Page 73 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Go with Luke. We’ve seen the way you two are together. I’ve even read your infamous Sausage Dog Diaries! You should carry on with that life—you should find your joy. You might find some peace here, Jen, but you won’t find joy. And we’re old now, and wise, and we know that joy doesn’t come along often—when it does, you need to grab it with both hands!” He makes a clapping gesture in the air, as though he is catching something, and Frank looks up in interest.
Mum is looking on, tapping her fingers on the tabletop, and I can see that she has more to add. I raise my eyebrows at her, and she speaks: “You know I can be a frightful snob, dear. And I must confess that when I first met Luke, that part of me came to the fore. I didn’t like it, but I found myself judging him. But since then... well, as your father says, we’ve seen you together. Darling, you light up when he walks into a room. You come alivewhen he is near. He lifts you up when you are down, and whether you realize it or not, you’re so very good together. I may be old and past it, but I can still see when two people are in love.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. To explain that we are nothing more than friends. Two people whose lives accidentally crossed, two people who have become closer than either of them perhaps expected—but still just friends. Part of me is even resentful at them daring to try to tell me what to do with my life again—we have spent eighteen painful years apart, and maybe I don’t feel they have yet earned the right to tell me they know me well enough to give me advice.
That aside, they have the wrong idea. I want to tell them they are wrong. Maybe even to convince myself that they are wrong. I want to tell them that, yet again, they have firmly grasped the incorrect end of the stick. I want to deny all of it, and yet... and yet I cannot. I remember all the moments Luke and I have shared; the casual touches of skin against skin that left me yearning for more; the heat that could build from a simple glance; the way he makes me feel safe and calm and excited to be alive all at once. The way he comforts me, confides in me, draws out the very best in me. The way I felt just minutes ago, as I looked out of my window and saw him getting ready to leave.
Could they be right? Could I have been in denial about this? I am not experienced in the ways of love, the ways of partnership—my only real encounter with it left me battered, bruised, and cynical. I have spent so long alone, so long convincing myself that I need nobody else, that perhaps I have refused to let myself see the signs that my parents seem so convinced are there.
My mum reaches across the table, takes my hand in both of hers. Papery skin, delicate bones—but still strong.
“Are you scared?” she asks, leaning across toward me.
I nod dumbly—I am scared. I’m terrified.
“Good,” she says briskly. “All the best things in life are scary to start off with. Now, as I see it, you’ve shown incredible courage all through your life. You had the backbone to defy us when you were a girl, to leave behind everything you’d ever known because you thought it was right for you. You’ve raised a child, all alone, which takes astonishing amounts of spine and bravery. You’ve built a life for yourself on the foundations of your own abilities. Now, dear, I think you need to find a touch more of that courage—and take a chance on Luke. On the two of you. You will always have a home here. Charlie will always have a home here. And believe me, dear, we plan on sticking around for a good long time yet! You will always be our daughter, and we will always love you—but it’s time to live for yourself. Not for us, not for Charlie—but for you.”
She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head.
“Jennifer,” she says, nodding toward the door. “What on earth are you waiting for?”
Chapter 23
Luke has the door open as he works, and I pause just outside it, gazing in, feeling the fine drizzle coat my hair. I see him standing near the kitchen, holding a map and frowning. Planning his next move, I presume. He is wearing the same faded Motorhead T-shirt he was wearing on the day of the storm; the day I met him. Ages ago, in a different world.
I take a deep breath, note the way my pulse quickens as I look on. The way I feel lighter already now that I am near him; the way I want to reach out to him, the way I am magnetically tugged in his direction. I note all this, and I know that my parents were right.
This is Luke Henderson. I have not known him for long, but I know enough to understand that I love him. I love him, and I want to be with him, and I want to be brave enough to tell him all of this—no matter what happens next. He might be horrified, he might be repulsed, he might be overjoyed—but I need to at least tell him.
I climb the stairs, and he looks up in surprise. He puts the map down and takes a step toward me. This is the part where we would normally make small talk. Where we would normallyavoid touching each other, avoid having a “moment.” Where we would normally pretend that this thing between us hasn’t grown out of all recognition, taken on a life of its own. Where we would normally skim the surface of our friendship, both afraid of what might lie beneath.
I close the distance between us, deciding that this will not be normal. Deciding that this will be a moment—the most important moment we have shared so far.
Before he can speak, I press my body against his and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I let my hands finally touch his close-cropped hair, stroke the side of his face, run my fingertips over his lips. I turn my head up toward his and meet those green eyes. I ignore the question in them and pull him down for a kiss.
It is deep, and it is long, and it is glorious. I have thought of this act so many times, imagined it and blushed at it and reprimanded myself for it—but now it is here, and it is even more than I thought it would be. His hands tangle into my hair, his hips crush against me as he backs me up against the wall, and we simply lose ourselves in each other. I revel in the feel of his muscled back beneath my hands, in the scent of him, in the way the world around me disappears, and only this kiss exists.
This kiss and, of course, Betty. She dances around our feet, confused by what we are doing, jumping up and scrabbling against our legs with her little paws. Eventually, we cannot ignore her, and Luke pulls away, laughing. His tanned skin is flushed, and his eyes are intense with need, and his voice is deep as he mutters: “Was that really our first kiss?”
“The first one for real, yes. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it a lot, though.”
He runs his gaze over my face, reaches out to smooth back my hair, his hands trailing down my shoulders and arms until his hands entwine with mine.
“What made you finally do it?” he asks. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Would it be weird if I said my mum and dad told me to?”
“A bit, yes... but I guess I should thank them...”
He pauses and shakes his head, and I see him struggle to regain his composure. I feel exactly the same, and want nothing more than to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him. It is as though all of the need and all of the desire that I’ve been denying for so long have come calling all at once.
“Why now?” he asks, taking a step back. “Was this, like... I don’t know, one for the road? A goodbye kiss? Something to remember you by?”
I take his hand in mine again and stroke the skin of his palm. It is a blessed hand, and I do not want to let it go, ever again.
“No,” I reply firmly. “At least I hope not. We’ve danced around this for so long, Luke, for reasons of our own. Perfectly valid reasons. We both have our histories, our bruises, and I think we’ve both been alone for so long, we’ve forgotten how else to be. My mum told me I had to be brave, so this is me being brave—I love you, Luke. I don’t just like you. I don’t just see you as a friend. I don’t just enjoy your company. I love you, in every way a woman can love a man. If you hate that idea, if it terrifies you or makes you want to run screaming in the opposite direction, then I understand that—but I also know you deserve to hear it, and I deserve to say it. To at least give us a chance at, well...”
“Finding our joy?” he asks, quirking his lips into a half smile and giving me a look that literally makes my knees weak.
