'm not going to pretend I handled it well. I didn't.”
The tight, scared knot in my chest starts to loosen. “I need you to talk to me when things come up. Not a text that says something came up. A real conversation. Because my brain fills in the blanks when you're vague, and it fills them in with the worst possible version.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And I'm sorry for going cold on you. That wasn't fair either.”
“I deserved a little cold.”
“You deserved an honest conversation. I gave you silence instead. When I'm hurt, I shut down.”
He squeezes my hand. “Then we're both working on something.”
“I guess we are.”
He pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms around me. I press my face against his jacket and breathe in deeply.
Then he pulls back and looks at me. “Now where's that leftover jollof?”
I laugh. “In the fridge. Second shelf.”
“Is there enough for two plates?”
“I made enough for six. Mom's recipe doesn't scale down.”
He opens my fridge, pulls out the container, and holds it up like a trophy. “Lorraine Bennett's jollof rice. I’ve been thinking about this stuff for a decade.”
And all is right in my world again seeing him smile.
For now.