Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

December 25, 12:43 pm

JACK

“ Y ou’re with a girl ?”

On my phone screen, my mom’s face is lit up like she’s won the lottery. She’s decked out in the sequined red hat she wears every Christmas, looking like a younger, fashionable Mrs. Claus.

“What girl?” My dad’s face looms into the picture, his mustache quivering with excitement.

I’ve retreated to the far end of the hallway outside Nessa’s apartment, hoping she hasn’t overheard any of that. It’s not that I meant to tell my parents about her but…well, let’s just say that after what just happened in Nessa’s kitchen, I’m not exactly calm, cool, and collected. My mom picked up on it in about two seconds flat.

Even now, my head is still fuzzy.

“Who’s with a girl?” My older sister’s voice comes from somewhere off-screen, and I refocus.

Mom squeals. “Jacky!”

“They’re snowed in together,” Dad tells my sister, waggling his eyebrows.

“And they kissed!” Mom adds, somehow gathering this even though I didn’t share the details. How does she do that?

“Ew, poor girl,” my sister says.

I roll my eyes. “She’s not a girl, she’s a woman. And thanks, Nic. Appreciate the support.”

“Oh, hush,” Mom says over her shoulder. Then she’s back to me, her blue eyes softening. “I’m so glad you’re not alone. I was worried when we couldn’t reach you.”

“Only because my phone died,” I tell her for the third time. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“When’s Uncle Jack coming?” a tiny voice in the background pipes up—my six-year-old niece, Gabrielle.

Then I hear my three-year-old nephew Sammy chanting, “Unca-Jack! Unca-Jack!”

“He’ll get here as soon as he can, guys,” a deeper voice says. My brother-in-law, Eddie.

A lump rises in my throat. They’re all gathered together, everyone in holiday mode. I can hear Frank Sinatra crooning in the background, can practically smell the cinnamon rolls, and hear the crinkle of wrapping paper.

“There’s room on a flight leaving at 6 p.m. tonight,” Dad says. “I’m looking right now. Should I buy you a ticket?”

“Oh, you don’t have?—”

“Of course we do!” Mom interjects, but then she glances at my dad, and something passes unspoken between them. She glances back at me. “Listen, sweetheart, we know you’re exhausted—if it’s too much to come here, if you’d rather use the time to catch up on sleep, we understand.”

“We’d love to have you come home,” Dad adds.

“But do what’s best for you, okay?” Mom finishes.

My parents crowd together, cheek to cheek, smiling expectantly as they wait for my response .

And I want to say yes. I want to be home. I want to sit at our kitchen table, my mom handing me a cup of coffee, my dad clapping a hand on my shoulder, and finally let everything spill out—the stress, the second-guessing, the nagging fear that coming here for residency and maybe even pursuing medicine at all, was a huge mistake. And worst of all, the fact that I’m struggling so much when all residents go through the same stuff. It’s not like I’m special; we all work long hours, we all see tragedy. So what’s wrong with me ? Why can’t I handle it? I’ve kept all this bottled up for months, trying to sound upbeat on our calls so my parents wouldn’t worry. Going home is my chance to leave all that behind for a few days. To reset so I can figure out how to keep going.

But then I think of Nessa, back in that apartment, her eyes going all teary with gratitude when I offered to help make latkes—which is nothing compared to everything she’s done for me.

If I get on a flight at 6 pm, I won’t be here at sundown. I hate the thought of leaving her alone on the first night of Hanukkah, especially after everything she did to make Christmas morning special.

Not to mention: that kiss.

And the fact that I want to do it again.

“What about tomorrow morning?” I hear myself say.

My mom’s smile fades slightly, but Dad grins, his eyes twinkling in a knowing way. “Got it. Tomorrow it is—I’ll text you the details.”

When I walk back into Nessa’s apartment, she’s standing by the kitchen counter, a jar of peanut butter in her hands. She’s brought out a menorah, too, gold and gleaming, with a few candles on the table next to it.

She looks up as I enter, her expression cautious, like she’s bracing herself. The memory of our kiss hits me like a wave, filling my head with the softness of her lips, the warmth of her hands sliding up my back.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

I clear my throat, trying to get a grip. “Yeah, my parents were checking in about getting me a flight home tonight.”

And just like that, Nessa’s light dims and her big brown eyes flash with disappointment. Almost immediately, she summons up a smile, then turns back to the sandwich she’s making.

“And you did?” Her voice is light, casual. “That’s…that’s great, Jack. I’m so happy for you.”

I walk over, stopping a foot behind her. My eyes drift down her body, conjuring up a memory of how it felt to hold her, to run my hands down those curves. Somehow, she’s made a ponytail, sweater, and leggings look unbelievably gorgeous. I’m close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that her scent—something soft and floral—blurs my thoughts.

“Actually,” I say, “there weren’t any flights tonight. The airport’s still closed.”

Her head lifts. “Oh?”

Something in her voice—vulnerability; hope—makes me take another step forward.

Slowly, I slide my arms around her from behind, pulling her toward me until her back is pressed to my chest. She inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she curves against me, her body softening as she leans into me.

I lower my mouth, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her neck. She shivers, her pulse fluttering under my lips. I kiss her again, my mouth trailing up to her jaw, and she tilts her head, inviting me to explore. I’m happy to oblige, deepening the kisses as my hands span her waist, slide down to her hips, pulling her against me harder. Her breath hitches. If she had any question about how I’m feeling about her—I’m pretty sure that cleared it up.

When my teeth lightly scrape her earlobe, she lets out a quiet moan and grips the counter to steady herself. For a split second, I wonder what it would take to convince her to completely let go—to let herself feel everything she’s been holding back.

But for now, I stay right here, kissing her warm skin, savoring every taste, every sound she makes, as if there’s nothing beyond this moment.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me for another night,” I murmur. “As long as you’re okay with that?”

Her voice is a whisper, barely audible: “I think I can probably make the best of it.”