Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Eight

I GUESS I expected Thanksgiving to be the five of us. Just like old times.

But it turned out to be the whole darned county.

I arrived to find the yard glowing with string lights, haphazardly zigging and zagging from tree to tree, and a long table running the length of the garden, covered in different colored gingham tablecloths.

Neighbors, and relatives, and, actually—to my surprise—the whole Glenn Schultz Executive Protection team were milling around the yard. Hank was chatting with Amadi. Kelly was admiring Connie’s pashmina. Doc and Glenn were checking out something on Glenn’s phone. Guess they’d all really bonded.

There were thirty people there, at least.

Doc wore a bow tie with little turkeys on it. Connie, looking hearty and well-recovered, was rocking a popped collar and a linen tunic. And Jack just wore jeans and a simple red flannel shirt.

He looked so good, I almost forgot to breathe.

I’d worn a girlfriend sundress, for nostalgia. But with a sweater, tights, a pom-pom scarf … and my red cowboy boots.

The Stapletons did Thanksgiving potluck style. Because, as Connie put it, cooking an entire Thanksgiving meal was “backbreaking and ridiculous,” everybody brought a couple of favorite dishes and set them out in the kitchen to share. Folks served themselves, then wandered outside to find a seat. Candles lined the table, along with cut flowers in antique glass Ball jars and bottles of homemade schnapps made with Fredericksburg peach syrup and Doc’s own homemade moonshine.

I wasn’t a big drinker—my mom had definitely drained the glamour out of that—but every now and then I had a sip or two. Today felt like a good day for it. How often do you get to sit in a country garden drinking moonshine?

As I approached the table, there was an open seat next to Jack. Should I sit there? I felt a tickle of shy hesitation behind my ribs, but I made myself start walking toward him. He was talking to someone down the table, his profile lit up by the candles, and my eyes slurped in the sight of him. I kept him in my sights as I moved closer, but then, just as I was rounding the corner, the seat got taken.

Really taken.

By Kennedy Monroe.

At the sight of her, I spun around to face away from them. She was here? Had Jack invited her? Were they together after all? Wait—were they engaged? From a reality-TV proposal of hers? Why on earth was I even here?

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

She was better looking in real life. Her hair was shinier. Her lips were plumper. Her boobs were … boobier. She radiated sexy-farmgirl perfection in jean short-shorts and a gingham blouse tied just below her cleavage. She looked like a poster of herself—and, needless to say, also wildly out of place among all these lumpy, misshapen normal people.

She was like a living Barbie doll. And as badly as I wanted that to be an insult … it just wasn’t.

He must’ve said yes, right? Why else would she be here?

And who could blame him?

Faced with all that extreme, textbook, irreproachable beauty, no one could possibly say no.

At the sting in my chest, I had my answer.

Why was I here? For the same reason Doghouse and Glenn and Amadi were here. The same reason all the other ordinary people were here. I thought of Connie slapping Jack on the shoulder that time and saying, Be a gentleman!

I looked around.

It was Thanksgiving. I was here just like all the other people that Jack Stapleton did not have a thing for were here. To give thanks.

I fought the urge to set my plate down in the grass, walk straight to my car, and drive back to the city going a hundred.

But that would be worse, of course.

Feeling humiliated was one thing. Admitting to feeling humiliated was another.

I did a three-point turn and found a seat at the farthest end of the table, next to Doghouse, who could at least partially block my view.

I squeezed my eyes closed. Of course this was how things were. It had been an act of self-jinxing to imagine anything different.

I took some breaths, but my lungs felt trembly.

So I did what I always did: I made a plan to escape. I would tolerate this moment in my life as long as I could, and then I’d graciously stand up with a smile like I had another event to go to, and then I’d elegantly sneak off into the shadows and disappear.

Easy.

How long could I tolerate this moment?

I decided on fifteen minutes—which was far too many—and then I kept my eyes on my plate so I wouldn’t accidentally look at Jack and Kennedy.

Holy cow. What a preposterous couple name.

But Doghouse was looking at them enough for the both of us. “Can you believe she’s here?” he kept saying, elbowing me. “That’s Kennedy Monroe. She’s Marilyn Monroe’s granddaughter.”

But I was done with pretense. “It’s so obvious, dude. Just kiss her already. Be a man and make it happen.”

Doghouse looked down at his plate and thought about that for a second.

And then he did.

Not kidding. He stood, walked over to where Kelly was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, can I kiss you?”

Kelly blinked up at him for a second, and then she just said, “Yes.”

It was that easy.

I watched him take her hand and lead her off toward the barn.

He left me with no alternative but to take a big swig from my jar of moonshine.

The schnapps was sweet at first. But then the moonshine hit.

I guess there’s a reason moonshine’s mostly illegal. It was like drinking straight antifreeze. My throat burned like I’d swallowed acid, and, for a second, I wondered if I might die. To try to get some of the fumes out, I leaned over and hissed down at the ground like a cat.

Just then, Jack’s sneakers—I’d know them anywhere—showed up in my field of vision. “Burns, doesn’t it?”

I looked up. He was nodding, like Been there.

In response, I made a hacking noise.

He sat down in Doghouse’s empty chair. “It’ll take the paint off your car, for sure.”

I sat up and stared at him, like You drink this?

I put my hand to my throat to massage it a little.

Jack nodded, all sympathy. “You have to build up an immunity.”

What were we doing? Why was he even here? Were we hanging out like friends? Who needed friends when they had Kennedy Monroe?

Next, Jack offered me Doghouse’s half-drunk water glass with one hand, then he took a forkful of something that did not resemble food off Doghouse’s abandoned plate. “You should chase that with some yam and marshmallow salad.”

I shook my head. That was insult to injury. Then, making words at last, I said, “You should go back to your seat.”

But Jack just frowned at me. “This is my seat now.”

That’s when Doc stood up at the far end and clinked his moonshine jar with his fork until we all gave him our attention.

Jack took my hand—and the warm, smooth feel of his skin against mine sent tingles through my body.

Or maybe that was just toxins from the moonshine.

Then Doc looked at Connie and said, “Does our hostess want to add anything?”

Connie stood up and raised her glass. “You all know I’ve been sick this year. I’d never have chosen to get sick, of course. But I’ve been thinking a lot about the upsides of it. How it forces you to slow down. How it makes you take stock of your life. How it lets you guilt-trip your family into spending time together. I’m grateful my lymph system was clear. I’m grateful they got clean margins. I’m grateful to be on the mend. And: More than anything, I’m grateful to have learned how to be grateful.” Then she nodded. “Thanks for coming tonight. Be careful of the moonshine. Amen.”

Folks took their hands back and turned to their plates.

Then Doc added, “If you’ve joined us before, you know the missus always likes us to go around the table and say something we’re thankful for—large or small. Starting tonight with”—he pointed—“our son, Jack.”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He lifted the fork he was still holding as if making a toast and said, “I’m thankful for this yam and marshmallow salad.”

I thought I’d be next, but the man on Jack’s other side took the baton. “I’m thankful that the rain forecast was wrong.”

The lady next to him went then. “I’m thankful for my new grandbaby.”

The next guy was thankful for Doc Stapleton’s moonshine.

And we went on down the line. Amadi was thankful for his wife and kids. Doc Stapleton was thankful for Connie Stapleton, and Connie was thankful for him right back. Glenn was thankful to have found an empty seat next to Kennedy Monroe, Kennedy Monroe was thankful to have reached twenty-four million followers on Instagram, and Doghouse and Kelly were nowhere to be seen—and I’ll bet they were both very thankful for that.

I always feel a little shy in situations like these. Every time I heard a new answer, I changed mine in my head.

At my turn, I just … hesitated.

Everybody watched me, and waited, while I tried to decide what to say.

Finally, Connie leaned forward. “Can’t you think of something you’re thankful for, Hannah?”

I met her eyes. “I can think of too much.”

The whole table laughed in relief at that.

So I did. I blame the moonshine. “I’m thankful to be here,” I said. “I’m thankful for the tire swing. I’m thankful for the Brazos River. I’m thankful for that turkey bow tie Doc’s wearing. I’m thankful for the time I’ve spent in this garden. I’m thankful for the honeybees. For the Stapleton record collection. For Clipper. I’m thankful for all the bougainvillea everywhere. I’m thankful to have seen what a real, loving family actually looks like. And I think…” I suddenly realized my voice was trembling a bit. I tried to cover by making it louder. “I think just because you can’t keep something doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Nothing lasts forever. What matters is what we take with us. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to escape. I’ve spent too much time on the run from hard things. But now I wonder if escape is overrated. I think, now, I’m going to try thinking about what I can carry forward. What I can hold onto. Not just only always what I have to leave behind.”

The table was quiet for a few seconds after I stopped talking, and I felt a little squeeze of panic that maybe I had overshot “thoughtful” and landed, instead, on “crazytown.”

But just as I started to give up on myself, the whole table broke into applause.

And then Doc lifted his jar of moonshine and said, “To everything we’ve lost. And to what we hold onto.”

And the whole table raised their glasses, too.

AFTER DINNER, JACK and Hank built a fire in the firepit.

I was watching the flames when I noticed Jack, on the other side, sitting on one of the garden chairs, looking straight at me through the firelight.

I looked away. But when I looked back, he was patting the seat next to him, like an invitation.

And so I made my way around the fire, unsure what anything meant anymore, and I was just about to sit down beside him, when Kennedy Monroe slid in and took the seat first.

I stopped short.

I got it. No girlfriend would want to see suspicious photos like that all over the internet. No girlfriend would want another woman cradling her boyfriend’s head to her shoulder the way I had that night—even if it was for a good reason. Of course she would be none too pleased to see me here.

The same way I was not particularly thrilled to see her.

All to say, I jumped in to reassure her. “We definitely weren’t kissing in those photos.”

She honked out a really loud laugh—loud enough to get the attention of the whole crowd. Then she stood up—kind of unfurled herself—took a step closer to me, and said, “Yeah. Duh.”

Jack stood up. “Kennedy—”

With that, she looked me over, from head to toe and back again—at a glacial pace that invited everybody else in the crowd to do the same.

I went positively stiff under the scrutiny. I found myself wondering if this was what rigor mortis felt like.

Even I had to admit she had a point.

What was the upside of looking like her if somebody who looked like me could—in semblance if not in fact—convince Jack Stapleton to cheat on you? I got it. It violated the natural order of things.

And then she fell quiet.

And so did the crowd.

And as much as I did get that she’d felt humiliated by the photos online and so now she wanted to humiliate me back—I was also so horrified by the scene that was unfurling around me that I froze. The obvious way to shut it all down would’ve been for me to leave. Just walk away. Right? I didn’t have to just stand there and endure a beauty contest I’d never entered against someone I’d just seen on the cover of Vogue.

Time to walk away.

And yet: I couldn’t move. I was immobilized by horror.

And so was the rest of the crowd, from what I could tell.

Everybody just stared—gaped—at Kennedy Monroe as she stood there, aflame with righteous indignation. She waited. She gave it plenty of time. An epoch went by—or maybe it was just a few seconds. But she made sure, in slo-mo, that no one could deny the results.

Then, in what should have been the kill shot, she said, “Last call! We’re doing this! Who in this crowd picks her over me?”

And that’s when Jack raised his hand. “I do,” he said. Then he added, “In a heartbeat.”

I was frozen too tight to feel any relief.

Then he turned and met my eyes, his expression soft. “I absolutely do.”

And as soon as he’d broken the surface tension, another hand went up: Hank’s. “So do I.”

And then, in a beautiful cascade, everybody else joined in—stepping forward and raising their hands: Amadi, then Glenn, then Kelly, then—after an elbow to the ribs from her—Doghouse. A chorus of “I do,” “So do I,” “Me, too,” and “Team Hannah” rose up. Even Doc and Connie jumped in, waving their arms to make sure their votes counted.

Folks put their hands up and kept them there—until, at last, Jack looked around and made the call: “Unanimous.”

Kennedy’s expression sank into a simmering pout.

And in response to that, Jack leveled his gaze at her. “You know what that means, right?”

She frowned at him.

Jack gave a little shrug. “Time to leave this party to the folks who were actually invited. And time for you to get the hell out.”

I HAVE TO hand it to homemade moonshine.

It’s a very relaxing drink.

Poisonous, but relaxing.

Connie was delighted to find out that I’d accidentally gotten a little tipsy and would have to stay the night. “Jack can lend you a T-shirt to sleep in. And we’ll put Jack on the sofa and put you in his room,” she said, patting me on the knee. Then she added, “Unless you prefer the tile floor for old times’ sake.”

One by one, the friends and neighbors left, and the elder Stapletons went on to bed.

Jack and I wound up out under the night sky watching the fire burn down. The two of us together. Just like old times.

I swilled my moonshine jar. “That seat was taken.”

Was he? What were we talking about? Thank God for the moonshine. I decided to ask, at last. “So. That interview you did with her ended on kind of a cliff-hanger.”

I kicked at him. “When she proposed to you?”

Jack shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Now I leaned closer. “A woman proposed marriage to you, and you have no idea what you said in response?”

Jack frowned at me like he couldn’t imagine why that was weird. Then something occurred to him. “It wasn’t real. Of course. It was all for the cameras. I thought you knew that.”

I felt my body relax, like it was starting to melt. “Why would I know that?”

He frowned. “How could you not know that?”

Jack looked at me like I was an adorable dummy. “Of course.”

Jack shrugged. “Boredom? Photo op? Her publicist called my publicist and asked if she could crash.”

I shook my head. “How can a woman who is the prototype for physical human perfection be insecure?”

It was so hard to comprehend. “But why?”

Jack leaned back. “I’d rather have people gossiping about fake things than real ones.”

I tried to take it all in. “So. One more time. Just to clarify: You never dated Kennedy Monroe?”

Jack gave a nod, like Affirmative. Then he said, “Never.”

My whole body melted with relief. Then I smacked him on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? I’ve been thinking she was your girlfriend this whole time.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

Fair enough.

I looked at Jack’s impossibly handsome face, highlighted by the fire. Fine. Were we doing this? “Um. He dumped me on the night after my mother’s funeral, and then he slept with my best friend, and then he dumped her, too, so … no. We did not get back together.”

Jack leaned closer. “What did he say?”

Jack got up and paced with me. “Just tell me. I’m way too drunk to remember.”

I looked him over. I was good at judging these things. “You’re not even close,” I said.

But Jack was ready to make this happen.

He walked right up to face me and stood inches away. “You haven’t asked me for your safety pin back yet.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I got distracted by your mean-ass girlfriend.”

Jack lifted his hands to his leather necklace, unfastened the clasp, and lifted it off his neck, my safety pin still attached. “I never could find the necklace part,” Jack said, “so take the necklace, too.”

Jack was giving me Drew’s necklace? Something about that seemed like a very big deal.

Jack held the necklace and the pin out, like I was supposed to take them.

But as I reached out, Jack just gave me a mischievous smile, closed them both in his hand, and, instead, lifted his fist high above our heads.

My mouth fell open at the unfairness of it all.

And when I stopped to find out what that was, he said, “Tell me what Bobby said to you.”

I started jumping again. “Never.”

He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. But the threat of it was enough.

I sighed. I stopped jumping. I looked into Jack’s eyes. “Fine. But don’t call me Stumpy.”

That got my attention. “No. But that’s a great idea.”

Jack brought his fist down, with an expression on his face like Okay, I’m trusting you.

Then he leaned down so close I could feel his breath against my skin, lifted the necklace around my neck, and fastened the clasp.

When he let go and stepped back, I reached up and touched the beads, awestruck that they were really there. He’d found them. He’d looked and looked until he’d found them. And now he was giving them back to me—something so precious of mine, along with something so precious of his own.

What was he doing?

He stepped back. I could have run off right then so I’d never have to tell him what Robby had said.

But I didn’t.

I blame the moonshine. Or maybe it was Jack Stapleton’s irresistible gaze. Or maybe it was the way he had chosen me tonight—in front of his folks, my coworkers, and Kennedy Monroe, herself. But I took a second to appreciate my safety pin, now back safe and sound, and then … I told him.

I still can’t believe I said the words out loud. Maybe moonshine magically removes inhibitions. Or maybe I knew all too well how unspoken secrets can fester. Or maybe, just maybe, I was daring to hope that Jack might try to prove me wrong.

The point is, I did it.

The minute the words were out, I regretted them.

Because what did Jack do?

He burst out laughing.

I’d just shared the most humiliating thing I knew about myself—and he laughed.

But I didn’t wait. I might be too tipsy to drive home, but I was more than sober enough to go inside and lock myself in the bathroom until I could escape in the morning.

Jack followed me. “I’m sorry I laughed. I’m sorry!”

At the side porch, just as I reached the door to the house, he caught up with me and spun me around by the shoulder. “It is funny. It’s hilarious. But only because it’s so wrong.”

Great. Self-esteem tips from the Sexiest Man Alive. “Thanks for the advice. I’m going to bed.”

I turned to open the screen door, but that’s when he put his arm out to smack it back closed.

But Jack just shook his head.

And then he leaned in, and he pressed his mouth to mine.

And when I say “leaned,” I mean his whole body. He pressed me up against that door with everything he had.

And I guess I’d been waiting for it all along.

My arms reached up around his neck, and my hands found their way into his hair, and my legs wrapped themselves around his waist. Did he lift me, or did I jump? We’ll never know. But he was kissing me, and I was kissing him, and it was happening.

I remember it in snapshots of feeling. Tenderness, and tension, and warmth, and connection. The stubble on his neck, and the tightness of his arms, the smell of cinnamon, and that incomparable feeling of being held.

Of being cherished.

I’d been longing for that kiss for so many weeks, so many days, so many endless hours—and I’d thought all along that it would never happen, that it was impossible.… So when it did happen, out of nowhere, no matter what it was, or what it meant … there were no decisions to make. There was nothing to do but go all in.

It was as easy as flipping him on his ass.

I didn’t think about the thousand dollars. I didn’t think about Robby. I wasn’t trying to prove anybody wrong.

I just wanted that kiss.

And this was my chance.

And I wasn’t going to waste it.

Before I knew it, we were working our way through the door, lips still touching, him still holding me, me still wrapped around him, and stumbling our way through the living room—off balance, colliding with a sofa and then almost toppling a ceramic rooster on the breakfront—toward Jack’s bedroom.

Then we stopped beside his doorway—him pressing me against the wall as he searched for his bedroom doorknob with one hand.

A good kiss eclipses everything else.

Everything except touch and longing and each other.

And this was one hell of a good kiss.

When Jack didn’t find the doorknob right away, he let it go and just fell back into the moment. His hand behind my neck, his body pressing up to mine, his mouth on my mouth. It was like no one and nothing in the world existed besides the two of us.

That is—until we heard Doc’s voice from the master bedroom down the hall.

That broke the spell.

We froze, opened our eyes, and stared at each other, still breathing.

Jack shook his head as if to clear it. Then he lifted his head and tried to sound coherent. “Yes, sir?”

Jack sighed at me, like Really? “Yes, sir?”

Jack sighed.

After another few seconds: “You got that, Jack?”

Mood broken, Jack relaxed his arms and loosened his hold on me. I slid down to my own feet.

It was good that we got interrupted.

Never go to bed with a famous actor after a jelly jar of moonshine just before you’re moving to Korea.

Isn’t that a saying?

We faced each other like that for a minute, catching our breath and shifting gears, as Jack pulled at my shirt to straighten it, brushing me off and neatening me up.

I leaned back against the wall and looked up at him, like What just happened?

Then Jack said, “Hannah?”

I met his eyes. “What?”

Jack nodded. “A date. Tomorrow. Back in town. With no parents anywhere.”

But I still wasn’t quite sure what we were talking about. “Why?”

He frowned like it was obvious. “Because I have a thing for you.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. “I thought we both were. Wasn’t that the whole concept?”

I know I’ve already confessed my insecurities about whether or not I was lovable.

But those were deep, subtle issues.

I need to point out here that most of the time, in my life, I walked around feeling reasonably confident. I was good at my job. I was a nice person. I had good hair. If this had been a regular man saying he liked me, I’m pretty sure I would have thought that sounded plausible.

Why not, right?

But this wasn’t—I think we can all agree—a regular man.

Come on. This was Jack Stapleton. And I was just … me. I mean, from any rational perspective, none of this could possibly be happening.

That wasn’t my opinion.

That wasn’t me being hard on myself.

That was just … true.

I gave him a look. “Now you’re just insulting everybody.”

Jack thought for a second. “Okay. You know the dolls my mom rescues?”

And just like that, I got it.

I got what Jack Stapleton meant by “real.”

More than that, I believed him.

Jack kept going. “When you’re not around, even for a little while, I feel like I have to go find you. I just feel this pull to be near you. I want to know what you’re thinking, and what you’re up to, and how you feel. I want to take you places and show you things. I want to memorize you—to learn you like a song. And that nightgown, and the way you get so cranky when I leave my stuff all over the place, and the way you tie your hair back in that crazy bun. You make me laugh every single day—and nobody makes me laugh. I feel like I’ve been lost all my life until now—and somehow with you I’m just … found.”

Jack paused and waited for me to argue with him.

But I just said, “Okay.”

I nodded.

That’s when we heard, “Jack?” again from Doc in the back bedroom.

I expected Jack to walk off then, but instead, he leaned closer, catching himself on the wall behind me. He brought his face very close, still a little breathless, he lingered there for a second, and then he put his mouth on mine again—this time softer, and sweeter, all lips and warmth and silkiness.

And I just melted into it.

His hand was against the wall, and we weren’t touching anywhere else … but there was absolutely nowhere I didn’t feel it.

And when he pulled back, he looked as lost as I felt.

Then he seemed to remember something, and he gave me a sly smile.

The smile deepened, and he looked down at the beaded pin against my neck and then back up to my eyes. And then, as he took a reluctant, almost woozy step backward, he pointed at me, like Gotcha.