Chapter 14
48 hours until the wedding
“Are you sure this is safe?” I ask, examining the rusty hood of the 1974 Peugeot.
I’m no car expert. Scratch that. I’m barely able to operate a motor vehicle. I’ve had four speeding tickets and three driving infractions in two years—something Carter would incessantly tease me about. But this car doesn’t look like it will make it forty feet out of the driveway, much less all the way to Edinburgh. The taillight is hanging out, the hood is rusted through, and when Jack started the engine it made a few popping noises that sounded like gunshots.
“It’s fine,” Jack says with a wave of his hand.
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “Because it looks like a metal death trap, and that’s putting it lightly.”
“It’s only a hundred and seventy miles, we’ll be fine. Don’t you trust me?” he asks.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s the car,” I say, casting the steering wheel a dubious glance. “Are you going to be okay driving on the other side of the road?”
He shrugs. “How hard can it be?”
The answer: harder than expected.
First off, there are no traffic lights. Only roundabouts, which are extra confusing when you’re driving on the other side of the road. I screamed the first time Jack tried to turn into the oncoming traffic out of a roundabout.
I figured things would get easier once we got onto the motorway, but Jack’s depth perception is off because he isn’t used to driving on the left side and we keep accidentally veering out of our lane.
We’ve already been flipped off six times. At first, I thought people were throwing up the peace sign until I figured out that holding up your middle and index finger is the British equivalent of the bird. Jack tries to explain that this has something to do with the Hundred Years’ War between France and England, but I’m too busy trying not to die to listen.
Fortunately, several brushes with death and one tearful plea to drop me off at the next petrol station later, Jack seems to get the hang of it. Now we’re on something called the M6 headed north toward Scotland. According to Google Maps we should arrive in Edinburgh in three and a half hours.
Jack fiddles with the radio and I secretly hope he picks something terrible to listen to—something like talk radio or Nickelback—so as to ease the burden of my little crush on him. Instead, he lands on an eighties station playing “Edge of Seventeen” and starts humming along. Dammit. He even has good taste in music.
“So…” he says, keeping his eyes focused on the road as Stevie Nicks’s voice croons in the background.
“So…?” I parrot.
Jack clears his throat. “I was thinking about what you said last night, about how you told Allison it was a mistake to marry Collin.”
My insides pull tight, a dozen tiny, internal alarms all tripped at once. “I thought we agreed to forget everything I said about Collin?”
“But I thought things were different now,” he says, tipping his chin toward me. “I mean, for starters, we’re married.”
My mouth twitches. “We’re still married?”
He looks at me with mock horror. “Of course we are. Marriage is a lifelong commitment. Or at least that’s what some girl on a train told me.”
I know he’s teasing, but based on the traitorous flop of my stomach, I don’t think my body gets the memo.
“I know you said you don’t trust Collin, or any of the men Allison’s dated. But did Collin do something? Or is there a specific reason you don’t like him? Besides the fact that he’s the human equivalent of an unwrapped, under-the-seat Hershey’s Kiss?”
“My sister’s dated a lot of questionable men,” I say, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “Everyone she’s ever dated has turned out to be a creep or a criminal or a cheater…” My mind stalls on Bradley. “Or just a downright bad guy.”
“So? Collin’s not questionable.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Of course he’s questionable. He’s ten years older than her. And they barely know each other.”
“Age doesn’t make someone questionable,” Jack points out. “It’s not like she’s a minor. She’s twenty-four.”
I huff in frustration, letting my eyes zip to the window, where we pass a flock of sheep. “You don’t understand.”
“Okay, so explain it to me. We still have three hours until we make it to Edinburgh.”
My lips firm. I hadn’t wanted to talk about Bradley, but something in me needs Jack to understand. To get where my protectiveness is coming from.
“Before Collin, Allison dated this other guy. Bradley ,” I say. “And let’s just say he wasn’t a great guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like he would tell her what to wear, and how to act, and got really jealous. He was sort of…” The word dangles on the tip of my tongue. Abusive. “He was kind of a jerk,” I say instead. “I told her she needed to end things with him, but she was scared to.”
Jack’s brows dip into thoughtful ridges. “For some reason I’m having a hard time picturing Allison being scared to break up with someone.”
“I know Allison acts tough and all, but it’s not easy to walk out of a situation like that. Especially when every time he did something like scream at her or cause a scene, he’d be back a week later begging for forgiveness, telling her he was sorry, but also that it was somehow her fault in the first place and really she’d brought it on herself.”
“That’s fucked up. I had no idea.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jack swallow hard, and I can’t help the tiny ping of vindication inside my chest.
“Allison was afraid he wouldn’t take it well if she broke things off,” I go on. “So I helped her pack up all her stuff while Bradley was out. We changed her cell phone number and deleted all her social media profiles so he couldn’t find her. But somehow Bradley got her new number and he started texting her scary stuff every day, getting mad at her for leaving him and saying she was going to regret it.”
I bite back the bitter memories rising inside me. All the nights Allison called me in tears, crying so hard she could barely talk. Nights I’d fall asleep with my ringer at full volume just in case she needed me.
Jack shakes his head, shock and something darker swallowing his expression. “What happened? Did she get rid of him?”
“Eventually I helped Allison get a restraining order against him and he stopped bothering her,” I say. “But for a while she was afraid to leave the house and I moved her in with Carter and me until she could find somewhere new to live.”
Jack’s eyes stay trained on the road, but his gaze narrows, brows pushing into a furrow. After a pause, he says, “I’m sorry that happened. But is this about Bradley or about Collin?”
“Neither. It’s about Allison,” I say sharply. “Everything with Collin happened so fast. And I’m worried they’re rushing into things, that she’s not really thinking about this, and I’ll have to come and clean up the mess. Like I always do.”
Jack’s mouth tightens, expression sharpening on the road ahead. “I get that what happened with this Bradley guy was bad, but aren’t you being sort of unfair? Collin isn’t Bradley.”
Frustration tugs at my chest. Jack doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand what it was like when Bradley would leave Allison voicemails every day telling her she was worthless without him. Or when she’d call me crying and hysterical over his latest outburst.
Jack also doesn’t understand that the only reason she was able to get out of that relationship was because of me. Because I cut the cord. Because I helped her move out. Because I changed her phone number and filed the police report. Now I’m afraid something like that could happen again. Maybe not the same exact thing, but I’ve been through this enough times to know that my sister’s relationships always end the same way. With Allison crying and heartbroken, and me picking up the pieces. And I don’t see why this will be any different.
“I thought you’d understand my reservations,” I say, voice thickening. “Given that you’re against marriage and all.”
A muscle in Jack’s jaw jumps, tension straddling the bridge of his mouth. “This isn’t about marriage, this is about me trying to understand why you hate my best friend.”
“I don’t hate him,” I say. “I just don’t want my sister to make another mistake, especially one that I could have prevented her from making.”
“But you have to let her make her own mistakes. Even if you think you know best. So what if things don’t work out with her and Collin? Then you’ll be there for her when she needs you. You’re her sister, not her keeper.”
“You don’t get it,” I tell him. “Allison’s not a cynic like you. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She falls in love hard and fast—which is great if you’re Meg Ryan in a Nora Ephron film, but not so great in the real world where there are predatory jerks who take advantage of people like my sister.”
Jack’s mouth sets into a hard line, visible threads of annoyance weaving across his features. “I understand that you’re protective of her, but she’s a grown-ass woman. She doesn’t need you to save her. Especially not from Collin,” he says, giving me a heavy side-eye. “He’s a good guy, Ada. He’ll treat her right.”
I squeeze my lips tight, trying to mask the emotion rising in my throat. “I get that Collin is your bestie and you have to defend him, but the way I see it, he’s a glorified frat star who touches boobs for a living. So excuse me if I don’t trust the guy.”
Jack takes one hand off the steering wheel and runs it through his hair. “ Yes , Collin does breast implants, which is a very real and valid profession, by the way.” He pauses to shoot me a cutting glance. “But I’m gonna assume you don’t know that he also does reconstructive surgery for domestic abuse and burn victims, or that he’s one of the best people I know. So no ,” Jack says, voice tightening, “he’s not exactly the douchey frat star you have him pegged as.”
“But—”
“And I’m sure you don’t know about the time Collin drove all the way to Canada to get some special tea for her when she was sick, or when she had food poisoning and Collin stayed up all night with her. Or the time her dog got something stuck in its throat so Collin drove them to the vet at three a.m. Or the—”
“Okay, we get it,” I interrupt. “Thanks for the reminder that my sister basically wants nothing to do with me.”
“I’m just saying, if you want to judge Collin based on the actions of some loser Allison used to date, okay, fine, but you’re wrong about him,” Jack says, eyes briefly cutting to mine. “Support this marriage or don’t, but don’t blame Collin for your own prejudices.”
My stomach constricts and I sink lower in my seat, bottom lip disappearing between my teeth.
Part of me wants to double down, to tell him he doesn’t get it. That he wasn’t there when Allison went through the aftermath of Bradley when she cried herself to sleep for months. That it wasn’t just Allison who was hurt. It hurt me too. It hurt me to see her like that and I’m terrified of it happening again. But another part of me feels caught, like Jack’s uncovered an ugly side of me. A side I didn’t want anyone to see.
“I thought you don’t believe in relationships,” I say after a beat.
His eyes darken. “I don’t.”
I sit up straighter. “So aren’t you being hypocritical? I can’t be concerned about my sister’s well-being when she decides to marry some guy I don’t even know? But you can tell Collin not to get married?”
His jaw sharpens. “That’s between Collin and me.”
“ What’s between Collin and you?”
He inhales sharply followed by a noisy exhale. “It’s personal,” he says.
There’s that word again. Personal. Aka off-limits.
“So you’re not gonna tell me? I thought you were my husband.”
Jack shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t say anything. Okay. Ouch. He can make jokes, but I can’t?
“Did something happen between you two?” I try. “Is that the reason you aren’t looking forward to the wedding?”
“We’re fine.” But there’s an edge to his voice that sounds decidedly not fine.
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
I try to catch his eye, waiting for an explanation, but he keeps his focus pinned to the road ahead.
Irritation rises in my throat like bile. Apparently we can mindlessly flirt and eat pizza in bed and muse about my relationships with Carter and my sister, but that’s it. My personal life is up for consumption. His is not.
With the exceptions of one of us commenting on directions or asking to change the radio station, the next hour passes in silence.
I force my attention out the window, hoping the velvety farmland and winding country lanes will somehow unwind the knot of tension clenched inside me.
We’re just passing signs for Northumberland National Park when the car gives a little thump followed by metal crushing against asphalt.
“What was that?” I ask, jerking my head up.
The muscles in Jack’s jaw stiffen, but he doesn’t say anything as he pulls us over to the side of the road.
“I don’t know. Let me check it out,” he says, killing the engine and hopping out of the car.
I hope Jack knows something about cars, because if we have to count on me, we will be stuck here forever.
I wait a full thirty seconds before I get out of the car.
“Everything okay down there?” I ask, craning my neck as he bends down to examine the car’s underbelly.
“Tire’s shredded,” he says, shaking his head.
I take a peek and sure enough the entire tire on the back righthand side is blown out, and all that’s left are the shredded remains of rubber wrapped lazily around the rim.
Great. Just great. I knew this car was a bad idea.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“As long as this car has a spare, we’ll be fine.” Jack pops open the trunk and sticks his head inside.
“And if it doesn’t?”
He stares blankly at me. “We die.”
I purse my lips. Okay, not helping.
“Do you even know how to change a tire?”
“Yes, Ada,” he says with a hint of annoyance like I’ve just suggested he doesn’t know how to brush his teeth. “I can change a tire.”
He pulls up the plastic bottom of the trunk to reveal a skinny spare tire.
“This will work.” He removes his jacket and tosses it onto the passenger seat. Then he crouches down beside the blown-out tire to examine the damage. “Is there a wrench in the back?” he asks after a minute.
I scurry to the back of the car and peer inside the trunk. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. What kind of wrench? Aren’t there different types?
My eyes land on a metal cross. That must be it. I hastily grab it and hand it to Jack.
“Here,” I say, pretending I’m totally confident I knew exactly what to look for.
He presses the wrench into the hubcap and begins to screw it (or maybe unscrew?) counterclockwise.
I find myself momentarily mesmerized by corded bands of muscle flexing under his forearms until he says, “Now I need the jack.”
“The what?”
“The jack,” he repeats, this time louder.
“Like your name?”
“Yes, the jack as in me ,” he says flatly.
“Jeez. You don’t have to be so bossy,” I mutter over my shoulder as I open the trunk.
The jack . I need to find the jack. What’s a jack? I push aside an empty gas can and a box of jumper cables. What if there is no jack? What then? Are we stuck here forever? I have AAA, but I doubt that works in the UK.
Jack appears beside me, craning over my shoulder. “This,” he says, picking up a diamond-shaped tool with springs. “This is a jack.”
Not fair. I totally didn’t even see that.
“Have you ever changed a tire before?” he asks.
I shake my head and Jack’s eyes widen with surprise.
“No one ever showed you how? Not even your perfect boyfriend?”
Again, I shake my head. Carter was good at a lot of things, but he wasn’t exactly Mr. Fix It.
“Come here,” Jack says, ushering me toward him. “I’ll show you.”
I kneel beside him, pretending his firm but kind tone doesn’t awaken little thrills across my body.
He begins to jack the car up. Oh. The jack . That makes sense now.
“We have to crank it up so that it takes the weight off,” he explains, pointing to the crank. “Do you want to try?”
I take the crank and give it a push just like he did, but it doesn’t move. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
“Here.” He puts his hand on top of mine, guiding me.
We continue like that, muscles moving in tandem, using our combined strength (okay, fine, mostly his) until a water droplet lands on my face. For a moment I think I might have broken a sweat, until I look up and a few more land in my eyes.
“It’s raining,” I say, like that’s not abundantly obvious.
“You can sit in the car,” he says, eyes focused intently on the jack. “I’ll get this done.”
“No way. I’m not going to sit in the car while you get rained on.” I reach inside the car and grab his jacket. “Here,” I say, holding it up, outstretched, over his head. But my makeshift covering only works for a little bit until the rain starts coming down diagonally.
“You should get back in the car,” he yells over the sound of the rain pummeling the concrete. “You’re going to get soaked.”
“It’s fine! I’m from Seattle,” I yell back.
Not gonna lie. It’s sort of hot. Him, crouched on the side of the road, wet T-shirt sticking to the contours of his chest like a second skin, muscles flexing.
My mind flutters back to last night and a burning sensation floods my chest. As much as I enjoyed watching Jack sew delicate lace, watching him change a tire in a wet T-shirt is infinitely better.
But the warmth in my chest tells me it isn’t just Jack’s varied repertoire of skills that I’m finding compelling. It’s the feeling of being cared for, of being looked after.
With Carter, it often felt like I was the one taking care of him, the one constantly managing his emotions, whether that be supporting his latest career endeavor or tiptoeing around the topic of marriage. But my feelings were my own to manage.
The same is true with Allison. I’ve always been the one looking after her and cleaning up her messes, and never the reverse. Which is fine. I like fixing things and taking care of those I love. But as I try not to stare at the stubborn piece of hair in Jack’s eyes, or the single drop of rainwater taking a seductive stroll down his neck, I realize there’s something nice about being the one told to sit in the car while someone else fixes it.
A few minutes later Jack announces he’s done, and we climb back into the car.
It’s not until I’m seated that I notice my bra is now visible through the thin fabric of my own wet T-shirt. My nipples are also hard as rocks, but I’m not entirely sure I can chalk that up to the cold.
“If you can see my bra, please don’t say anything,” I say, reaching for the heat control, which is of course broken.
“Don’t worry,” he says, eyes flashing to mine. “I won’t say anything about your pink bra.”
I roll my eyes and look away, pretending his words—and his gaze—don’t awaken little thrills across my skin.
This morning I’d wondered if we were still strangers or if we’d made the jump to friends. But maybe we’re neither. Maybe we’re something else. Some blurry third option that I can’t—or won’t—name.