Chapter 17 The Birthday
The Birthday
Maren
* * *
Delilah Wilder turns sixty-eight on a Saturday in early September, and she refuses to acknowledge it.
The cookout at her east house is "just because," she insists, waving away the banner the ranch hands made and pretending not to see the cake I spent four hours decorating with sixty-eight tiny fondant horses.
"You're ridiculous," she tells me when she sees it, her eyes suspiciously bright. "All of you. It's just a number."
"A number that took me three batches of fondant to commemorate." I set the cake on the table and step back to admire my work. "Blue and purple horses. I decided your birthday deserved better than brown."
"They're perfect." She pulls me into a hug that smells like her signature perfume, something expensive and floral. "You're perfect. Thank you."
I hold her a little longer before letting her inspect the horses. "Happy birthday, Delilah."
"Hush." But she's smiling as she says it.
The party fills the east house yard with noise and laughter.
Ranch hands cluster around the coolers, telling stories that grow taller with every beer.
Helen from the committee holds court near the dessert table, critiquing my frosting technique with the authority of a woman who's been baking since before I was born.
Jake the farrier hovers near Delilah with the poorly disguised devotion of a man who thinks he's being subtle.
Jackson is at the grill, handling steaks with the confidence of someone who's done this a hundred times. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, his hair disheveled from the wind, and every time he looks across the yard at me, my stomach does something inconvenient.
"Medium rare for Helen," he calls out, sliding a steak onto a plate. "Tyler, yours is the one that's still mooing."
"That's how I like it, boss." Tyler grabs his plate with a grin. "Thank you kindly."
I find a spot near the fire pit as the sun starts to sink, warming my hands against the growing chill.
The flames paint everything golden, and I watch the party swirl around me: ranch hands laughing, Delilah pretending to scold someone for giving her a present, Jackson moving between the grill and the coolers with easy confidence.
"That seat has an excellent view of my son." Delilah appears beside me with two glasses of wine, handing one over without asking if I want it. "Not that I blame you. He cleans up reasonably well."
I look pointedly at the flames, which would make a much more convincing excuse if I hadn't been following Jackson across the yard. "I chose it for the fire."
"Mmhmm." She settles into the chair next to mine, arranging her silk scarf with the determined elegance of a woman who refuses to let the cold spoil her outfit. "And I'm the Queen of England."
I lift my glass in a small toast to her improbable reign. "Long live the Queen."
Delilah laughs, a warm sound that makes me understand where Jackson gets his charm. "I'm glad you came tonight. I wasn't sure you would."
I look toward the cake table, relieved to have proof that doesn't involve her son. "I made the cake. I had to see people eat it."
Delilah follows my glance toward Jake, who is trying to keep a badly wrapped parcel out of her sight. "He told me he wasn't buying a present. Look at the size of that lie."
I can't help laughing. "You could let the poor man surprise you."
"At my age? He'd better hurry." She squeezes my hand before turning back toward me. "You'll come for lunch this week, won't you? Just us."
I squeeze back. "Of course I will."
Before I can ask what Jake bought, Jackson appears at the edge of the fire pit with a folded jacket over his arm.
"Getting cold out here." He holds out his jacket. I lean forward to accept it, and he settles it around my shoulders. "Mom, Jake's looking for you. Something about a present he insists he didn't buy."
"That man." Delilah stands, brushing off her skirt. "He's the worst liar in three counties."
She heads toward the house, leaving me alone with Jackson and the fire. He takes the chair his mother vacated, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
Jackson rests his arm along the back of the chair, close enough that I can lean toward him if I want. "Having a good time?"
I shift in the chair to make room for the bulk of his jacket. "Your mother has opinions about where I chose to sit."
Jackson starts to rise, teasing me with the possibility. "Would you like me to move?"
"I chose it for the fire." I pull his jacket tighter around me. It smells like woodsmoke and him. "You just happened to be in my line of sight."
"Convenient." He's smiling, that half-smile I've always loved, the one that makes him look like he's got a secret he might share if you ask nicely. "I've been watching you all night, just so you know. Fair's fair."
I pull the jacket tighter to hide how much I like hearing that. "That's not creepy at all."
He gestures toward the tables as if his interest is purely professional. "It's my mother's birthday party. I'm being a good host."
I glance around the crowded yard, then back at him. "By staring at one guest?"
He leaves the excuse unfinished and gives me the honest answer instead. "By hoping one particular guest will sit with me."
I should push back. Make a joke, change the subject, maintain the careful distance I've been building for months. Instead I lean slightly toward him, letting our shoulders brush.
"The steaks were good." I keep my shoulder against his. "You owe yourself a break."
Jackson stretches his legs toward the fire, finally off his feet. "I had a reason to finish early."
I nudge his boot with mine, unwilling to let him look quite so pleased. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He turns to look at me, firelight dancing across his face. "It's already there. I'm going to be insufferable about it for weeks."
I laugh, and something loosens in my chest that's been tight for longer than I can remember. The party continues around us, but it feels distant somehow, like we're in a bubble that the noise can't quite penetrate.
Jackson lowers his voice so the guests by the fire won't hear. "I've been thinking about the meadow. About that kiss."
I make him specify it, enjoying the flush that rises above his collar. "Which one?"
"Both. Either." He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture I recognize. "I've been thinking about it a lot, actually. It's been making it hard to concentrate on anything else."
"Poor Jackson." I'm teasing, but my heart is beating faster. "Such a difficult life."
"The worst." He shifts in his chair, angling his body toward mine. "Maren, I know we're taking things slow. I know you need time and space and all the things I should have given you before. But I need you to know that kiss meant something to me. It meant everything to me."
The firelight catches his eyes, and I see it there: hope. Fragile, terrified hope that I might feel the same way.
I stop teasing long enough to give him the answer he's waiting for. "It meant something to me too."
His fingers pause beside mine on the chair arm, waiting for confirmation. "Yeah?"
I turn my hand over so he can take it. "Yeah."
He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. Just that, just contact, and my whole body feels warmer than the fire could ever make it.
"I'd like more time with you tonight." He stops rubbing his thumb across my knuckles and waits for me to decide.
I think about everything that's happened.
The months of silence, the careful rebuilding, the kiss in the meadow that cracked something open inside me.
I think about the jacket around my shoulders and the hand in mine and the way he looks at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
I tighten my fingers around his before I can talk myself out of asking. "I have a better idea. Follow me to my place."
* * *
I've left my wine unfinished and had water with dinner.
Jackson has been drinking soda. The drive takes twenty minutes.
I watch his headlights in my rearview mirror the whole way, twin points of light following me through the dark.
My heart beats a steady rhythm against my ribs, not nervous exactly but aware.
Awake in a way I haven't felt in months.
I park behind Patterson Hardware and wait for him at the base of the stairs. He climbs out of his truck and crosses the lot, stopping just short of touching me.
Jackson stays at the bottom of the stairs until I turn back to him. "You're sure?"
I take his hand before we start up the stairs. I want him to understand that I'm choosing this. "I'm sure."
The stairs creak under our feet. I unlock the door and lead him inside, hitting the light switch by the entrance. I remember his last visit, the flowers blocking my invoices and that cookbook I couldn't accept. Tonight he's here because I want him here.
"You found a place for the flowers' vase." He notices it on the shelf, now full of wooden spoons.
I close the door and put my keys beside the vase. I can laugh about it now. "It was either that or keep walking around it."
He stops looking at the shelf and turns toward me. "I'll try not to get in your way this time."
I close the distance between us and kiss him.
This is different from the meadow. No soft start, no gentle testing.
I kiss him without stopping to remind myself of all the reasons I'm angry.
I know them. I also know I've missed him.
He makes a sound in his throat and pulls me closer, his hands sliding up my back, and I stop thinking about anything except how good this feels, how right.
I take his hand and lead him down the short hall. At the bedroom door, I turn back and pull him close again.
"I love you," he says against my lips. "I never stopped loving you. I need you to know that."
"I know." I pull back enough to see his face, to make sure he sees mine. "I love you too. That was never the question."
He stays close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek, but waits for my answer. "What is the question?"
"Whether we can be better than we were." I touch his face, trace the line of his jaw. "Whether we can build something that doesn't break."
He holds my hand against his cheek, keeping me close while he answers. "I want to try. I want to spend the rest of my life trying."
I draw him into another kiss, done talking for the moment. "Then try."
* * *
Later, we lie tangled in my sheets, the apartment quiet around us. Jackson's hand traces slow patterns on my shoulder, and I let myself enjoy the feeling of being held, being wanted, being exactly where I want to be.
I trace the seam of the pillowcase beneath his head, trying to make the words as gentle as I feel. "I'm not ready to move back to the ranch. Not yet."
"I know." His hand doesn't stop moving. "That's okay."
I smooth the sheet beside my hip, grateful for the ordinary room around us. "I like being here. I need a little longer before I know what I want to do next."
His hand stays gentle against my shoulder. He doesn't make me explain it again. "I understand."
I tip my face toward his so he can hear this without mistaking it for a rejection. "And I need you to keep showing up. Not grand gestures, not helicopters and meadows every week. Just showing up."
"I can do that." He presses a kiss to my hair. "I want to do that."
I want to believe him. Tonight has been good, and I'm allowed to enjoy it without deciding everything else.
I kiss his shoulder before asking for what I need. "You should go. It's late."
Jackson props himself on an elbow, checking my expression before he tries the joke. "Kicking me out already?"
"Sending you home." I prop myself up on an elbow to look at him. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He searches my face, and I can see how badly he wants a yes. "Is that a promise?"
"It's a plan." I kiss him once more, soft and brief. "Go home, Jackson."
He goes. I watch him dress in the low light, watch him pause at the bedroom door to look back at me, watch him walk down the hallway and out of the apartment with the careful quiet of someone trying not to wake the neighbors.
I stay in bed and listen to his truck start, then pull away, then fade into the distance.
The sheets smell like him. The pillow holds the indent of his head. I'm glad I invited him. I'm glad I can stretch across the bed now, too. Apparently I can want both.
I fall asleep thinking about the December job, about Montana, about the look on his face when I said follow me to my place. My future is full of things I can't predict, choices I haven't made yet.
Tomorrow he'll call. I already know I want to answer.