Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Ella

Present

Last night, Jude and I shook on being friends.

Either it’s a cruel joke or an unexpected twist of fate. If you had asked me three months ago if I thought we’d be friends again, I would have given you a firm hell no. It’s a turn of events I never imagined possible, not after waking up to his empty bedroom and no goodbye all those years ago.

I’m aware that friends is a dangerous territory to be in. It’s how our story initially began—friends to whatever the fuck happened between us. Being back in the same zone seems like it holds the potential for more. As if we’re leaving the door partially cracked, daring one of us to push it open.

Friends means late night texts that have the chance of stretching into the early hours. Friends means hanging out— joking and teasing, sometimes flirting along the edges of something more. Friends pull that invisible string between us tighter, making the connection more difficult to ignore.

It’s the day before Madi’s wedding, and when I wake up to a call before the sun even rises, I know something is seriously wrong. She doesn’t believe in the existence of 6:00 a.m. and would never be caught awake when it’s mostly dark outside.

I answer on the second ring. “Madi, what’s wrong?”

“The fucking catering company canceled. What the hell am I going to do? Two hundred people are expecting food tomorrow.” Her voice hitches with panic. “This is going to give me a stress pimple. Please tell me what to do. You’re the expert problem-solver.”

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll handle it. I’ll make sure there’s food for tomorrow, okay?”

“I didn’t call to throw this on your plate and have you personally fix the problem. I just thought we’d brainstorm ideas on how to order two hundred crunchy tacos or something.”

I laugh. “I’ve got this. Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. You focus on enjoying your final day as a single woman.”

“Are you sure? I still feel bad. But thank you, girl,” she sighs, relieved. “Hey, El? Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Have you thought about moving back to Lawson?”

My brain screeches to a halt. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think it’s the best idea. ”

“And why’s that?”

“Because everyone is starting new chapters in their lives. And I’m so happy for you all, but I really just feel like I need to carve out my own path with a fresh start too.”

“Don’t forget, you’re also a part of our family. We’re not related by blood or marriage, but we are by heart. You’ve always got a home here with us. And we love you so freaking much.”

My throat tightens. “I love you too. And I’m going to go fix this, okay? Go make Noah give you a massage or something.”

She lets out a watery laugh. “Oh, I’ll make sure he does something alright.”

We hang up, and I’m left staring at the phone, with absolutely no idea where to begin fixing this problem. All I know is that I have to do it for one of my very favorite people in the world, and I’ve got about twenty-four hours to make it happen.

I’m humble enough to know when I need help, and this is definitely one of those times.

Ella

Hey, are you at work?

Jude

I’m home. Is everything okay?

Ella

Would you be able to help me with something? It’s not exactly a fun thing.

Jude

Whatever it is, I’m down to help.

Ella

And here I thought I’d have to get on my knees and beg.

Jude

Careful, El. Saying things like that might give me ideas.

Ella

Sorry.

Jude

It’s not a bad thing.

Ella

So, it’s a good thing?

Jude

When it comes to you, it’s always a good thing.

Flirting with Jude feels too natural. We consistently toe that line of taking our friendship too far. With every message, and every interaction, he makes me want to push us over that edge and free fall into the consequences.

But more than anything, I just want to be near him before we disappear from each other’s lives for another decade.

A half hour later, I pull up to Jude’s house. He told me to meet him here to figure out our next step. It feels an awful lot like stepping into enemy territory. But apparently, we’re friends now, and friends hang out at each other’s houses. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

As I walk up the front porch steps, I take in the stunning craftsman. It looks like a house straight out of a magazine, with its dark wooden beams, freshly mowed lawn, and neat shrubs lining the walkway. A twinge of jealousy hits me, knowing he gets to live in this picture-perfect home that’s almost identical to the one we used to fantasize about owning all those years ago.

In a different world, maybe we would have made our relationship work through all the years of his schooling. Maybe we would have moved into this very house and built a perfect little family together in the suburbs.

Instead, we’re worlds apart. I’m alone as I can get, with no living immediate relatives, and stuck in a job I secretly loathe. Meanwhile, he has two-thirds of his perfect life secured—his dream job and dream home. All he needs now is a perfect little wife. It stings more than I’d like to admit, even though she doesn’t exist in his life yet. But she will eventually, and that’s what stings.

My heart is in my throat as I gently rap my knuckles against the wood of his front door. When he answers, all I want to do is stare at him. He was attractive to begin with, but the years have only done him well. So well, in fact, that he seems unreal with his dark hair, blue eyes, that perfect smile. Time hasn’t changed a thing, least of all my attraction to him.

He opens the door, and I step inside, my eyes scanning every detail, eager to see if the interior is what I imagined it would be like. We had spent hours talking about a house like this—original crown molding and hardwood floors, tall ceilings, exposed beams, and a red brick fireplace. I can picture him perfectly in this space—cooking dinner over the industrial stove, reading a book in the tufted chair by the fire.

I spot a corner nook of built-in bookshelves off of the family room. “Don’t tell me that’s a library over there. I’ll faint because it’s too perfect.”

He looks at me, amused, and tilts his head toward the shelves. “It is. Do you want to check it out?”

“Oh god, yes please. You don’t have to ask me twice.” I’ve never been more turned on in my life. There’s something about a man that reads that does my libido good. I move straight toward them, and scan the countless spines meticulously lined up on the shelves. His eyes follow my every move, watching me like I’m an unpredictable figment of his imagination. He’s unsure of what to do or say. So am I. It’s what makes this dynamic between us so hellish, since years ago nothing stood between us.

But then I freeze when I see it—the Walt Whitman book I gave him at the beginning of that summer so many years ago. The spine is creased and even more worn, showing signs of having been frequently read.

My eyes slice to his. “You kept it?”

“Of course I did.”

“But…why?”

He shrugs lightly, his gaze steady. “It was all I had left of you. ”

I take a deep breath, a mountain of emotions flooding through me. “I thought you had forgotten all about me.”

“I could never forget you.”

It’s like the twist of a knife in the gut. How could he say one thing when his actions proved otherwise? “Well, I’m glad we’re at least friends again.”

A bittersweet smile tips the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Me too.”

I drop my snooping, remembering why I’m here in the first place. “So, any ideas on how to feed two hundred people tomorrow?”

The mention snaps him back to reality. “I have a few.”

We move to the kitchen, and as he pours coffee into a clear mug, he asks, “Two sugars, no cream?”

I’m both happy and surprised that he remembers something as simple as my coffee order. I was with Stephen for multiple years and he probably couldn’t even recall my middle name.

“You remember,” I smile.

“I remember.” He grins back, handing me the steaming mug.

Over the next two hours, we work through a long list of caterers and restaurants within a fifty-mile radius of Lawson, trying to find anyone who can provide last-minute services. Unfortunately, it’s the weekend and everyone is fully booked for months. Next, we look into food trucks. But even out of the twenty we contact, none are available for a party this size.

The options grow more bleak with each passing minute, as time slips away from us in a blur. Ending what must be his fiftieth call, he runs a hand through his hair. “Well, fuck. What do we do now?”

I let my head fall into my hands and groan, rubbing at my eyes, which already feel delirious even though it’s only early afternoon. “We go grocery shopping. That’s what we do.” Pushing off the table, I stand up and stretch. “You ready to go Top Chef on this shit?”

He smiles. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Not wasting time, we get into his car. He drives, while I sit in the passenger seat, a notepad and pen in my hands as I write out a shopping list.

“So, what should be on the menu?” I tap the pad with the tip of the pen. “Fucking hell. What do we even know how to cook? Please tell me you’ve become a secret chef in your spare time or something.”

He glances over from the driver’s seat. “The extent of my cooking resume is knowing how to grill or smoke meat. Other than that, I’m useless.”

I jot down meat and underline it. “Well, it’s a start. At least that can be a main dish. Let’s see, I know how to…boil water?”

“What about potato salad then? That’s just half boiling water, half throwing in potatoes, and then mixing it up with a bunch of other ingredients.”

“Oh, you’re good at this. Forcing you to help me is seeming more and more like the right choice.”

“There was no forcing me.”

I shoot him a disbelieving look. Who would willingly want to fix a catering situation on one of their rare days off ?

He nudges my elbow across the console. “Doesn’t matter what the situation is. If it means I get to spend time with you, I’m all in.”

I try not to let him see the blush I feel creep up on my cheeks, or the smile I attempt to bite back. But it’s useless because his comment makes me feel so completely seen and appreciated that I’m bursting with joy.

We head into the first grocery store, taking every slab of tri-tip and package of chicken thighs that they have in stock. It’s still not enough to feed the amount of people that will be in attendance, but it’s a start. The cart is completely filled, as people give us odd looks, attempting to understand why we’re buying a full cart of meat.

One man in particular, with suspenders and a handlebar mustache, can’t take his eyes off of us. As soon as Jude walks off to another aisle to grab seasoning, the older man walks up to me. He grips the front of my cart, so I’m unable to move it.

“You can’t possibly eat all of that,” he sneers.

I hate this. Being bombarded by a stranger, who is apparently the meat police. There’s no way to get away without sounding like a bitch. Right as I’m about to respond, Jude strides back up to us. Maybe it’s because I’m hyper aware in these types of situations, but he always seems to tower above everyone more when he’s feeling pissed off. And right now, there’s a fire in his eyes when he sees the man blocking my path.

The stranger startles when he sees Jude step up beside me and instantly removes his hand from the cart .

Jude touches the small of my back. “Everything okay over here?”

“I was asking her what’s with all the meat? Seems like a waste,” the man interrupts, his attitude seemingly improving once another man is here.

“Just really hungry, I guess.” Jude turns the cart toward the checkout stand and we walk away, without another word. We leave the man there, in the middle of the produce aisle, with a flabbergasted look on his face.

Waiting in line, a laugh begins to bubble out of my chest at the absurdity of the situation. “He really thinks we’re about to go home and eat all of this meat now.”

Jude shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “I was too pissed about him blocking you to think straight. I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.”

We load the conveyor belt with our groceries, as the clerk rings up the items.

I bite my lip, trying to hold back a laugh. “For a minute there I thought you were going to throw a steak at his head.”

“Trust me, I thought about it. All I saw was red when I saw him cornering you like that.”

A warmth fills me, knowing how instinctively protective he is. It’s a strange feeling, something I’m not used to, but one I could easily grow accustomed to. Is this how it feels? To have someone on your side, that will protect you at all costs, even over something as trivial as a grumpy old man? The outside air feels refreshing as we walk out of the store side by side. We push the cart through the parking lot, and as the pavement slopes downhill, the grocery cart begins to pick up speed.

I nod toward the cart. “Doesn’t it make you want to hop on and ride it?”

He smiles wide. “Don’t make me say it, El.”

“Say what?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. “I walked straight into that one, didn’t I?”

“You did.” He stops the cart in the middle of the lot. “Jump on, I’ll push you.”

I give him a look like he’s insane. “Everyone will stare. Besides, there’s a warning right on the cart to not ride it that way.”

“Fuck people staring. Fuck the rules. You said you wanted to, so let’s make it happen.”

I sigh, giving in way too easily. “Okay, fine. I will. I’m trusting you to help me not eat dirt out here though.”

Stepping onto the metal grate of the cart, I grip the handle tight. His body cages me in, his hands on either side of mine as he suddenly takes off, sprinting across the parking lot at breakneck speed with me riding the cart.

I’m screeching and laughing, the wind whipping around us as we hurtle toward the car. From behind me, I hear him shout, “Put your arms out! Titanic this bitch!”

And that’s how I find myself, arms spread wide, laughing harder than I have in years. A bright burst of happiness cutting through the darkness that’s lingered for far too long.

Two hours later, we pull into the parking lot of Little Elm, both of us exhausted but determined. We’re mediocre cooks at best, but the one thing we are good at is being stubborn as hell. We’re determined to make this work. Because the only other alternative at this point is having hundreds of hungry wedding guests. Thankfully, Sherie, the owner of Little Elm, came to our rescue, offering her commercial kitchen and walk-in refrigerator. There’s no way we could have done this with only household appliances.

With everything we need now at our fingertips, we unload the ice chests full of groceries and get to work. Jude takes charge of the commercial smoker out back, handling all of the tri-tip and chicken, while I dive into prepping side dishes in the cafe’s industrial kitchen. The menu isn’t going to be lobster tail and caviar, but at least there will be food. Plenty of it, that fits the outdoorsy, barn chic theme.

As I peel potatoes, I glance out the open back door and see him pouring a bag of wood pellets into the smoker. This entire afternoon has felt surreal, like we’ve been playing some crazy version of house. The commotion of it has kept my anxiety at bay. But now, in the quiet of Little Elm’s kitchen, surrounded by the hum of the fridge and clatter of pots, it feels like a bittersweet taste of what could have been.

He steps back inside the building periodically, bringing with him the scent of barbecue smoke mixed with his cologne. Each time his eyes find me, there’s a look on his face, a flicker of amazement, like he can’t quite grasp that I’m here standing in the same kitchen as him, boiling tri-colored pasta.

He leans against the counter. “So, what’s your favorite thing about Washington?”

“I like…” Shit . What do I like about that place? Nothing immediately comes to mind. “The trees,” I finally blurt out. There are technically a lot of pretty trees there.

“The trees, huh?” He grins, clearly amused, knowing I pulled that answer straight from my ass. “I think I need to visit you someday and see these epic trees.”

“I’m not sure if they’re worth a whole visit. You’d probably be bored.”

“Not at all. I’m a big fan of trees. Huge, actually.”

I know he’s busting my ass, so I plan to bust his right back.

“And what made you decide to come back to Lawson?”

His cheeky smile falters at the question, and I mentally backpedal, wondering if I’ve touched on something sensitive.

“A lot of things,” he replies.

“Such as?”

“It’s home. It has the sprawling hills, the too many cows, my meandering family…I guess I ended up missing all of it.”

It’s a good answer. But I know him well enough to know it’s not the full answer.

I decide not to press him on it any further. “Do you plan on staying? ”

He holds the colander as I drain the pasta, steam rising all around us. “I think so. I like my job. And I can’t see myself finding any other house that I like more. We’ll see how it goes though. Things could always change.”

The steam curls between us, filling the space with quiet acknowledgment. Life doesn’t stop surprising us—that much we both know. Maybe that’s what keeps us here, standing shoulder to shoulder in this kitchen, bracing ourselves for whatever comes next.

By the time we finish, it’s two in the morning. Jude parks his SUV in the driveway and takes long strides around the car to open my door. As I step out, the night air is warm and breezy, as a choir of crickets chirp around us. Standing in the middle of his long driveway, I tilt my head back and gaze up at the stars. I focus on the few constellations I can make out, watching as they sparkle brightly against the inky canvas of the sky.

He stands beside me, joining me in looking up into the darkness. “Do you remember when we watched that meteor shower together?”

I had shoved the memory aside during my grand mental purge of that summer, but the mention of it instantly brings that night flooding back.

“Oh, I remember,” I reply, smiling. We had parked my tiny, beat-up convertible on a secluded country road to watch the shooting stars. Ten minutes in, the bushes beside us began rustling. We screamed bloody murder, convinced a mountain lion was about to devour us, only to have the world’s most adorable possum pop out instead. “I still can remember the sound of your scream,” I tack on.

“I’ll deny it until the day I die. There was no screaming on my part. Maybe you simply heard the echo of your own scream.”

“Mhm. Yeah, sure. You can be honest. There’s no shame if you ever want to get it off your chest.”

We both fall silent, standing side-by-side on the still-warm cement, staring up into the sky as if it holds all of life’s answers.

Over the course of the last decade, I had convinced myself that Jude and I would be practical strangers. Now, standing here beside him, teasing him after saving the day together, squelches that theory altogether. I was wrong. Really, really wrong. Being around him is exactly the same as it was all that time ago. He’s as familiar as the warmth of morning sunlight—steady, reliable, and something I didn’t realize I missed until it was right in front of me again.

His pinky brushes against the curve of my hand. I hold my breath, waiting. Waiting to see if it was an accident or intentional, as my chest fills with a mix of hope and longing so intense I feel like I could float away into the starry night sky.

I don’t move an inch. I let that tiny fraction of him touch me, and I savor it. Whether it’s exhaustion or something deeper, I don’t pull away. Instead, I slide my hand into his, the warmth of his palm meeting the coolness of my skin. Time loses its meaning as his thumb gently swipes back and forth, silent and reassuring. In this fragile, fleeting moment, everything else fades away. It’s just us, together, holding hands under the stars.

Sometimes, you have to embrace uncertainty and trust that everything will unfold the way it’s meant to. And while I don’t think we could ever work again, I can admit I’ve missed this—I’ve missed us. So maybe, for now, it’s okay to lean into it, to lean into him.

It’s risky, yet comforting, and with every second we stand here, hand in hand, I feel the parts of me I thought were lost slowly coming back together.