9. This Is Extremely Cliché #2
“Okay. But I'm still here. And if I'm going to be trapped in your house, I'd like to contribute something besides sarcasm.”
That gets his attention. Jack finally looks up, and I hold his gaze. I've had years of practice being stubborn, and Jack Wilder doesn't scare me.
Much.
He exhales like he's losing a battle. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine,” he repeats. “You can shred cheese. Or… whatever.”
I glance at the bag of shredded cheese already sitting on the counter, then look back at him. “You want me to shred the shredded cheese?”
Jack follows my gaze and stares at the bag for a moment.
I press my lips together, trying very hard not to smile.
“You can cut the bell pepper,” he amends.
“Much better.”
“As long as you don't cut yourself.”
I place a hand over my heart. “I promise not to bleed on our food.”
I grab a cutting board while Jack opens a drawer containing what appears to be every sharp object he owns, tossed together with absolutely no concern for the safety of human fingers.
For a man so deeply concerned about hazards, Jack Wilder's knife drawer is one.
I gingerly select a knife. “You know, for a man who nearly declared my porch a public safety emergency, this drawer is concerning.”
Jack glances over. “What's wrong with it?”
I look at him, then at the chaotic collection of sharp objects, before deciding this isn't a battle worth fighting.
“Nothing.”
Apparently, we're all allowed to have blind spots.
I turn my attention to the bell pepper and start cutting. It isn't exactly the job I would've chosen for myself, but having something to do helps more than I want to admit.
The storm still batters the windows. The wind still pushes against the house. My own home is still dark across the yard.
But here, in the small circle of lantern light, the kitchen feels strangely removed from all of it.
Safe.
And, somehow, domestic in an almost offensive way.
Jack moves around me efficiently, opening cabinets, pulling out plates, and arranging ingredients like he's done this a hundred times alone.
I watch him from the corner of my eye.
He's still romance-novel-level grumpy.
But he isn't cruel.
The realization settles uneasily.
Because despite the glaring and the unexplained grudge and his infuriating habit of showing up where I don't want him…
Jack isn't even glaring right now.
Jack is focused, which somehow makes him easier to be around.
For some reason, that annoys me.
“You know,” I say, breaking the silence as I finish chopping the bell pepper, “if I tell my best friend Nicole that I'm spending the night at your house during a storm, she's going to have a field day.”
Jack doesn't look up from the camping stove. “Don't tell her.”
I laugh. “An unexpected storm, the power going out, and me ending up at the house of the grumpy neighbor I didn't want to see in the first place? She'll know. I don't even have to tell her.”
Jack makes a low sound that might be a laugh if he were a different person.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I'm coping.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Noted.”
We fall into a silence that, for once, doesn't feel like a fight waiting to happen.
Jack cooks the quesadillas on the camping stove like he's done it a hundred times, while I arrange the food on plates and try to convince myself I'm contributing something meaningful to the operation.
When everything is ready, Jack carries the plates to the table and sets one in front of me without ceremony.
I look down at it.
Warm food.
Real food.
In a lantern-lit kitchen with a dog at my feet and a storm raging outside.
My throat tightens.
Not because I'm going to cry.
I'm definitely not going to cry.
My throat is just doing that annoying thing it does when I'm trying not to feel too much.
“Thanks,” I say, because I'm not sure what else to say.
Jack sits across from me, the pile of storm supplies between us acting as a very strange centerpiece.
“Eat up.”
I nod and take a bite.
It's a simple meal, but it tastes like something I didn't realize I'd been starving for.
I don't let myself sit with that thought for long.
I'm not here to have an emotional breakthrough in Jack Wilder's kitchen. I'm here because my porch swing threatened violence, my power went out, and I waited too long to go home before the weather got worse.
That's the story.
That's the only story Nicole will ever hear.
Still, the quiet between bites shifts somehow. Maybe it's the storm. Maybe it's the lantern light. Maybe it's the fact that there's nowhere to go and nothing to do except sit here with someone I've spent years assuming hates me.
Ben used to say late nights made people honest.
What he actually meant was that I overshared when I got tired and my caffeine wore off.
I focus on the quesadilla in front of me instead. On the fact that it tastes like actual food and not desperation in the form of peanut butter and stale crackers.
The lantern light almost makes the kitchen feel normal.
I glance at Jack.
He's eating with the same concentration he gives everything else, like dinner is another storm-prep task he can complete and cross off a list.
I could let the silence continue.
I probably should.
Instead, my mouth opens, because apparently I only have two settings in Tidehaven: sarcasm and truth.
And the sarcasm seems to be running low.
“This is…” I stop, annoyed when my voice softens without permission. “It's nicer than being at my house right now.”
Jack looks up from his plate. “Yeah?”
I shrug like it doesn't matter. Like I haven't just admitted something personal to Jack Wilder, longtime grudge-holder and unauthorized porch repairman.
“My house is loud. Even when it's quiet.”
Jack watches me for a moment.
He has to know I'm not talking about actual noise.
But he doesn't say he's sorry.
He doesn't tell me that must be hard.
Thank goodness.
I'm so tired of those words.
He just waits.
Which, somehow, is worse.
Because it means he's listening.
I push a piece of bell pepper around my plate.
“Ben would've loved this part.”
Jack's brow furrows. “The power outage?”
“No.” A small laugh escapes me. “Definitely not the power outage.”
I gesture vaguely toward the lanterns, the storm supplies, and the camping stove sitting on the counter.
“The mission.”
“Mission?”
“He liked having something to do. Making lists. Making plans. Going to the store for things we probably didn't need.” I smile faintly. “He liked making sure I didn't have to worry.”
Jack stays quiet.
“Ben only came here with me twice, both times during tourist season, but he still kept a little storm checklist on his phone. Just in case.” I shake my head. “Like preparing for a Tidehaven storm was a game he could win if he ever got the chance.”
The smile fades before I can stop it.
“I used to tease him about it.”
I force out a breath and stare down at my plate.
“So sitting alone in the dark house across the yard, listening to the wind, feels…”
I trail off.
There are probably words for it.
I just don't know how to say them to Jack.
Or maybe I don't know how to say them to anyone.
“It feels like too much,” I finish quietly.
Jack looks down at his food, then back at me.
“Well, you don't have to be there tonight.”
That's it.
No comfort speech.
No sympathy.
No carefully chosen words about grief or healing or how Ben would want me to move forward.
Just a simple fact.
I don't have to be there tonight.
The words feel less like comfort and more like someone setting down a tool in front of me.
Something practical.
Something I can use.
For some reason, that makes my throat tighten anyway.
I nod. “Yeah. That's… the idea, I think.”
Then I take another bite, because if I don't keep eating, I might do something deeply embarrassing.
Like cry in my enemy's kitchen.
I feel Jack watching me for a moment.
Then he abruptly pushes back from the table.
“I need to check the shutters again.”
I glance toward the windows. “You already checked them.”
“They need checking.”
“With the exception of the duct-taped window, I'm pretty sure your house is as stormproof as it's going to get.”
Jack stands anyway.
“I'll check them again.”
He doesn't look at me as he grabs his jacket and heads toward the back door.
I watch him step into the storm like getting pelted with sideways rain is somehow preferable to sitting across from me for another five minutes.
A strange ache twists in my chest.
My dad used to do that.
Not the dramatic storm-martyr part. That may be uniquely Jack.
But the constant checking.
The small tasks.
The need to keep moving because doing something felt better than doing nothing.
My dad always needed to feel like he was keeping his family safe.
Maybe Jack just needs something to do when sitting still gets too uncomfortable.
I look down at Dusty.
At some point during dinner, he's moved closer, pressing his shoulder against my ankle like he's decided I'm part of the pack for tonight.
I reach down and scratch behind his ear.
Dusty releases a long sigh that sounds almost human.
“I know,” I whisper.
A few minutes later, the back door opens and Jack steps inside looking like he's personally fought the storm and lost.
His jacket is drenched. Water drips from his hair, and his shoes make an unfortunate squelching sound against the floor.
His expression, however, remains completely unchanged.
A quiet refusal to acknowledge that the entire trip outside was ridiculous and unnecessary.
“The shutters still there?” I ask.
Jack starts peeling off his wet jacket.
“They're fine.”
I take a slow breath to keep from laughing.
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine.”
I look pointedly at the puddle forming beneath his feet.
“That's my word of the week. You're not allowed to use it.”
Jack's mouth twitches. “It's a word.”
“It's also synonymous with maybe-I-should-accidentally-set-fire-to-my-house-because-nothing-is-going-as-planned. So unless you're also considering accidentally burning my house down, fine is my word.”
Jack opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
He bends to remove his soaked shoes, followed by equally soaked socks.
“What does your homeowners insurance say about the word fine?” he asks.