Chapter 13
50 hours until the wedding
When I awake the next morning, I’m warm and snug like I’ve slept in a cozy little cocoon all night, and I burrow deeper into the nest of blankets, relishing their weighted comfort.
Who knew I’d sleep so well here? Must be all that fresh air. Or the pizza. Probably the pizza.
I yawn and stretch before looking down in horror to see that I’m wrapped up in none other than the special blanket.
“Ahhh!” I shriek, shoving the blanket off and scrambling to the other side of the bed as fast as I can. “How did this get on me?”
“You looked cold last night,” comes the familiar timbre of Jack’s voice.
I jump and turn around to where Jack is leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, watching me with amusement.
“And you couldn’t find another blanket?” I demand. “Preferably one that won’t get me pregnant?”
He laughs. “If you get pregnant, it won’t be my fault. Not even my incredibly potent sperm are that good.”
It’s on the very unsexy word sperm that I realize Jack’s wearing a pair of running shorts— just running shorts—and holding two paper cups. His face and chest shimmer with sweat.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the cups.
“Coffee. Here.” He hands me a paper cup and my nostrils rejoice at the earthy scent.
“How long have you been up? And why are you half naked and sweaty?” I ask.
“I went for a run this morning.”
I balk. Seriously? How is it that I’m a jet-lagged mess and he’s all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?
“I’ve also been arranging our travel plans with Mrs. Poyevich,” he says.
“Mrs. Poyevich?”
“You know, our friend from last night?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “She asked me all about our wedding.”
I take a long sip of coffee, feeling my senses come back to life. “And what did you say?”
“I told her we eloped because we’re not really into big weddings.”
“You choose now to go for accuracy?”
He laughs but doesn’t contest my point.
“You should get up,” he says, patting the edge of the bed. “We need to hit the road.”
“You got train tickets already?” I ask, wondering what else he’s been up to while I’ve been asleep. Saving the whales? Finding the cure for cancer?
Jack steps away from the bed, running his palm down the side of his neck. “Not exactly.”
My eyebrows narrow into a v . “What do you mean not exactly ?”
“So, hear me out…”
Great. What did he do?
“I got up early to get train tickets, but unfortunately there are no trains running directly from here to Glasgow today,” he explains. “Apparently National Rail is still on strike.”
I groan. And just when I thought my luck might be turning.
“ But. ” He gives me a persistent look. “I told Mrs. Poyevich about our predicament, and lo and behold, her brother loaned her a car a few weeks ago. A car she needs to return. He lives in Edinburgh, so I volunteered to drive the car back for her.”
“Edinburgh?” I ask. “But we aren’t going to Edinburgh.”
“I know, but it’s close enough, and we can take the bus from there.”
I chew on my bottom lip, mulling over this blip in the plan. “Isn’t this going to set us back time-wise?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve checked it all out. We can take the bus from Edinburgh tonight and still make the ferry tomorrow. It’ll be fine,” he adds, noticing my wary expression.
“And this is our only option?” I ask.
“Unless you want to stay here another night,” he says, gesturing to the special blanket.
I grimace. No thank you.
“Fine,” I tell him. It’s not like we have another choice.
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and complimentary mint-scented shampoo, to find Jack pacing the room, phone glued to his ear, looking miserable.
“Fine,” he says, waving his hand with an air of annoyance. “Sure. I’ll send it over. Just tell her I’m not settling…” A deep sigh rattles in his throat. “If she wants to talk, she can talk to me herself…Yeah…okay…Fine. That’s great.” The muscles in his jaw twitch. “Thanks for calling, Doug.” Jack doesn’t say goodbye, he just slams his thumb into the screen and glares up at the ceiling mid–eye roll like it’s personally offended him.
“Everything good?” I ask, pausing in the bathroom doorway.
“Fine.” But based on the trio of creases forming in his forehead, he, in fact, doesn’t look fine.
“You sure?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.
I pretend the brush-off doesn’t bother me, but as I’m shoveling clothes back into my suitcase, I can’t help but notice that in the last thirty-six-ish hours we’ve spent together, all he’s told me about himself is how he lost his virginity, that he prefers boxers to briefs, he’s a lawyer, and apparently, he’s never been in love.
I think back to our conversation on the curb. Personal stuff , he’d said. Of course, personal stuff is code for we aren’t close enough for me to tell you that . Which is fair. We’ve only known each other two days. It’s not like I’m entitled to know all about his life. But last night it felt like our relationship had moved into something possibly resembling friendship. But maybe we hadn’t. Maybe I’d been the one to misread things this time.
We pack up our things in silence until Jack asks, “Want to get a drink?”
I look up from my suitcase. “A drink? It’s like nine a.m.”
“Yeah, but back home it’s one a.m., which is a perfectly acceptable time to drink.”
I open my mouth to tell him we should probably get going, that we don’t have time for a drink, but just as quickly as I do, I realize it doesn’t sound so bad. Besides, we’re technically on vacation and everyone knows the rules don’t apply when you’re on vacation. Right?
“Fine,” I agree. “One drink, but then we’re getting on the road, right?”
“Then we’re getting on the road,” he agrees.
After we check out, we grab the car keys from Mrs. Poyevich, who yells, “Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Houghton,” while waving exuberantly on our way out the door. We wave back, promising to send pictures of our firstborn.
Outside, the pale morning sun dips below the clouds, casting spouts of light along the narrow rows of cobblestone.
“Is this where you ran?” I ask.
He nods, eyes not meeting mine. “It was good to get out and clear my head.”
He offers no further explanation as to what exactly in his head needed clearing, and we drift into silence as we walk along the high street, admiring the colorful storefronts.
Eventually, Jack guides us into a dimly lit pub named the George and Dragon with dark walls and an ancient wooden floor that creaks under our weight. Somewhere in the back, a staticky radio croons, announcing that Manchester just scored against Madrid.
The pub is already serving lunch even though it’s ten a.m., and I decide to go for fish and chips while Jack orders a pint and a burger. After we order at the bar, we shuffle into a booth in the back. We’ve barely sat down when Jack reaches over and snatches a fry off my plate. I try to smack his wrist, but he’s too fast.
“Hey! Get your own fries!”
“I’m starving after my run.” He grabs another fry and pops it into his mouth. “Shocked you didn’t ask for pineapple on them though.”
“Ha ha. You’re just lucky they don’t have ranch here.”
“When we go to Italy, I doubt you’ll be able to get pineapple on your pizza. What does that tell you?”
When we go to Italy. The words send volts of electricity parading down my spine, even though I know he doesn’t mean it.
We’ve only known each other for two days. This time next year I doubt he’ll even remember my name. Besides, he has no idea if Carter and I will get back together. And frankly, neither do I.
I cut into my food, taking a few bites of a flaky, crispy fish before I ask, “How about another round of questions?”
“Don’t we know each other well enough now?” he asks, popping another fry into his mouth. “After all, I know that you’re a screamer.”
Unwanted heat blooms behind my navel and I take my time chewing before I answer.
“I know that your mom taught you how to sew, how you lost your virginity, and that your love of pizza runs deep,” I say. “But what about your family? Any brothers or sisters? Are you close with your parents?”
“No brothers or sisters. Just me.” His eyes dim. “And my dad and I don’t talk.”
“What about your mom?” I try, scooping a helping of fried fish onto my fork. “I bet she’ll love hearing how you saved my ass with those sewing skills.”
Jack picks up his glass, considers it, then sets it down again before finally saying, “My mom died.”
I freeze, fork hovering a few inches from my mouth. For a moment I think I must have misheard, but the torque in his jaw and emerging shadow behind his eyes confirm that my hearing is just fine.
“What about you?” he asks, cutting through the protracted silence. “Are you close with your parents?”
I jerk back, frowning. “Whoa, you can’t just drop a bomb like that.”
“About your parents?” He gives a half laugh.
“No…about…” I lower my voice to a whisper even though we’re the only ones here. “About your mom.” Seriously? How can he joke about this? Then it occurs to me that the joking might be intentional, a deflection.
“It was a long time ago now.” He waves his hand like he’s flicking away a bothersome fly, but I can hear the ragged edge to his voice. The heaviness. And I can’t help but feel like the curtain is being lifted, and instead of the Great and Powerful Oz, I’m face-to-face with someone entirely different from who I’d expected.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make things awkward,” he says after a beat.
“No, you didn’t,” I say quickly. “I was just surprised. That’s all.”
“It’s okay, you can say it’s awkward. Some people get weird about it.”
I feel the canned clichés rise inside me.
Sorry for your loss.
She’s in a better place.
Time will heal all wounds.
But none of them make it out. They feel too hollow, too derivative, too much like a Hallmark sympathy card.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last, knowing it’s inadequate.
He flicks a strand of hair from his eyes. “It’s fine.” I can tell it’s a response he’s grown accustomed to saying, almost like he’s on autopilot.
“What happened? I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I add.
“It’s fine,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “She was in a scuba accident, actually.”
He says the word actually like it’s a modifier, something to soften the blow.
“It was about a year after my dad left us for someone at work.” His mouth tenses, like whatever memory is buried in those words is still very real and painful. “I was fifteen and my mom started seeing a new guy. The first guy since my dad. They were on vacation in the Bahamas when it happened.” His voice comes out stiff, robotic, like it’s a story he’s told innumerable times, and I instantly hate myself for making him tell it one more time.
“Where were you?” I ask, trying to imagine a fifteen-year-old Jack.
He picks up his fork, then sets it back down, adjusting it so that it’s perfectly straight. “I was staying at Collin’s house. His family sort of took me in after. Really made me feel like I was part of their family when I didn’t have anyone else. I was lucky to have them.”
My heart squeezes like there’s an invisible fist tightening around it. I’m no fan of Collin, but I feel an instant wave of tenderness toward him.
“I’m glad you had them,” I say.
A noiseless breath snakes between his parted lips, eyes capturing mine. “Me too.”
Something hot flares in my chest, but I don’t know if it’s guilt or sympathy or something else entirely.
I wish I had something to say. Something helpful. But I understand there’s nothing I can say. He’s lived with this pain for almost twenty years and there’s nothing that will make it any easier.
I consider reaching over and giving him a pat on the hand, some small sign to show him I care, but that feels too forward, so I shift my weight under the table so our knees rest against one another. Jack doesn’t move and neither do I.
“Are you close with your parents?” he asks again.
I can tell he’s trying to redirect the conversation away from himself. But I can’t exactly blame him.
“Before my mom married my stepdad, it was just us girls and we were really close.”
I smile, remembering Friday movie nights when Allison and I would pull our mattresses off our beds and build a fort in front of the TV, waiting until we heard Mom’s keys in the door so we could pop the VHS in. Despite Mom letting us watch any movie, we always wanted to watch The Parent Trap . It didn’t matter that we’d seen it a million times, it was the comfort, the familiarity of knowing exactly how it was going to end. Like returning to a favorite pair of jeans that fit just right. To this day, it is still my sister’s go-to comfort movie.
“I’m glad my mom found my stepdad,” I tell him. “But those years when it was just the three of us will always be bittersweet to me.”
“What happened to your dad?” Jack asks. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My biological dad was never married to my mom,” I tell him. “He was in and out of our lives until I was six and Allison was a toddler, then he just dipped. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack says, eyes softening.
“Don’t be. He wasn’t exactly a great dad. Which I suppose we have in common,” I add, letting my eyes linger on his. He gives the barest hint of a nod and a loose strand of solidarity weaves between us.
“Allison and I never had a real relationship with him,” I go on. “He was just this guy that came over once in a while to play with us or take us for ice cream. Then one day he stopped coming.”
My spine pulls at the memory of all the nights I heard my mom crying when she thought Allison and I had gone to sleep, hating how that made me feel, even though I was too young to understand.
“How did you feel about your mom getting married?” Jack asks.
“I was twelve, so I was just happy to see my mom find someone who treated her well and made her happy,” I tell him. “But when mom and Bill sat us down to tell us the news, Allison burst into tears. I had to take her into the other room and explain there was going to be a big party and cake and Mom would be so happy. I think she was used to it just being the three of us and she didn’t like change. I remember when we moved into Bill’s house, Allison and I got our own rooms for the first time, and Allison wasn’t used to sleeping by herself, so for the first few months she slept in my room with me.” I pause, smiling at the long-buried memory. “But eventually she warmed up to Bill and the new house.”
“Do you like him?” Jack asks.
“I do. He’s a great guy and he loves my mom, which is probably why I’ve always idolized their relationship. When they got together, he’d just gotten divorced, and my mom was a single parent. They both had emotional baggage, and every reason in the world to be afraid, but they chose each other anyways, and I think that’s kind of beautiful.”
As I say it, warmth pools in my stomach, spreading outward like I’m draped in a fuzzy blanket. I expect Jack to tease me, to tell me I’m buying into social programming or whatever. Instead, he smiles and asks, “Is that why you’re such a hopeless romantic?”
“I wouldn’t say hopeless . But it’s certainly easier to believe in things like everlasting love and commitment when you see the way my stepdad looks at my mom.”
I think about the times I’ve caught them slow dancing in the kitchen. All the interrupted moments my sister and I ran away screaming from because we thought it was gross to see them kissing. Now I can’t help the tug of longing in the pit of my stomach. The desire for that kind of love. The kind that’s hard-fought and won.
I used to think that’s what Carter and I had. That the length of our relationship corresponded with durability—something worth preserving. But maybe that’s not what love is. Maybe it’s not hours clocked or years passed. It’s a quiet certainty that you’re not alone, that whatever comes—may it be joy or tragedy, success or loss—you’ll have someone by your side through it all. That you won’t have to face it on your own. Maybe it’s finding someone who makes you feel a little less alone in the world.
The thought brings an ache to my throat and a pang to my chest.
Jack doesn’t say anything, but under the table his knee bumps mine. Maybe it’s an accident, or maybe it’s not, but it feels nice, and I get that same sense of camaraderie I’d felt last night, like the tension between us has shifted, giving way to something like solidarity.
“You know,” I say after a minute, “I had fun last night.”
His eyes meet mine, gaze laced with a warmth I’m relieved to see. “I did too. Even if it’s your fault we had to sleep in that crusty inn.”
“For the last time, it wasn’t my fault that I got locked in the bathroom.”
He laughs and the sound loosens something inside me. “I’ll let you off the hook, but only because if we’d made our train, we wouldn’t have seen our new favorite TV show.”
“Or eaten the world’s most amazing pizza,” I add.
He grins and a tingle runs the length of my spine, gathering in the hollow space behind my belly button.
“I’m glad you decided not to ditch me when you had the chance last night,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t have ditched you, Ada.”
“Because you’re afraid of my sister?” I tease.
His bottom lip disappears between his teeth, and he shakes his head. “I mean, yes, she’s terrifying, but also…” His voice trails off, gaze dipping from my eyes, then lower, before settling on my lips.
A rush of awareness floods my body and suddenly I’m desperate for him to finish that sentence. To scrape back the layer of unspoken thoughts between us. Instead, he reaches under the table and puts his hand on the top of my knee. I expect it to be a transient gesture, there one moment, gone the next, but he leaves his hand long enough that it feels like his skin is sizzling straight through the fabric of my jeans. A bolt of unrestrained desire shoots down my center and I cast my gaze downward, hoping he doesn’t notice the hues of pink streaking my cheeks.
We definitely shouldn’t be touching like this—especially after hug-gate—but I can’t bring myself to move away. Not until two men enter the pub, making the bell jangle over the door. The sound snaps us back to reality and we both jump apart like we’ve been caught doing something we shouldn’t.
I look away, embarrassed. He clears his throat. Silence ensues.
“We should get going,” he says after a moment.
“You good to drive?” I ask, eyeing his half-finished glass of beer.
Jack nods and grabs the keys, looking everywhere but at me.
As we exit the pub, returning to the crisp morning air, I try to stay cool, to pretend like whatever the hell just happened didn’t set every nerve ending in my body on fire.
He’s just being nice , I tell myself. But Jack’s words from last night echo in my mind. That’s why you’re so hot and bothered over him? Because he’s nice?
Of course he’d meant Carter, but now the words feel strangely pointed, like tiny, highly accurate arrows directed right at the most vulnerable parts of my mind. Parts of my mind that can’t seem to stop thinking about the weight of Jack’s hand. Or the way his eyes dipped to my lips, lingering just a beat too long.
I try to shake the thought free, but as we walk to the car in silence I can’t help but feel like a door’s opened inside me. A door I’m not sure I can close again.