Kiss Her Once for Me (106)

The stranger nods, and Jack turns back to me.

“See?”

“Well—” Fuck. My brain is 90 percent white noise and 10 percent whatever the trio on the stage is playing at the moment. And that 10 percent finally recognizes the song: it’s an instrumental version of Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe.”

And if that’s not a sign, then I don’t know what is. “Yes, actually, that’s right,” I say to Jack. And the entire bakery. “I love you. I’m, like, hopelessly in love with you. And I was supposed to come here tonight and offer you this gift in friendship, but I don’t want to be your friend.”

Jack can’t stop the smile from curling in the corner of her mouth. “You don’t?”

“This was never about friendship.” I don’t want to be Jack’s friend. I have friends. What I want is a witness. I want someone who sees me, someone who experiences every failure alongside me, someone who chooses me. And I want that person to be Jack.

So I’m going to go ahead and embarrass myself in a room filled with fifty strangers. “I fell in love with you after spending one day with you, which is a lot, I know. Definitely not something you’re supposed to admit, because it’s love-bomby and Romeo-ish, but it’s true. I fell in love with you that day, and I was so scared of getting rejected, that I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It meant so much to me.”

Jack bites down on the edge of her smile, and she’s about to reject me. The trio is playing the chorus of “Call Me Maybe,” and Jack is about to tell me it doesn’t mean anything to her anymore. I’m scared, but I’m trying so hard to be honest. So I tell her: “I am feeling very emotionally vulnerable right now, and I’m afraid of taking this risk with you, Jack. But I also know that you’re a risk worth taking, and if there is any part of you that thinks you might be able to forgive me—”

I stop. Around me, the room has gone quiet. The clang of forks and the din of happy conversations has muted. The band has stopped playing Carly. Even the lavender walls are holding their breath as Jack looks at me without an ounce of hope in her eyes. “Ellie,” she says, as quietly as she can, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can take that risk with you again.”

A few people in the room make sounds of sympathy. One person laughs.

“I understand, and I appreciate your consideration,” I say with all the dignity I can muster as I attempt to swallow down the impending tears. “I’m extremely proud of everything you’ve accomplished here, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.”

I turn to leave before Ari and Dylan and all the Kim-Prescotts and a roomful of strangers see me cry, but then I remember the gift still tucked under my arm. I turn back. “Sorry, this is for you. It’s a… a friendship gift. You don’t have to take it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Jack takes the gift from my hands without looking at me, and I turn back toward the door.

Except, shit—for some reason I’m turning around again. “I know you’re afraid of letting other people see you and help you—that you’re afraid you’ll disappoint people if you let them in. But you never once disappointed me, Jack.”

I clear my throat, and damn—my voice is cracking. Because I am crying quite hard. I steel myself. “I love that you’re restless and unsatisfied, that you’re both allergic to boredom and somehow crave a boring life in the suburbs, and I think other people will love that about you, too. If you let them see it. You have so much love to give, and I know you want your witness.”

Jack frowns, and I cut in with—“And that’s not me! I’m not your person, and that’s fine!” This snot situation is getting a little out of control at the moment. I’m about two seconds from needing to wipe my nose on my sleeve, so I better end this thing. “But I hope someday you’ll drop your shiny shield so someone can see the messy, honest you.”

And before the snot becomes visible on my face, I turn away one last time and flee the Butch Oven.





Chapter Thirty-Two


There is almost an inch of snow on the ground when I trip out of the bakery.

Even though I’m crying and snotting, I also have to laugh at the fine layer of fresh snow on the sidewalk. I’ve overcome so much—grown and changed so much—yet here I am, heartbroken in the snow over Jack Kim-Prescott yet again. I’m alone now, so I might as well rub all my snot all over my sleeve.

I failed. In a passionate, public display of love, I failed in epic fashion. I grand-gestured the woman I love in full view of all her family and friends, and I crashed and burned. And—

I take a deep breath. And it’s okay.

It’s not okay right now, obviously. Right now, I need to take off my pants and crawl into my bed. I need to eat all the things and draw through this pain. I need my heating pad and my weighted blanket and a very long cry.

But I think it will be okay, someday. Probably.

Hopefully.

I pull out my phone to send Ari a quick text letting her know that I need a little space and I’m walking home. Soon I’ll want to call Meredith so she can jump into problem-solving mode. Soon I’ll want Ari to wrap me in her soft arms and tell me I’m pretty. For now, though, I just want to be alone.

It’s not a long walk between here and the Burnside Bridge, and I make my way down quiet, dark streets as snow swirls around me, tiny flakes, illuminated in the streetlamps. And damn if it isn’t a little bit magic, the way it floats in all directions, the way it paints the ground a pristine white, the way it immediately transforms the world into something new, right before your eyes.