Page 59 of Lessons in Lemonade

“No, they repaired it like they were supposed to. Sometimes there’s just chronic swelling, and that’s where I’m at. It makes it hard for me to rehab it when structurally it can’t handle the stress right now.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned any of this to me?”

He shrugs his shoulders and his eyes find mine. “Because every day when I wake up, I pray it’s finally going to be the day it’s gone.”

Hope. He’s hanging on to hope, and I understand that feeling from seven years ago. When everything is uncertain and you’re stuck in this limbo phase not knowing what’s going to happen next, hope is really the only tangible emotion one can hang on to. You have to.

“Is there anything I can be doing to help you? Help you wrap it, help you more around the house so you stay off it, or maybe massage it?” I think back to how people offered to help me, but really, I wish they had just been proactive and done things. I should have been doing more for him, should have recognized that he needs more instead of steering clear while he dealt with it. Inwardly, I groan, and guilt assaults me as I think about him climbing trees to cut down flowers for me. I’m certain that didn’t help.

It’s then his eyes brighten a little and he chuckles. “Meg, if there’s something on me that’s going to be massaged, it’s not going to be my knee,” he teases.

And there he is—there’s my cocky guy. An instant blush burns up my neck and into my cheeks as my jaw drops.

He laughs and reaches across the table for my hand, my heart fluttering at the contact. I know it shouldn’t, but the tiny connection between us feels nice and I realize I kind of needed it. I need him to be his sexy, charming self. The Jack from before our night together never would have hesitated to touch me, and since then he has.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He grins, and his dimples make a tiny appearance. “You set yourself up for that one.”

Unable to speak over my emotions, I just shake my head at him, and we both smile.

“You are beautiful,” he says, his eyes trailing over the details of my face. My soul sings at his kind words.

“Thank you. You are too,” I tell him, and he is. He’s so beautiful.

Maybe it wasn’t just him who needed a night out of the house. I’m thinking I did too.

We continue talking about his knee and all the things that happened at the restaurant this week, but our conversation is now lighter, warmer, easier. When the waitress brings our dinner, we reluctantly separate our hands and go about eating our food. It’s a meal with him I know I’ll remember for a long time.

Afterward, we cash out and wander over to the outside bar. Although we’re facing the east, the view still makes for a pretty sunset, and he holds up his phone to take a selfie of us. I’m staring off into the distance while he’s staring at me, and he captions it: Such a beautiful view.

Finding my hand, his fingers thread through mine, and he gently closes them together. I’ve held his hand plenty of times over the last couple of months, but this feels different. Good different. Scary different. Gray area different. Maybe it’s that we need this after the last couple of weeks, or maybe this is just how we always were; I’m not sure, but I do know I don’t want to let go, even if I should.

“Thank you for bringing me here tonight. You were right about getting me out of the house. I know I haven’t been myself lately . . . I’ll try harder.”

Turning to face him, I look up at him as he looks down at me, and my free hand falls to his waist. “Jack, no one is asking you to be one way or another. Just be you, okay?”

Different emotions coast through his eyes before he clears them and finally says, “Okay.”

“And don’t shut me out. Talk to me.” I take a step closer to him, hoping he acknowledges that I’m serious. I want to hear what’s on his mind, on his heart.

“I will. I promise,” he says quietly, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

I should move back, I know I should, but I just can’t.

Slowly, he reaches up and wraps his hand around my face. His thumb sweeps back and forth across my cheek and my lips part as my eyes flutter shut. I know he wants to kiss me, and I want to kiss him just as much, my body telling him so as it sways his way. Hesitantly or just slowly, I’m not sure which, he lowers his head and kisses me so sweetly. With his lips lightly pressing into mine, the vulnerability and intimacy behind it feels real, like real on a whole new level I’m not sure what to do with but don’t want to turn away from.

He brushes another kiss against the corner of my mouth, his cheek rubbing across my skin as he moves to rest his forehead against mine. He lets out what feels like a long, slow, overdue exhalation, and his warm breath fans across my chin just before he wraps his arms around me and folds me into the tightest embrace.

Frogmore Stew

DINNER WAS AMAZING. She did the right thing by dragging me out of the house, out of myself, and the place couldn’t have been more perfect. We were outside and away from the touristy scene, it was casual and uncrowded, and in a way we felt like we were in our own little bubble, the only two people in the world. I hadn’t realized how low I’d gotten, but I did realize tonight how vital she is to me. No, I’m not even close to being my old self again—I’m not sure when that will happen—but I am significantly better than I was just a few hours ago, and that’s all because of her.

I know they say happiness can’t come from others, it has to be found within, but well, she is in me, and if we’re off, I’m off. There’s nothing I can do about it.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, looking over at me from the driver’s seat.

“Not much. Just enjoying the ride,” I tell her, reaching over to lay my hand on her thigh. Usually I’m a stickler for driving, but I like her behind the wheel of my truck. She’s so tiny, and she has the seat pulled way forward. She’s wearing a cute little dress that shows off her legs, and there’s something about those high heels on my pedals that turns me on. Granted, most things she does turn me on. I can’t help it; I’m insanely attracted to her and I’m not ashamed of it. She’s beautiful inside and out.

She frowns at my response, and I crack a smile, shifting in my seat. She asked me to talk to her more, and I will, but I don’t think she wants to know about this. Maybe I should tell her I’m thinking about the hushpuppies. That’ll satisfy her curiosity; after all, they were damn good, and we’ll be returning soon to get some more.