Page 35 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas
Put them both out of their misery.
The words wouldn’t come. They remained lodged in her lungs, unable to break free.
“Jill, what is it?” Owen stared at her like she was suddenly a stranger. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just that lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m ready for a change—something more permanent and stable.” The words tumbled out, gaining steam as she clutched her gloves like a lifeline. It was now or never, so it might as well be now. “I’ve dropped a few hints, but I can tell we’re not on the same page. You made it crystal clear from the moment we started dating what your intentions were, and that was fine at first?—”
“At first, wait, stop.” Owen held his hand up like a caution sign. “How long have you felt like this?”
Jill twisted the gloves, curling them into a tight ball. “No, I shouldn’t have said ‘at first.’ I’m just nervous. I’ve been working up the courage to tell you this for a while now, and I know I’m probably going to say the wrong thing—look, I’m already saying this wrong, and I feel terrible dropping this on you now with everything going on with your nephew.” She sighed heavily, looking at him for support.
He remained silent. Gone was the affable, easygoing Owen, and in his place was someone who looked like he’d been punched in the gut.
Jill exhaled again, rounding her lips and breathing out as slowly as possible. She’d learned the trick from Meg’s grandmother years ago, but practiced, intentional breathing did little to calm the swarm of nerves assaulting her. “Let me try again.” She tossed the gloves back in the bag and shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s not just at first. I’ve loved our adventures and getting to travel all over Europe and far-off corners of the globe with you, but I don’t know.” She halted, trying to find the right words. “Maybe it’s this—Matt’s birthday, the reunion, all of us turning thirty, but I guess it’s been building a while.”
“What? That I’m not good enough for you?” Owen’s tone held a trace of bitterness.
“No, it’s not that.” Jill shook her head forcefully. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how she had planned.
“I just know that you said from our very first date that this was how you saw your life—no commitments, no strings, no kids, no repeating the same family patterns. I get it. I understand what you’ve been through and why you’re hesitant. You’ve been clear and upfront with me from the start. You left no room for doubt. It’s me, Owen. I’m the problem. I changed.”
“Okay…and?” Owen’s posture stiffened like he was bracing himself for what she would say next.
Jill’s lips trembled slightly as her breathing sped up. “I got a job, Owen. A teaching job at the San Francisco School of Art.”
He recoiled, banging his head softly against the wall. “What?”
She blinked quickly, feeling the rest of her face going slack. But she couldn’t stop now. “Yeah. I know I should have told you sooner. My parents have a friend who works there, and they got me the interview. I did it, not expecting much or anything to come of it. I figured they were doing my parents a favor, but they offered me the job.”
The color drained from his face as he cocked his head like he was wrestling with this discovery. “Are you going to take it?”
Jill drank in a long breath and stared at her feet. “I don’t know. Maybe. My parents bought a loft a while ago. It’s great. Right in the heart of the city. Walkable. Completely renovated. Their tenants recently vacated the space, and they’ve offered it to us. It’s a live-work space. It could be perfect for us. You could set up a proper workshop and studio. The job at the School of Art is only part-time, so I would be able to paint, too.” She wanted to keep going—to tell him the most important part, but words failed her.
Silence settled between them, as thick as the snow outside.
Owen pulled the front of his cable-knit sweater into a fist.
Jill waited, holding her breath.
Was he angry?
Already slipping away?
“You want to move to San Francisco?” he finally said. His voice was low, and he could barely meet her eyes.
“It could be a good opportunity,” she repeated, hating the eager edge of hope and pleading in her voice. “We could live there rent-free for a while until we get our feet on the ground.”
“They don’t even like me, Jill.” He sounded hurt, like a young, wounded child.
“They like you,” she insisted. “They just don’t know you.”
He scowled at her, his brows drawn tight. “They think I’m a screwup.”
“That’s not true.”
A knock thudded against the cabin door. “Bonfire time!” someone shouted.
Owen nodded toward the door with a tight jaw. “We should go,” he said. “Don’t want to keep your friends waiting.”
