a continuous prickling of my finger. Like I can’t seem to withdraw myself from the shock, so it happens over and over again.
Jess sits forward, breaking the touch. He pulls the wine bottle to his lips and takes another long pull despite his claims he doesn’t appreciate the flavor. I process what he’s just said, and suddenly, it makes sense why he didn’t want me to walk home alone a week ago.
“When did it happen?”
“Just shy of two years ago. My mother was in shock, as we all were. I’d been struggling to keep it together with Katie. The shop was passed to Tom and me, and I decided to come home.” He exhales and hands the bottle to me, but drinking this way seems celebratory, and there’s nothing to celebrate in what he’s just told me. “I never thought I’d be back. Not like this, anyway.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone as his elbows rest on his thighs. His head hangs forward.
“Got a dream, Emily?” he questions me, and I’m taken aback at the quick shift in this conversation.
“I always wanted to be a journalist, and I am. But I wanted to write stories of interest, not just report the facts. It was fine when I started. I needed to get my feet wet, but over time . . .” I shrug. “It just doesn’t hold the same appeal as it once did.”
He nods in understanding. “I always knew I wanted to be an engineer. Be more than my dad working at a repair shop. I was on my way, but I’d been hit one too many times between Debbie, Katie, and then my father’s death.” He half smiles, not wanting my sympathy, and I don’t pity him. I understand. “I love this town. I love my family even more. It just seemed like the right decision to return.”
I don’t know why he’s sharing these things with me or explaining his history, but I appreciate learning his past.
“It’s been hard for me. I love this house and Nana, but I need to make decisions for her, about her, and I don’t like feeling helpless.”
“Because you’re so efficient,” he teases, looking at me over his shoulder, elbows still resting on his knees. He looks lost, and I feel like I understand him on some deeper level. Like there is a bone-deep frustration because he wanted certain things in life, and they just didn’t pan out. His marriage. His career. My frustration is due to the string of endless relationships, and because I’ve constantly been passed over for someone else—both in those relationships and in my work.
When will I be enough?
“You won’t stay,” he mutters, his voice low.
“Why would you say that?” I’m sitting across from him with the same question. Should I stay longer? I can’t just leave Nana. There’s so much still to be done, but on top of that, I don’t feel a rush to go home, to my home.
What’s there for me? Certainly not a house in need of repair. Nor is there a hominess to my place or even a sense of purpose in my work. Most of all, there isn’t a Katie to teach sign language to and a Jess Carter to fight with.
God, I wish he’d kiss me. I wish just once I’d be good enough for someone to beg me to stay.
Only it’s not my birthday. I don’t get the wishes tonight.
Jess reaches for the cake plate, moves it from the cushion to the glass table, and falls back on the couch again. “You’d suffocate here.”
“You don’t know that,” I say defensively even though I’m not certain he’s wrong.
Shifting on my seat, I reach for the wine and take another pull directly from the bottle. My eyes aim forward to Nana’s dining room when tender fingers tickle my cheek, and he brushes back my hair, curling it around my ear, teasing the lobe.
“What are you really doing here tonight?” If he’s only come to pick a fight with me, I’m not interested. My mind is too full to argue.
“I came here for birthday kisses,” he mutters, and I turn my head to face him. My fingers circle the bottle, clutching it for support, but Jess takes it from me and sets it back on the table.
“Don’t you mean birthday wishes?” What does he wish for?
“No, I mean kisses.”
“What about that Sami woman?” He’s probably already shared kisses with her earlier. But if that’s the case, then what’s he doing here?
“Talked to her tonight