Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emily
The sponge squeaks across the ceramic plate as I scrub at a spot of dried gravy that refuses to budge. Water runs over my hands, too hot for comfort but not hot enough to distract from the third place setting I’d laid out with such care.
The plate still sits on the table, clean and empty, the napkin folded into a perfect triangle beside it. Leif’s place. Waiting for someone who never came.
“You can leave that to soak,” Jared says from behind me.
I ignore him, putting more pressure on the sponge until my knuckles whiten. The gravy spot surrenders, finally, and I rinse the plate with a frustrated twist of my wrist.
“The stew turned out good,” Jared adds.
I grunt in response and reach for another dirty dish. My own plate. The food had dried out after an hour of waiting.
Nine thirty now. Dinner was meant to be at seven.
The bread I baked sits on the cutting board, its crust hardened beyond salvation.
I’d pulled it from the oven at the perfect moment, when the top had turned golden brown, filling the air with yeast and warmth.
By the time we gave up waiting and ate without Leif, it had cooled past its prime.
The screen of my phone lights up on the counter, and I check it, hope rising before I squash it flat. Not Leif. A news alert about a winter storm warning.
His last message circles through my mind for the hundredth time tonight. Got held up with urgent school business. Leaving now.
Dish soap bubbles rise up my wrists as I plunge my hands back into the sink. “What kind of school business keeps him until nine at night? What meeting runs two hours past schedule without a single text message to let us know?”
No anger rises in me, though I wish it would. Anger would be easier than this quiet, heavy disappointment that settles under my ribs.
Jared leans against the refrigerator, watching me, his salt-air scent wrapping around me with a need to comfort, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “He didn’t say?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“This is becoming a pattern with him,” Jared says, a hard edge creeping in. “Three times this month.”
“He’s still adjusting to the new workload,” I say, my fingers finding the third wineglass on the counter. “Teaching is demanding.”
“His job ends when he drops Quinn off at the docks to go home. He’s choosing to overload his schedule with all this other work at the Academy.”
I rinse the glass, though we’d corked the bottle of wine we opened to save it for another time. “Maybe there was an issue at school.”
“And his phone doesn’t work?” Jared’s jaw tightens. “One text, Em. That’s all it would take.”
“It would look bad to be caught texting during a meeting,” I say, the excuse sounding empty.
Jared sighs. “You always defend him.”
I turn off the water. “He’s trying.”
Jared’s pheromones shift to bitter brine. “Is he, though?”
The table still holds evidence of our hopeful planning, with the third chair pulled out, candles burned to nubs, and the bread basket empty except for crumbs.
I dry my hands and cross to the table where the maroon cloth napkin I set out for Leif lies untouched. I chose it for its color, a mauve echo of his hair, shifting between pink and brown depending on the light.
I lift the napkin with care to preserve its creases. “He’s just not very good at this yet.”
“At what? Basic courtesy?” Jared says, soften despite his harsh words. “You deserve better, Em.”
I fold the napkin into a perfect square and place it in the drawer, tucking away my disappointment with it. “He’ll explain tomorrow.”
Jared tracks my movements, and when I turn back to the sink, he approaches from behind, his steps quiet. Heat radiates from his tall frame as he stops close enough to surround me in his presence without touching.
“Em,” he says, my name on his lips a question and an offering.
I grip the edge of the counter. “I keep telling myself there’s a good explanation.”
His hands find my waist, warm through the fabric of the silk blouse I put on for tonight. The physical contact grounds me as the disappointment threatens to pull me under.
“Maybe there is,” he offers, but his lack of conviction reveals his true thoughts.
I shake my head. “He keeps doing this.”
Jared’s fingers tighten on my waist. “He does.”
The night turns the kitchen window into a mirror, reflecting our silhouettes back at us. My silver hair catches the golden light of the kitchen lamps. Jared’s tall frame is behind mine, steady as always. The empty space where a third person should stand.
“He should have called,” I whisper. “He should have texted before nine.”
Jared’s chin comes to rest on my shoulder, his chest expanding against my back as he breathes in. “Yes, he should have.”
Silence settles between us as I lean back into his solid warmth.
“The bread would have been perfect if he’d made it on time,” I murmur, grief for small, stupid things threatening to choke me. “I timed it perfectly.”
Jared’s arms slide around my middle, hugging me to him. “You did. You always do.”
The simple acknowledgment of effort tightens my throat. I close my eyes and let my head rest back on his shoulder, inhaling the salt air and driftwood clinging to his skin.
“I’m not angry,” I tell him, needing the words spoken aloud. “I’m…”
“Disappointed,” he finishes. “Again.”
There’s a pattern forming. A familiar one that tugs at old scars, threatening to reopen wounds barely healed.
“Do you think it was really just the PTA meeting running over?” I ask, the question breaking free after circling my mind all evening.
Jared’s warm breath brushes my temple. “I’m not sure.”
He doesn’t offer false reassurance or false hope. He doesn’t know any more than I do, and the not-knowing is half the problem.
“Come on,” Jared says after a long silence, his hands sliding from my waist. “The rest can wait till morning.”
“Okay.”
He takes my hand and leads me away from the sink full of dishes, away from the evidence of a dinner planned for three but eaten by two. Away from unanswered questions about a man who keeps disappearing when he claims to want to be here.
The living room greets us with the gentle glow of the reading lamp I left on earlier.
Shadows ripple across the exposed beams as Jared stokes the embers, adding a split log that catches with a soft whoosh.
Heat rolls from the hearth, fighting back the December chill seeping through the cottage windows despite the heavy curtains I hung last week.
Jared settles beside me, his weight on the cushion dipping me into his side. The crocheted throw draped over the armrest ends up around our shoulders, Jared’s hands tucking it close with quiet care.
“The donation center called earlier,” Jared says, rubbing the tension from my shoulder. “They’ve sorted everything we dropped off. Said your handmade toys were the first items claimed.”
My lips curve upward despite the sadness. “Those wooden puzzles took forever.”
“Worth every splinter,” Jared agrees, hand moving to the back of my neck. “And the patchwork bears went to the younger kids.”
I picture tiny fingers clutching the bear I’d sewn from fabric scraps, each piece selected for softness. That was a good thing I did.
Jared’s fingers find my hair, combing through the loose strands at the nape of my neck, and the gentle pressure on my scalp uncoils a fraction of the tension gathering there.
“And Mrs. Hernandez said the jackets I found at Secondhand Treasures will go to the angel program at the public school,” he continues. “Five kids won’t be cold at recess come January.”
A laugh escapes me, small but real. “You’re amazing.”
“Twenty dollars can stretch a long way when you have enough patience to keep searching the racks every week for new arrivals,” Jared replies, his thumb now tracing slow circles on my shoulder blade.
I lean into him, my body seeking his warmth.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” I whisper, the fear slipping out before I can catch it.
Jared’s hand pauses on my back. “He will.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No,” he admits, resuming the gentle circles. “But I’ve seen how he looks at you. How he fits with us.”
The fire crackles and spits as the log catches, casting our shadows across the far wall. Mixie emerges from wherever she’s been hiding, stretching before leaping onto the coffee table. She blinks at us, tail swishing in silent judgment.
“He fits when he’s here,” I say, watching the cat knead the table runner with her front paws. “But he’s here less and less.”
Jared doesn’t argue the point. His hand slides down my arm to find my wrist, his thumb tracing slow patterns. The gentle touch sends tingles up my nerve endings, familiar and comforting.
The muscles in my shoulders loosen, and my pulse slows from the anxious rhythm it’s maintained all evening, settling into a calmer beat that matches the slow circle of Jared’s thumb on my skin.
We sit in silence for a while, connected by touch and proximity, while my breathing deepens with each pass of his fingers. The disappointment remains, but it recedes to a manageable ache rather than the sharp pain of earlier.
I turn my head to find Jared watching me, his sea-glass eyes reflecting the dancing firelight, and the concern there warms me more than the flames.
“Better?” he asks, searching my face.
Instead of answering, I lift my hand to his cheek, palm cradling his jaw. The slight stubble there pricks my skin, a pleasant friction that anchors me to this moment, to this man who stays when he says he will.
When our lips meet, the kiss carries no urgency. Jared lets me set the pace, his mouth gentle on mine, responding to each shift in pressure with careful attention as his hand slides up to cup my elbow.
The kiss deepens, shaped by familiarity with each other. He tilts his head the way that fits us best, adjusting without thought. And when I trace his bottom lip with my tongue, asking for more without words, the soft sound he makes sinks into the depths of me.