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CHAPTER FIFTY
JAKE
My emotions are a three-sided seesaw of anger, misery, and numbness, and I can’t get my balance. Today seems to be weighted in favor of pain.
Again.
I have no fucking clue who I am anymore.
Once upon a time, I used to be the guy who let crap roll off his back like a duck, but now there’s no letting things go.
What is this, then? Identity theft? That’s my closest guess. Because this damn well isn’t me.
Fuck, my head’s a mess. I want to crawl into bed and sleep for years and years. No Rip Van Winkling for me, though. I could be on life support, and my family would still haul me in for Christmas Eve dinner. And playing Mr. Funny Guy? It’s more than I can handle right now.
I delay as long as humanly possible before schlepping to the West Village, my feet dragging like I’m walking through molasses as I pass by all the decked-out homes.
When I reach Mom’s, inflatable reindeer wait on each step of the stoop, their noses blinking in sync, and a wreath the size of a hula hoop is attached to the door.
With any luck, people haven’t realized I’m MIA yet. The last thing I need is to become the subject of a “Where’s Waldo?” manhunt across the city.
“Hi,” I mumble, letting myself in.
Mom’s waiting in the foyer, as if she was preparing to send out a search party. So much for not noticing my absence.
But she barely looks me over. Instead, her gaze darts behind me. “Where’s Amelia?”
“No ‘hello, child of my loins’?” I force a smile.
She gives me an exasperated look. “Hello, child of my loins. Where’s Amelia?”
I shrug. “Not here.”
The words are bitter on my tongue. She’s probably on a plane back to England.
I toss my coat on the helpful Santa just past the foyer and stalk inside before Mom can say more. There is safety in numbers.
But that’s also a sucky idea. Because around me, my family is all smiles and laughter. Christmas music plays in the background.
My throat closes for a second, and I have the sudden urge to kick the tree over like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum. Scrooge personified. I want to bah humbug everything.
Instead, I greet the sisters, offer hearty, though somewhat mechanical backslaps the bros-in-law, and hug the kids as per standard operating procedure.
One of my nephews runs up and offers me a candy cane. At an angle, it kind of looks like a Twizzler. My gut clenches.
I start to shake my head but catch Beatrice’s glare over her son’s dark locks. Bending down, I accept the sugary gift. “Thanks, buddy.” I get a toothy smile in response.
Yvonne walks over, the glint in her eyes that tells me she knows what went down with Amelia. I brace for impact.
She pulls me in for a tight hug. “I haven’t said anything to anyone,” she says under her breath. She might be my favorite sister, after all.
I manage a nod and squeeze her back, swallowing the lump in my throat. At least I don’t have to deal with the rest of the nosy horde. I look around.
I plaster on a happy face for the kids, but that’s all I have the energy for.
By the time we sit down to eat, I’m down to curt nods and one-word replies, the international language of the emotionally unavailable.
Dish after dish appears: green bean casserole, glazed carrots, Brussels sprouts with bacon, and, of course, the star of the show—the annual ham. Every year, the family switches up who carves it, but I always surrender my turn. Cue the usual bickering over knife skills—the same argument that’s been going on since forever.
I force myself to bite into the generous slice on my plate.
Pretty sure it’s not supposed to taste like rubber. Is heartbreak wrecking my tastebuds along with my life? Awesome.
I’m banking on everyone blaming my mood on the playoffs. But they were there, they saw me after, and they’ve seen me lose before. It’s never stopped me.
As the night drags on, more and more glances zing back and forth across the table, silent conversations happening midair. I sigh. My sisters would never hack it in the CIA.
As the meal is wrapping up, Beatrice stands and says, “Jake, can you come help?”
“What?”
“Help. Inside.”
“With what?” I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. But I know there’s no getting out of this.
“With…things.” There’s a significant lilt in her voice. She won’t make a scene in front of the kids.
I get up and stalk to the kitchen. The rest of the women march in after me, single file, Mom taking up the rear.
We squeeze into the space, usually so large, except for when OG Cunningham is present.
I lean against the fridge, and they close in. There’s a tiny flicker of annoyance that I’m getting grilled yet again, but it’s barely a blip in the emptiness swallowing me.
I glance around, noting the familiar surroundings. Despite the feast, the place is spotless. The only evidence of carnage of any sort is a few pans on the drying rack. Mom was big on cleaning as she cooked and imparted that life lesson early.
“What is wrong? What is going on?” My mother’s like a dog with a bone.
Might as well rip the Band-Aid off. No way am I repeating this more than once.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Amelia and I are done. Not together anymore.” My eyes drift to the pasta pot that’s part of the drying ensemble. Seriously, why bother with one when a regular pot and a strainer do the job?
“What did you do?” Mom snaps me back to the saga at hand.
I turn to her, scowling. “What did I do?” My voice is indignant.
She crosses her arms over her chest and waits.
“ She ended things.”
It’s quiet as those words settle in.
“Oh, honey.” Mom’s eyes soften.
Carla’s expression is confused and disappointed. “But you were so good together. Anyone could see that.”
“Apparently not,” I grunt, turning my attention to the backsplash. A cheese grater’s on a hook by the sink, and right now it feels like it’s been used on my heart. “She decided to head back to England. Her tours were tanking. There was an issue with her apartment. I told her to move in with me. But her grandmother offered her the inn. So she’d rather return to the same town as Pencil Dick instead of letting me take care of her.”
“And you got pissed,” Yvonne says, arms crossed. “Guess who is the pencil dick now? She doesn’t need someone to take care of her. She needs to know you’ll support her while she figures things out herself.”
“I was supporting her. I was ready to invest in her tours. I was giving her everything I thought she wanted. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
This time, Helena butts in. “Are you sure that’s what she wanted? It’s not bad to look after the people you love, but you bulldoze them in the process. Which is one thing if a person’s had a lifetime of dodging heavy machinery. Amelia hasn’t had that.”
The room is silent, except for the nods all around. Not a single person disagrees.
I am grumpy. Fine. So I can make spur-of-the-moment decisions. But mostly, it serves me well, especially as the running back of the Titans. It’s almost instinct how I know Logan’s going to send the ball to me.
I sigh. Other times, diving in headfirst lands me in hot water.
Or, in this case, in the middle of a family intervention.
I glance around again at everyone waiting for me to catch up. Ever since Amelia arrived, she’s been struggling to find her footing. Maybe I was in bulldozer mode. I shouldn’t have walked out ahead. I should have given her a chance to speak.
“What a wanker,” Carla mutters under her tone.
I glare. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” This is a fucking conspiracy.
Mom’s soothing voice cuts through the tension. “Yours, honey. Always yours.” Her eyes are a little too knowing. “That’s why you need to find Amelia. Work things out.”
“Did you actually tell her you loved her?” Heidi’s question is a challenge that hangs in the air.
Nope. I acted like a child and walked out, leaving my heart behind. I rake my fingers through my hair in agitation. “She had to have known.”
Many judgy eyes train on me.
“How? You expected her to be a mind reader? Get real,” Yvonne scoffs at the same time Carla spits out, “You bollocks!”
“I think you’re using it wrong,” I say.
“Nope. Bollocks. Buttocks. Ass.” She glares.
“Bollocks means balls,” Beatrice corrects Carla before turning to me. “But she’s not wrong.”
“What did you do? Go to the Urban Dictionary, UK edition?” I ask testily. Inwardly, I’m also calling myself a wanker.
“No, we just wanted to learn how to conduct ourselves if we were going to a wedding in the United Kingdom,” Helena fires back. My mind flies to the wall of wedding where my empty spot waits.
“And I was googling milliners for a custom fascinator to wear!” Heidi harrumphs, peeved since I’ve supposedly stolen that opportunity from her.
The headache brewing at the base of my skull has officially turned into a full-on construction site, and I squeeze my lids shut. Finally, I let out a drawn-out sigh. “Bloody hell,” I mutter. “What do I do now?”
“Apologize,” the twins chime in, perfectly synchronized.
“I thought ‘love means never having to say you’re sorry’?” I growl.
Every woman in the room stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “It’s from that movie Love Story ,” I add defensively. “You made me watch it with you!” I throw an accusing look at Mom. My instruction manual on the female species has been pieced together over a lifetime of the movies they made me sit through. I’ve got the damned playbook down.
Realization dawns in Carla’s eyes. “It was that Romeo and Juliet–type movie from the seventies. Probably written by a man,” she says derisively.
“Of course it was,” Yvonne snarks under her breath. “If you’re buying that bullshit, then I have a block of cheese in the sky to sell you, too,” she tacks on.
Heidi snorts and turns to face me. “True love means you are constantly having to say you’re sorry—and not minding it.” She continues, “You keep trying and trying. You fail, you try, you fail, you try, you fail, you try again . You just lost a game. Don’t tell me you’re never going to play football again?”
Their words, grating as they are, begin to make sense. Painful, punch-in-the-gut sense. Maybe I am the pencil dick after all. “Fine. I need a plan. Something big,” I’m already plotting, ideas whirring in my mind.
Maybe I could spell out “I’m sorry I was a pencil dick” with a few thousand Twizzlers in the snow? No, that would be a lie. Not the “I’m sorry” part. But my dick’s at least the size of a giant Sharpie.
What then? A custom float parade, featuring a live band wearing T-shirts spelling out “sorry”? Or I could commission a giant cake with a built-in fog machine, and jump out in a sweet cloud? A mix of sweet and surprise from yours truly might do the trick.
“Nope,” Beatrice shuts me down immediately. “Going big is what always gets you into trouble. You don’t need Jumbotrons or skywriting or Ten Things I Hate About You sing-alongs. You need to figure out what she wants.”
“Easy. Pencil Dick’s head in a box,” Helena, ever bloodthirsty, jumps in.
“I’m thinking Pencil Dick’s dick,” Yvonne adds. But then wrinkles her nose. “But that would be too gross.”
“The heads of all her enemies!” The relish in Carla’s voice tells me I better get back in charge before we’re all wearing matching orange jumpsuits.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell them, already backing away. Who knows what wild ideas they’ll cook up? “I gotta go.” Because I need to track down Amelia. I need to look her in the eyes and tell her I’m hopelessly, stupidly in love with her. That I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do a damn thing without her by my side. She’s it for me.
“Okay. Well, let us know if you need anything. We got your back.”
And who has Amelia’s? As the chorus of support follows me out the door, it strikes me now how Amelia’s never had anyone to cheer her on like this. She’s always been a team of one, and there I was, mad that she didn’t just fall into my arms without a second thought. So maybe I should have spent a little more time earning it versus being pissed that I didn’t have it handed over.
Table of Contents
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