Straight Up Love (The Boys of Jackson Harbor #2)(51)

That year, I spent hours agonizing about how I could tell him that my feelings for him had grown into something more than friendship. I’d catch myself staring at him when we were hanging out at his house. When he and his brothers would play football in the backyard, I’d watch the way his body moved under his clothes. He was tall and lanky then, nothing like the man he grew into, but in my eyes, he was perfect. When he’d steal the ball from his brother, he’d look my way and wink as if he’d done it for me, and my heart would pound wildly. I’d think, Someday Jake and I are going to end up together. I believed it, and instead of finding the courage to tell him how I felt, I waited for the day that he might feel it too.

When we started college, I was still waiting, but Jake didn’t seem to be in any rush to change our relationship. We both dated other people, and sometimes I’d lie to myself and pretend I wasn’t madly in love with my best friend. Sometimes I’d even believe the lie.

Then he had this girlfriend, Erica, who didn’t like that he spent so much time with me. She wasn’t the first to make that complaint, but she was the first girl he tried to change things for. One night I went up to Jake’s apartment over the bar to hang out, and I heard them in there together. I heard my name. I heard him laugh.

Erica said she felt like the other woman because he spent so much time with me, and he said he didn’t see me that way. He told her he spent so much time with me because he was a family guy, and I was like his sister.

In that moment, I realized I was waiting for a guy who’d never want me. He always went after the curvy girls, the blondes who looked like fifties pin-ups, whereas I was rocking the body of a 1920s flapper—my curves barely there, my breasts too small.

That night, I stood outside his apartment, vaguely aware of the cacophony of the busy bar below me while the sound of Erica’s laughter cut through me like a scalpel. Standing there, sliced open and raw, I gave him up. I let him go. I took all my girlish fantasies of us as a couple and locked them away somewhere deep inside myself, somewhere I could pretend they never existed.

Then yesterday, he kissed me.

He kissed me and told me he was in love with me, and this morning I can’t stop thinking about it.

I have to tell Harrison. I can’t keep this a secret. Jake kissed me, and his touch was so intense that I’m sure when Harrison looks at me this morning he’ll see it on my skin, see thoughts of Jake in my eyes. Harrison needs to know that this ring feels too heavy on my finger, that I’m having second thoughts. Maybe we should back up a few steps and slow down.

A woman shouldn’t plan her wedding while thinking of another man’s kiss.





Ava


Present day . . .



The best way I can describe how badly I want a child is to say I’ve always seen myself as a mother. A lot of girls do, but it wasn’t just that I thought having children was something I was supposed to do or something I might like. It was part of my identity before I was old enough to understand how it all worked. Like every other little girl who plans to be a mommy, I grew up believing that my ability to bear children was a foregone conclusion. I was so sure that once Harrison and I started trying, we’d be able to get pregnant. After all, if I’d spent years before putting a lot of effort into trying not to get pregnant, getting pregnant should be easy, right?

In reality, it wasn’t so simple, and month after month, motherhood was a dream kept just beyond my reach. When my body wouldn’t cooperate, my heart felt raw with the effort of wanting. Try after try left me with an empty nursery and empty arms, and the vacancy in my womb grew unbearable. It felt as if the more I wanted a child, the further it fell from my reach, until I was grieving the loss of a child who’d never been conceived. The magnitude of that grief built a wall between me and my husband until he was so lonely he sought comfort in another woman’s arms.

And look how happy they are now. Harrison’s chest is puffed with pride, and his wife is glowing. She’s the picture-perfect expectant mother today, wearing a light pink chiffon dress with a big bow at the top of her baby bump. And I hate her desperately.

The baby shower is at a local winery, which seems a little thoughtless to the mother-to-be who can’t partake, but that would be consistent with Harrison’s personality. If a baby shower at a winery speaks of his social class and importance more than a baby shower somewhere else, then that’s what he’s going to want, regardless of the preferences of the mother of his child.

It’s a crisp early spring day, and the dining room doors are open to the patio. The place looks amazing—tables dressed with white cloths and pink napkins folded into little cranes at each spot. The centerpieces are made of light pink peonies and white roses, and look like something you’d see at a high-budget wedding. In fact, the whole party rivals some of the nicer wedding receptions I’ve attended. Lunch was four courses, each served with its own wine pairing, and the cake is as tall as Jake’s niece.

The baby shower probably would have made me sick to my stomach if I didn’t have Jake here by my side, quietly whispering his commentary on the food, décor, and the behavior of the parents-to-be.

We’ve just been served cake—an Ooh La La! creation and, so far, the best part of this day—and we’re sipping at our fresh cups of coffee when Harrison makes his way to the empty seat beside me. He props his elbows on the table as he takes us in.