Page 6 of The Second Chance Year

Jacob clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “So, if the party was epic, why were you home at eleven thirty?”

I grab a throw pillow and clutch it to my chest. “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t in much of a party mood.”

He rests a hand on the back of the couch, and my eyes are drawn to the muscles flexing in his forearm. It must be all that piano playing. “It’s been a hard year for you,” he says. “Maybe you didn’t feel like you had much to celebrate.”

Once again, I’m surprised that he seems to know me better than I realized. I mean, I guess he couldn’t miss the pints of Ben & Jerry’s piling up in the freezer, or my own Olivia Rodrigo playlist on repeat. But he’s not poking fun at my misery like Owen does. He seems to understand that I’ve really been struggling. And that means a lot right now.

“I know I haven’t exactly been easy to live with,” I say. “AndI’m not sure I ever told you how much I appreciate you letting me stay here until I get back on my feet.” I trace a line of thread on the throw pillow with my finger. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve blown through my meager savings by now. And I guess I’m still foolish enough to hope that someday I’ll get to use it to open my own bakery.”

“Why is that foolish?” He shifts his body in my direction.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should have gone to college. I could have an actual career right now, like Owen does.”

“Now you sound like your parents,” Jacob says. He’s sat through enough Thatcher family dinners to know Owen is the golden boy with his 4.0 GPA and his computer science degrees, while I’m the black sheep who barely scraped by with Cs. By the age of sixteen, I could craft a quadruple layer cake with lemon curd filling and vanilla fondant flowers worthy of theGreat British Bake Off. But maybe I should have tried harder in school. Buttercream frosting was never going to impress my college-professor parents.

“Maybe they’re right.” I shrug. “I mean, I’m thirty years old.”

Jacob squints at me. “Wait, Owen and I are thirty. I thought you were thirty-one.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Jesus, Jacob, kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you?”

His shoulders shake again, and it brings me unexpected pleasure. He’s usually so serious and reserved, sojudging, it feels like a victory to make him laugh.

“My point,” I continue, “is that I’m too old for this. I’m too old to let my big mouth ruin my career and my relationships.”

He considers that for a minute, regarding me across thecouch cushions. “Nobody ever picked on Owen and me when we were kids,” he finally says.

I look at him sideways. Where is he going with this?

“Because everyone in school knew you’d kick their ass if they tried.” He gives me a lopsided smile.

I breathe out a tiny laugh. “I would have.”

Jacob’s dark eyes roam over me, his expression unreadable. “I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because I don’t see someone with a big mouth.” In the dim lamplight, the two of us here with only this narrow space between us feels suddenly intimate. “I see someone who stands up to bullies. Who doesn’t let bigger, more powerful people get away with treating someone badly.”

And with that, the burning in the back of my throat is back. I look down at my hands.

He leans in. “If someone doesn’t appreciate that… Well, they don’t deserve you.”

Is this…Jacob… I’m talking to? For once in my life, I am speechless.

And then suddenly, the world outside of Jacob’s quiet apartment erupts into pandemonium. Pots and pans clang, noisemakers trumpet, and dozens of voices burst into cheers on the street below. From our view on the tenth floor, fireworks glitter and explode over the East River.

We sit up to gaze out at the city’s celebration at the exact same time, and we’re not at our own ends of the couch anymore, but sharing the middle cushion. I’m hyperaware of the heat radiating from him as my shoulder accidently brushes his.

“I guess it’s midnight,” I murmur.

“I guess so.” He turns his head toward me, and our eyes lock.And… Oh my. I remember there’s a way people traditionally ring in the New Year.

Does Jacob want me to kiss him? And more importantly—Am I really thinking about kissing Jacob?

“So, should we do something to mark the occasion?” I ask, my voice like fluffy meringue. “Goodbye, terrible year! Maybe high-five? Or we could bang some pots and pans? Or—” Did I mention I babble when I’m nervous? And in this moment, Jacob Gray is making me extremely nervous. “If you know the words to ‘Auld Lang Syne’ we could sing—”

“Sadie.” Mercifully, Jacob cuts me off. “Do you want to high-five? Or”—his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile—“sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’?”

I bite my lip. “Not really.”

“How about this instead?” Jacob takes me gently by the shoulders. “Happy New Year.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and his lips are soft, and cool against my flushed face. He hesitates, and the roughness of his razor stubble brushes my jaw. Before I can overthink it, I slide my hand up to his chest and grasp a handful of his T-shirt. He freezes, mouth inches away, eyes searching mine. I reach up to slowly pull off his glasses and set them on the back of the couch.

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