Chapter 23
Abby
Twenty One Weeks
“Virginia, this is incredible,” I say through a mouthful of stuffing. “Truly the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had.”
“Oh, hush,” she says, unable to hide the satisfied smirk trying to break through. “The meat is dry and the pie crust didn’t come out right.”
“Granny,” Jack says exasperatedly. “If this turkey is dry, then I’m a monkey’s uncle. And what do you mean the pie crust didn’t turn out?”
“The lattice is uneven,” she says, taking a demure bite of food. “I got the spacing all wrong.”
“Oh, of course,” he drawls, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I forgot that the design directly impacts the flavor. Better throw it out, then.”
“Don’t you sass me, young man,” she says, her tone stern but her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Are you really going to have bad manners in front of our guest?”
“Sorry, Granny,” he says with a sheepish grin. “But quit pretending like this isn’t a Food Network worthy Thanksgiving dinner. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Watching the two of them together is incredible. I feel like I've unlocked another side of Jack—one that's relaxed, and carefree, and open with his emotions. They're so comfortable with one another, and you can tell they adore each other. I don't know exactly what, but it's doing something to me.
Doing something for me, more like.
“Truly,” I add emphatically. “My dad can’t even heat up a frozen Marie Callender properly, so this is divine. Thank you so much for having me.”
“Anytime, honey,” she says, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “You and that baby girl deserve the best meal Larkspur has to offer.”
“So you agree,” Jack says, pointing his fork at her. “Yours is the best Thanksgiving in a fifty mile radius.”
“Well, I didn’t say that,” she mutters with an air of humility. “But I guess it’s not the worst meal I’ve ever made.”
“Little One thanks you for your service,” I say, shoveling a large forkful of potatoes into my mouth. “They aren’t kidding when they talk about eating for two.”
“How are you feeling these days?” Granny asks. “I know I’m not your Granny, but that doesn’t stop me from fussing like I am anyway.”
“I’m okay,” I say vaguely. “Every day is different, you know?”
She nods knowingly, and I can feel Jack’s eyes on me, waiting to see if I’m actually okay.
If I’m being honest, I don’t think I even know. The past six weeks have been a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, and I’ve found myself increasingly panicky about it. I haven’t been able to make hide nor hair of any of it.
I feel like I’m on a giant pendulum, constantly swinging between overwhelming gratitude for the way Jack has shown up for and paralyzing guilt that I’ve found solace in anyone but Aaron.
I know it’s irrational–I can’t exactly find solace in someone who isn’t here anymore.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m betraying his memory every time I find comfort in his best friend.
Not to mention the fact that I can’t un-see how disgustingly hot Jack is.
No amount of reminders that my hormones are basically a runaway train right now can unring the bell he rang when he lifted me onto the kitchen counter that night.
That singular, seemingly innocuous moment has shown up in my dreams repeatedly, so much so that I have a hard time even looking at him sometimes.
Which is exactly why I’m avoiding looking at him in this moment–because how do I tell him (and his granny) that I’m very much not okay right now, not because of my husband, but because of the man sitting across the table from me.
I know none of it is real–the feelings, the “home” we’ve built for now, the false sense of security in feeling like I have a partner in this.
It’s all temporary. It’s a coping mechanism, a way to avoid completely succumbing to the harsh reality that eventually this temporary life will eventually end, and I’ll have to be on my own.
He’ll want to get back to his real life eventually. He can’t babysit me forever.
And that shouldn’t make me so sad.
I look up from my plate, my stomach clenching when I find Jack looking at me with a slight concern that seems permanently etched on his face.
His light brunette hair, which is somehow always perfect, looks almost like molten copper in the light of the sunset coming through the dining room window.
His light blue button up hugs his shoulders perfectly, the half-rolled sleeves revealing the defined muscles of his forearms.
I've read about hot forearms with taut muscles and visible veins in my books, but I didn't get it until now.
The color of his shirt brings out entirely new hues in his eyes–almost powder blue instead of slate. I’ve gone fifteen years without giving his appearance a second thought, and now it’s all I can seem to focus on. He is all I can focus on.
It makes me sick to my stomach. I’m a grieving widow, a prospective mother–the last thing on my mind should be my dead husband’s best friend, no matter how hot he is.
I have got to stop thinking of him as ‘hot.’
“Really,” I repeat, smiling at Jack, desperately hoping it comes across as genuine. “I’m exhausted and hungry, and I miss Aaron so much sometimes I can’t breathe, but everyone has been so supportive. Especially Jack.”
His lips twitch upward in a smile, but his eyes are still slightly narrowed at me. I wish he’d stop looking at me so intensely all the time.
“Well good,” Granny says. “That doesn’t surprise me. I raised him right, after all.”
“Best to ever do it,” he says affectionately, finally turning his attention off of me. The way he looks at her makes me absolutely melt. There’s so much unbridled love and respect on his face, it’s almost too much to look at.
Sometimes he looks at me that way.
And someday he’ll look at his wife like that.
I hate that thought. I hate the fact that I hate it even more.
I manage to get through the rest of the evening with my thoughts shoved as far into the recesses of my mind as possible.
It really was lovely to watch them all night.
I’ve never spent this much time with Jack and Granny together.
No wonder he seems like a man written by a woman–he absolutely was, and Virginia Robb might be the best author I’ve ever met.
I decide to take my leave when Jack and Granny begin to tackle the dishes. “I would offer to help, but I’m just feeling really tired,” I say apologetically. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, honey,” Granny says, waving her soapy, gloved hand in my direction. “Guests don’t do dishes. Off you get, thank you for joining us.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I holler over my shoulder, not giving Jack a chance to speak before I quickly exit the house. On paper, today was, by all accounts, a perfectly lovely day spent with the people I’m most thankful for.
So why doesn’t it feel like it?
I rush through my bedtime routine, determined to be asleep (or at least in a position to feign sleep) by the time Jack gets home.
I stay still as a statue when I hear him come in, peeking through my door to see if I’m still awake.
I can’t tell for sure, but part of me thinks he knows I’m faking it.
A bigger part of me thinks he saw right through my “I’m okay” bullshit at dinner.
Even though it makes my face burn with shame, the only thing I can manage to be thankful for is the fact that he didn’t call me on it.