Twenty-eight #2
She still gets nervous, sometimes. The first time she and Jason go out in public with Leo—just a coffee shop, just an hour—she worries everyone will stare, that the world will sense the shift.
But nobody does. The barista doesn’t even blink.
They sit, they drink, and nobody explodes.
The sky stays put. On the way out, Jason’s hand finds her lower back again, and this time, she leans into it.
Sometimes, late at night, when everyone else is asleep and the world is quiet again, she sits in the dark living room and thinks about the jar. She hasn’t touched it since that day, hasn’t added another note, but she likes knowing it’s there—open, unfinished, waiting for whatever comes next.
She wonders what she’d write if she did.
The jar waits anyway.
She’s not sure if this is what it means to be whole, but she doesn’t feel split anymore. Not a project, not a problem, not a woman suspended between two men like a wishbone.
If anything, she’s finally all of herself.
She lets the feeling sit, just a little longer, and then goes to bed.
For once, she sleeps like she earned it.
?
The house is a low-lit aquarium, every room limned in blue and gold from the porch lights and the last gasp of sunset through the kitchen window.
Brielle is wrist-deep in dishwater, slick with the fat of a late dinner and the elbow macaroni her daughter refused to eat.
She’s not thinking about anything in particular; her mind is a little bit blank, a little bit blissed from the hush that follows a long, loud day.
There is no one else awake—not yet, anyway.
The only noise is the hollow chime of glassware in the sink and the steady drum of water from the faucet.
She feels him before she hears him. The sound of Jason’s steps on the tile is as ingrained as the thrum of her own pulse, but it’s the warmth at her back that registers first. He doesn’t crowd, doesn’t hover—just orbits a little closer than usual, a gravity well she could ignore, but doesn’t.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. He waits a minute before speaking, lets her finish rinsing the big casserole dish, and then says, “You look like you’re thinking big thoughts.”
She laughs, but it’s a quiet thing, more breath than voice. “Not really,” she says. “Just… noticing it’s clean. I think that’s a first for this week.”
He grins, pushes off the counter, and reaches for a dish towel.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a threadbare college hoodie, the cuffs frayed and stained with something that never washed out.
He looks younger in the half-dark, less like a dad and more like the boy she met before the world spun up to full speed.
He starts drying a glass, methodical, then looks at her sideways. “Really?” he says. “Nothing else?”
She shrugs, lifts a hand out of the sink to show suds up to the elbow. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the quiet.”
He sets the glass down, leans in, but not enough to touch. “I know that look.”
Brielle rolls her eyes.
He taps his temple, like he’s catalogued them all. “The one that means you’ve got a plan. Or a want. Maybe both.”
She rinses a fork, sets it on the drying rack. “You know me so well.”
He matches her tone, easy. “I try.”
She turns, lets her hip rest against the counter, water still dripping from her hands. She doesn’t bother to towel them off. “I want it again,” she says, and her voice doesn’t waver. “And this time…” She searches for the word, finds it. “I curate it.”
Jason’s face breaks into a grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
He’s so obviously delighted that she feels her own pulse quicken. He steps closer, sets the dish towel aside, and leans his hip into hers. “Why didn’t you say so?”
She laughs, but it’s all heat. “You’re not going to make me beg?”
He shakes his head, no pretense. “If you want it, I’m in.”
They’re still facing the sink, both looking out the window, side by side. Brielle can see their reflection in the glass: two people, hands and shoulders nearly touching, both waiting for the other to move first.
She says, “Would you be okay if this isn’t about you at all?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Sometimes that’s even better.”
She looks at him, studies the lines of his jaw, the steady way he holds her gaze. “You sure?”
He leans in, just enough that his mouth is at her ear, and says, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He punctuates it with a kiss, soft, on the hinge of her jaw.
She feels herself relax, shoulders dropping, a wash of ease she didn’t know she’d needed. Neither of them rushes to fill the quiet.
They finish the dishes together, passing plates and towels, bumping elbows, moving in easy sync.
Every contact is deliberate, even if it’s just the brush of knuckles or the press of his palm at her lower back.
When the last pan is scrubbed and the counter wiped, Jason stacks the rag on the edge of the sink and turns to face her, hands empty.
“So when do you want to…” He gestures, the wordless sign for “run the show.”
She thinks about it, then says, “Soon. But I want to plan it. Really plan it.”
He nods, no impatience, just curiosity. “You want to loop Leo in?”
She grins, wicked and bright. “He’s waiting for me to ask.”
Jason matches her grin, but there’s a new softness behind it, a kind of respect she wasn’t expecting but desperately wanted. “I’ll stand by,” he says.
She wipes her hands, finally, and leans into him, arms looping around his waist. He hugs her back, the squeeze firm but not crushing.
“I want to know what it’s like,” she says, “to be the one in control. To not apologize for it. Even for a night.”
Jason kisses the top of her head, then says, “You never have to apologize. Not to me.”
She believes him, and that’s the miracle.
They stand there for a minute, letting the moment solidify, hands and chests pressed together, neither in a rush to break away.
This is the prelude, she thinks. This is how you set a stage: not with fireworks, but with intention.
And maybe a perfectly clean kitchen.
?
The kitchen is brighter now, lights switched on against the encroaching dark outside.
Brielle and Jason stand pressed together at the counter, not touching dishes anymore but each other, the line between them an unbroken circuit of hip, shoulder, hand.
The sink is a chaos of bubbles and still-dirty spoons, but neither one moves to fix it.