Jon
THIS TIME, JON met Molly at her door, a bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back. “Hi,” he said as she opened it. “I got you something.”
Her green eyes widened, and he could feel the sweat pouring down his palms. “What?”
Excitement and uncertainty seemed to war in her eyes. “Well,” he began, not wanting to seem like a complete idiot. “I remembered you had some really cool vases in your apartment, and I figured that they might want filling. So . . .”
He carefully brought the flowers out from behind his back. He stepped back a little, so that if she was allergic, it wouldn’t be a problem. Unlike the asshole who’d once given his sister a concussion by shoving flowers in her face.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said, shrugging as she seemed to stand like a statue.
Suddenly, her excited grabby hands snatched the bouquet from his fingers. He watched, transfixed, as she grasped the bouquet in between her palms and smelled the flowers with her entire body.
Which meant he was completely caught off balance as she grabbed his elbow, coat and all, and pulled him into her apartment. He stood on the mat, watching her as she went to the nearest vase and proceeded to put the flowers in it.
“Wow,” she said softly once the flowers were on display.
He was going to say something silly like he was glad she liked them, but she stole the words from his mouth with a sudden kiss. He let himself get lost in the feel of her mouth on his, the taste of her on his tongue, the way her hair felt under his fingertips, silky and soft.
“Well,” she said as she broke the kiss. “We’re never going to be able to make dinner at this rate, and sadly, we need to.” She blushed. “I made a reservation.”
He nodded, smiled. He was usually the one who took care of messy details like reservations, or at least was the one who knew who to call to take care of it, but he liked that she did this time. “Okay,” he replied before offering his hand. “So off we go?”
She nodded, took his hand in hers and smiled back at him. “Off we go.”
Molly
MOLLY STOOD IN front of her apartment door, Jon’s hand in hers as they waited for the elevator. And she liked that. A lot. “How was your trip?” she asked.
“Not bad, not bad,” he said, smiling. “Wonderful scenery, great services, and just an amazing atmosphere in Chicago. They’ve got a festival they organize every other year, and we wanted to know . . . well anyway, the people I met were so nice and so excited. How have you been since I’ve seen you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “A few clients were being prickly, but I reminded them that we’re working on their house, their space, not mine, you know, and that, well . . . anyway, they got a bit clearer about what they wanted and we’re now on the right track. Which is good.”
He nodded, like what she said mattered to him. And she liked that, maybe more than the fact he was a very good kisser. “Design must be tricky like that, where you’re doing something for someone else and yet there are times you want to put your personal style into what you’re doing.”
The elevator doors opened and she led him in, her hand still firmly in his. As the doors closed, she turned toward the front of the elevator, back against the wall. He did the same, and they were standing next to each other, filling the small space.
“And you do,” she said, smiling, hoping she’d remembered the point she’d been trying to make. “But design’s about the person whose place it is. Just like you with that festival. You came down to help them make their space better.”
He shrugged. “It’s hard, because people have been putting on Jewish music festivals for so long by themselves, without support from the mainstream music industry. So there are moments where they think I want to co-opt what they’ve done, you know? But I’d like to think the label I’m working for is very much about community, and filling spaces. Not taking over where we weren’t wanted or needed.”
She leaned into him, her eyes meeting his as she put her head on his jacket clad shoulder. “Oh, I can see,” she said, feeling the giddiness come out of her. “I can totally see that you did it. You absolutely convinced the festival organizers that you’d bring them help, not a coup d’état.”
He blushed, then looked down at his shoes. “I guess,” he said, slow to answer even as the blush spread across his cheeks. “I guess so?”
“I know so,” she said,
He nodded. “I guess we did.”
In that moment, he looked almost too perfect. His mouth was too close, too bright. She leaned up a little bit, trying to meet his mouth with hers. Thankfully he realized what she was doing and met her halfway. She felt his arm coming around her back to steady her against his body.
“Mmm,” she murmured as his lips met hers again, as his tongue teased the roof of her mouth. She wanted more, as her hands went down the sides of his parka, trying to find an opening, or maybe a zipper. All she wanted was to feel him against her . . .
But the elevator came to a halt with a sudden movement, and she pulled her mouth away from his, even as she grabbed tighter onto him.
“You okay?” he whispered, or at least it sounded like he’d whispered, considering his voice was obscured by the sound of the elevator bell.
“Fine,” she said as she untangled herself from him, one mass of humanity becoming two people again. Except as she pulled away, she realized that she didn’t like the feel of standing on her own. Maybe that was wrong, but she didn’t care.
“Fine?” he asked, his voice sounding unaffected. But the fact that he hadn’t moved an inch from the corner of the elevator said the words she wished to hear even if he hadn’t spoken them aloud.
“You?” she wondered. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
That didn’t sound right. But he stood there, not in pain, but . . . confused. Because when she finally really looked at him, she saw that he was holding his hand out to her.
Fixing the problem immediately, she took his hand. “Stuck?”
He laughed as he pushed himself away from the wall with his free hand. “In some ways,” he said, laughing before gesturing toward the open elevator doors. “However, madam, I would like to remind you that our chariot awaits.”
She nodded, grinned and followed him through the doors, her hand still holding his. “As you wish, good sir. Lead on.”
Jon
JON LED MOLLY to the car, hand in hand. He was still smiling after the kiss in the elevator. The kind of indelible smile that came from feeling the promise of so much more. So he unlocked her door before opening it and helping her inside. Once she was settled, he closed the door and walked around to the other side.
“So where to?” he asked as he settled into his seat, checked the mirrors, and put his seat belt on. This was her show, and she’d even made dinner reservations. All he needed was a direction.
“Not sure,” she said, smiling. “Hold on a sec, okay?”
He nodded, then watched as she put her own seat belt on. Once she’d settled in, he watched as she reached into the bag she’d placed on the floor and pulled out her phone.
“Sure,” he said. “So we’re going to a deli?”
She was bent over in her seat, her hair swaying back and forth. She was focused on the phone in a way that he couldn’t fathom. It was as if her life depended on that phone; the sighs, the snarling, the growls. She was annoyed, worried . . . he wasn’t sure.
“Can I help?” he asked
“I’m trying to find the address,” she confessed.
He nodded. Hence the adorable intensity of her search and the embarrassment in her voice. If he’d waited till he pulled out into the street to ask her where they were going, he’d probably be annoyed. Now, he was just grateful for the investigation and her thoroughness. Because the last thing he wanted was to navigate his way through Manhattan, in horrible stop and go traffic, looking for a place that might not still exist.
“The problem,” she said as he watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, “is that this place keeps moving. People discover it, a larger space opens up and it moves to accommodate. You’d think this cycle couldn’t continue, but it does. Anyway, the whole thing is enabled by the fact that the chef’s grandson is in real estate, so . . .”
She trailed off, and because he’d started listening to the sound of her voice as opposed to what she was saying, he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to answer or let her continue. He decided to stay quiet and let her go back to searching for the missing address. Yet as she continued to type furiously at her phone, he wondered why he didn’t drive a car that had a GPS.
Because, he reminded himself, he’d had the option of adding a top-of-the-line stereo system or a GPS to his horribly out-of-date car. And because he was unable to think past his next moment, he bought the sound system. Which made him a jackass.
She went back to typing on her phone, and his focus turned toward the strands of her red hair that he really wanted to tuck behind her ear. But because of the degree to which she’d been focusing, she probably wouldn’t be able to handle an unexpected, unwanted touch from him.
“Anyway,” she interjected, the sound of her voice busting into his thoughts and grabbing his focus again, “it’s moved like three times over the past two years, and I haven’t actually been there in a while, you know? Just called.”
For some reason, he wanted to know why she hadn’t been to this place in over two years, why she hadn’t been able to walk in the door yet knew it well enough to order takeout. But instead of asking what he had a feeling would be an unwelcome question, or touch her, or act in any way impatient, he nodded his head and took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she finally said amidst a sigh “it’s on Thirty-Eighth Street.
Which meant he couldn’t take the West Side Highway to get there (it would be a parking lot), so he had to do some street driving through midtown, the kind of midtown horrible that existed between Madison Square Garden and Times Square. His least favorite thing. But he’d drive through that mess for her, of course. “Thirty-eighth and what?” he asked.
“Seventh? Eighth? Sixth?”
She looked adorably confused, so it would probably be a horrible idea to ask her if the place had parking. So he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, smiled, and put the keys into the ignition. “Let’s do this.”
Molly
MOLLY FELT LIKE an idiot. She wondered what had possessed her to get into Jon’s car without a clear idea of their destination. Unfortunately, until she sat beside him in that car, fear had paralyzed her. Even contemplating going into that space without Aunt Linda was turning her into a scared little rabbit.
Fear was also destroying her chances with the cute boy who had volunteered out of the goodness of his heart to drive her. A chauffeur who kissed better than she’d ever been kissed before, and that was before the amazing, wonderful moment that had ended too quickly in the elevator. But now she was screwed. Big-time.
She sighed, sitting back in her seat. And then discovered the car wasn’t silent anymore. There was music, a song she recognized.
“I love this song!”
She hummed along, then began to sing, horribly, off key, to the story of a singer who was unexpectedly drawn into a deeper connection with a woman he’d just met by the music they were dancing to. And caught Jon’s slowly growing smile out of the corner of her eye.
“Me, too,” he said.
As she was discovering, Jon was deliberate about what he listened to; there were reasons for every song he played, every note that came out of his very very expensive sound system. He loved music, and was unapologetic about it.
“I’d be dancing, too,” he continued, “but well.” He gestured, unnecessarily, at the wheel in front of him.
She grinned back at him and began to move her hips and shoulders. Swaying back and forth as much as the seat belt would let her, following the rhythm until the song, and their red light, ended.
She also realized she knew the next song he’d put on, about a guy who really enjoyed doing the things that made his gal happy. She even liked watching him attempt to dance behind the wheel the next time they stopped. And how he altered the lyrics to fit his purposes, well, rather . . . her.
“You like watermelon candles?” he wondered.
“And kisses sweeter than Moscato wine,” she replied, earnestly.
“And my fingers through your short hair?”
The last made her laugh; she wondered what he was thinking. Glad she hadn’t messed up. Which meant he deserved an explanation. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “This was my aunt’s favorite place. The chef and my aunt were . . . involved as much as she’d let him. We were there every Friday and every Saturday night. She wasn’t well for a while, and I just . . .”
She felt the tears come, even though she didn’t want to break down in his car. But she was.
“I’m honored,” he said softly, and she felt his hand on hers. “I’m honored that you’re taking me to a place that means so much.”
She managed a smile, a watery one at best. She knew it, but she didn’t care “Thanks for driving, but, maybe we should have taken the subway or something. So much traffic . . . it’s making me crazy, and I’m not even driving! I have to wonder what it’s doing to you.”
He shook his head and hit the gas again “Nah,” he said. “It’s fine. And, to be honest, I’d actually rather drive than have to wait for the subway. Yes, we have to find parking, and deal with the traffic, but I do it so often that it doesn’t really matter. It’d be weird not to have a car with me.”
And yet another of her idiocies came to light as they stopped once more. “I didn’t even think of that . . . of parking. I’m so sorry . . .”
Once again he shook his head. Whether out of kindness or habit or whatever, she wasn’t sure. “It’s fine,” he replied. “As I said, I drive everywhere. Mostly. So I know of different places to park. Here.” And she watched, completely spellbound as he made a left turn out of nowhere and pulled into a garage. “This is one of my favorites, and it’s nice to be able to use it when I need to.”
The song switched, from English to Hebrew, to a woman’s clear voice singing over a guitar. She listened closer, starting to recognize that it was a bright, fast paced version of a song speaking about the goodness of G-d. She’d sung a version of that song at Saturday morning services with Aunt Linda. “This is beautiful,” she whispered.
“And apt,” he replied, grinning. “Because it is good.”
She watched him navigate the space of the parking lot and pull into a space with the ease of someone who did know exactly what they were doing. “I’m impressed,” she said.
“No need,” he answered, and she saw the flush that began to color his cheeks. “I come here a lot. It’s kinda like my unofficial office garage.”
“You still managed to pull a parking garage out of nowhere, and . . . well,” she smiled, “I think that’s a victory. And fabulous.”
He laughed. “Victory I’ll take. Fabulous,” he continued as he put on the parking brake and shut off the car, “not so much. But thank you.”
Then he unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, running around to the other side. “Here,” he said when he opened her door. “My lady?”
She took his hand, and his lead, getting out of the car, moving to stand at his side. She watched as he closed the door behind her, locked it, and once again offered his hand. She wasted no time in taking it.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She nodded, feeling lighter and maybe a bit hungry. “We shall. Onward and upward to food.”
He laughed, and in that moment she felt comfortable and prepared to do something she hadn’t been able to do in over a year. With Jon’s quiet confidence and support, she took a step forward, toward the piece of her great-aunt’s heart she’d left behind. And maybe toward the future.
Jon
THE PLACE WAS huge; that’s all Jon could really think of after they’d gotten past the entrance. It was gigantic, and it smelled amazing. Like home in a way but not.
Yet because Molly refused to move more than a step away from the entrance, there they stood. Even as the clientele seemed to move like a mighty ocean, backward and forward, in and out, to a table or to the counter, Molly—and as a result Jon himself—stood silently, merely steps away from the door.
He put his arm around her, drew her closer. He hoped that the contact would remind her that she wasn’t alone. But he didn’t want to do anything that was going to make her feel rushed, like speak or move.
He also expected a reaction. The squeeze of a hand; something that let him know what she was thinking or feeling. But what he got was something else entirely. He felt her turn toward him and put her head on his shoulder. He felt her shudder beneath his touch before he heard the gasping breath and a short plaintive wail that usually heralded tears.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, anguish in her voice. “I can’t . . .”
He nodded. “Okay,” he said as he stroked her hair, then her back. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
But she showed no signs of moving, and he wasn’t going to move her until she was ready to do that, either. So they stayed where they were.
Except at some point he became aware of how accommodating the crowd was, how they weren’t being asked to move, or bumped into or yelled at. The New York that Jon knew wasn’t as rude as what people thought, but had its edge. People needed to get places, do things in the short time they had during their daily lives. But this? This reminded Jon of the suburbs of his childhood, and he didn’t know how to explain it.
“Molleleh . . .”
The deep rasp of a voice broke into the sudden silence. He looked up to see an older man, with a bit of a white scraggly beard, sweat pouring from his brow even if it was the dead of winter, standing between them and the crowd, his eyes blinking.
“Oy, Molleleh,” he said again.
He felt Molly’s grip on his sides tighten, heard her gasp a breath. “I . . .”
Then she was out of his arms, heading toward the older man and letting him pull her into an embrace. He didn’t want to watch; this was a private moment, and they deserved not to have his ears (or eyes) focusing in on every word. So like usual, he listened to the music.
A Chanukah song played in the background. Jon recognized it as something an a cappella group had released a few years before. He tried to remember the crazy video that the group released along with the song.
“Jon?”
He focused on the voice he’d started to think he’d recognize anywhere. Molly was beckoning him toward where she stood, the older man’s beefy arm around her shoulder.
And so he walked over to her.
When he’d managed to cross through the ocean of people and arrived in front of her, she beamed at him. “This,” she said, gesturing to the older man, “is my Uncle Abe.”
Molly
THE FOOD SMELLED amazing, but it always did when Uncle Abe was involved. She didn’t even order; she let him work his magic as they sat at the small table just off the kitchen. And he’d produced latkes, kugel, and brisket that made the cold winter air disappear.
Uncle Abe also seemed impressed with Jon, which boded well. Jon was the perfect gentleman to boot; he treated Uncle Abe with respect, which was important. He also ate well, and made complimentary noises about the food when his mouth wasn’t full.
“So what do you do, Jon?”
Uncle Abe’s question came as Jon’s mouth was full of brisket.
“Uncle Abe,” she said, maybe in his defense, maybe buying him time. “Give him a chance to eat.”
Abe nodded, his eyes focused on Jon’s. “Yes . . .”
“So,” Jon answered, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “I work with musicians, and I like to think that I’m creating an all-star team of the best and the brightest. But I really like the fact that it’s a job I enjoy, something that I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d do.”
“When you were a kid, this is what you thought you’d do?”
“When I was a kid, Mr. Lefkowitz,” he said as he shook his head, “if you’d told me I’d be doing this, I’d have thought you were lying or altered by some chemical substance. Because when I was young, it wasn’t possible.”
“So what happened? And please, Jon, call me Uncle Abe.”
Jon smiled, and she loved what that smile did to his face. “A miracle happened, Uncle Abe,” he said formally, “and I was ready.”
She watched the solemn expression as Uncle Abe nodded.
“You see it, too, hmm?”
Uncle Abe smiled. “I know a few things about miracles. Thank you for bringing me another one.”
She watched as Jon raised an eyebrow. “What? How did I . . . what?”
“Well the first one is that good song about Shabbat. You’re that Jon, hmm?”
She saw the blush make its way across his face, the bright red color that matched her freckles and her hair.
“I . . .”
“Oy. You didn’t write the song, tateleh, but you made sure that boy knew he had to write it. Which was your first miracle. The second? Well, that you brought my Molleleh, my little Molly, back to me.”
Jon
JON REALLY ENJOYED sitting with Molly and her uncle as they shared stories and reconnected. The food was amazing, and the fact that Molly had allowed him a bit deeper into her life and heart was a priceless gift he’d have to figure out how to reciprocate. Unfortunately, the evening seemed to wear on Molly. She was tired. And she was crying. She tried to hide the tears, but he watched her fail. Watched as her green eyes turned brighter, as the drops of water trailed down her cheeks.
He was too far away to give her his napkin, a tissue or dry her tears himself. It was the only moment he regretted giving Abe the only chair adjoining hers, and the only reason he’d ever be annoyed at himself for gallantry.
Now they were leaving, having gone through the routine of placing the order for the party after they’d eaten their fill. Abe had even offered to come to the party, and he could see the brightness in Molly’s eyes as she told him he should come, but not with the food. As her guest.
Another embrace followed. Then Jon led Molly out of the restaurant; his coat clad arm around her, her hat-covered head on his puffy shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Anything.”
“Really?”
He smiled as he continued toward the car. “Yes.”
They walked enveloped in cold and silence, and maybe a bit of something else. He hoped so, because the silence wasn’t bad. It was just there. He pulled her in closer and kissed her cheek. He felt her squeeze his glove covered hand with her own.
When they reached the car, he could barely let her go, but he did, settled her in, put her seat belt on, and closed the door.
He drove fast, the heater barely working, but he didn’t care. He needed to get her home, to her apartment and the safety of her own space.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she said softly as they pulled into the garage. “I just . . . I can’t.”
He nodded. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”
Molly
MOLLY TOOK JON’S hand as they headed into the elevator. As the doors closed behind them, she let him hold her and put her head on his shoulder. But she wasn’t going to cry; not in that elevator and not on his coat. She forced herself to be strong and fought the tears.
“It’s okay,” he said.
The tone of his voice held neither pressure nor expectations. It was soft and gentle and promised he’d help fill the space that had opened in her heart.
“Hold me,” she whispered.
This was grief, and she knew it well. It tasted foul, destroying the sweetness of Uncle Abe’s hours in the kitchen and the sweet stories he shared. Dammit. She hated this. It made her weak and she wasn’t.
But Jon didn’t ask any questions, didn’t say anything stupid. He didn’t even pressure her to answer some dumb question. He just let her hide in his arms, and let her cry on his shoulder.
“I miss her,” she said. “I still . . .”
“You always will,” he replied. “And it’s okay. Trust me.”
“Don’t leave me alone tonight,” she whispered. “Please. Don’t.”
“Not going to,” he replied as she buried herself deeper into his hold. “No chance. Your place or mine?”
“Yours,” she said softly. “I’ll meet you?”
She felt him nod against her. “That’s fine.” She felt his fingers running through her hair. “Get comfortable, and come down . . . I’ll be waiting.”
Jon
WHEN THE ELEVATOR arrived at her floor, she showed no signs of letting go of him. He didn’t force the issue, even as the bell rang and the doors opened.
“I should . . .”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ll walk you home.”
She laughed, and it was a sound he treasured. He knew how difficult it could be to laugh sometimes.
“I guess chivalry isn’t dead?”
He shook his head as they walked out of the elevator, smiled at her and led her to her apartment door. She showed no signs of letting him go even then, so he smiled. “Yours is fine.”
She put her head on his shoulder again. “I feel so silly,” she said softly.
He simply held her. “It’s okay,” he whispered once he decided it would be okay to talk. “I understand.”
She sniffed, though her eyes were bright with tears she clearly didn’t want to shed. But aside from the tears, he saw doubt, which was okay, too.
“Come on,” he continued, holding out his hand. “Together?”
She nodded tentatively as she let him go, taking his hand instead. “Together.”
Molly
SHE REACHED INTO her pocket, pulling out her keys. Both locks, she reminded herself as she unlocked the door. She could barely think clearly enough, yet somewhere in the back of her mind she found herself wondering whether she’d managed to clean her apartment, maybe it was still a mess . . .
“It’s okay,” he said.
She wondered what had clued him into the fact that something was wrong. Well, the tears and the fact that they were still standing in front of her door with the keys in the lock. He was also holding her, and could probably feel the tension in her muscles.
“I’m sorry,” she managed once she was capable of moving her fingers enough to open the door. “I—”
“It’s fine,” he said softly as the lock clicked open. “It’s okay. Memories can do that.”
She nodded, wondered how he understood so much. Then realized he probably had memories of his own. She wondered if he’d tell her his story, his memories, because she wanted to learn about the man he was when he wasn’t working.
“I’ll tell you,” he whispered. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
His hand reached out, covering hers on the doorknob. It was warm, slightly callused, and it felt like home already. He twisted his wrist and the doorknob opened beneath their hands.
And with him behind her, supporting her, she felt like she could step over the threshold.
Jon
JON EXPECTED HER to breathe or relax in some way once she’d stepped into her apartment. She didn’t. She barely seemed capable of stepping beyond her welcome mat.
He held her, whispered into her ear. “It’s okay.”
“I need to be strong,” she said, her voice barely louder than a breath. “I . . . I just can’t,”
“That’s okay, too,” he said. “There will always be days like this.”
“Why can’t they stop? Why—”
“Shhh,” he murmured. “It’s normal. I promise . . .”
He watched as she pulled herself together, took a breath, wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice a bit stronger than it had been.
It might have been a trick, probably it was her attempt to convince herself. But he wasn’t going to break down a wall she’d built. “Sure,” he whispered, but he didn’t move. He’d let her pull away from him on her own.
And she did, stepping two inches away from him.
“Take off your coat and stay awhile,” she said, a sniffle behind the words. “I’d like that.”
He nodded, reached for his zipper as she started separating the buttons on her coat from the hooks. Then he put his coat on top of hers, his scarf on top of her hat, his gloves on top of hers. As she removed her winter layers, he searched her face for signs of life, of something that wasn’t the sorrow that seemed to drown her.
“It’s okay,” she said.
He nodded, not sure whether she was trying to reassure herself or him. He didn’t have words for either. So he just let the silence speak for him; he hoped she’d be able to find the right answer.
“You’re good?”
He nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied. “I’m splendid.”
She gave a short, quick nod. “I’m going to change, okay? You can stay . . . leave . . . or . . .”
“I’ll stay,” he said quietly. “You get comfortable.” He couldn’t miss the relief in her eyes; he wondered what she’d expected him to do. Maybe someone else would have been disappointed or annoyed. But not him.
“You sure?”
He nodded. “I’ll make myself useful somehow.” Then he thought of his sisters and what they’d want in a moment like this. Not just from him, but from . . . a guy they might like, or feel something for that was more than friendship. They’d want chocolate, they’d want affection. They’d want something special. “Cocoa?”
She nodded. “Yes. Please. Maybe? Of course.”
He laughed, but tried to keep it calm, cool and relaxed. “I’ll be here with cocoa when you’re ready for me. Okay?”
Once again she nodded, but there was something else in that nod. Maybe a little bit of strength. Possibly some self-assurance. He hoped. Either way, as she walked away and headed toward her bedroom, he knew he’d be there for her when she came back into the living room.
Molly
ONLY A FOOL would leave the guy she might be starting to fall in love with in her kitchen alone as she went to change into comfy clothing. Yep, Molly confirmed, she must have lost her mind. But there she was, in her bedroom, taking off the rest of the winter layers, and changing into comfortable clothing; a shirt that reflected the name of her favorite candy, a pair of gray sweats she’d worn since her first year of college. It was horrible. But it’s what she needed, and maybe Jon understood that. At least she hoped he did. It was important to her, and perhaps to them, that he did.
She needed to be held, to cry, and she needed him to get that she was grieving and not be terrified by her emotions. Though he seemed like he understood. As she walked back into her living room, she couldn’t mistake the smell of chocolate coming from her kitchen.
“Whoa,” she managed, the words slowly coming out of her mouth. “How?”
He had a bunch of different ingredients laid out on the counter, and both the teakettle and a pot were going on the stove. The pot had a plate on top of it, almost like the improvised double boiler she’d seen on a cooking show. And the smell . . .
“Sisters,” he began. “I have two of them. Both of them like hot cocoa.” He paused to stir what had to be the remains of the baker’s chocolate she’d bought ages ago.
“One is lactose intolerant, the other is not. Two different recipes, taught to me by two different sisters, and a mother who had a third recipe. This,” he continued as he waved a hand over the counter, “is a . . . hybrid mix of all three. You didn’t have milk in the fridge, but you didn’t have any other dairyless things, which meant . . .”
He shook his head as the blush rose through his cheeks. “Sorry.”
“You’re adorable,” she managed. “I’d hug you, but you’re busy. It’s a tricky thing you’re doing. I’d never touch a double boiler . . . or whatever it is you’re doing. I’ll kiss you after you’ve finished making the cocoa. Maybe I’ll supply a special treat to go along with your concoction.”
She tried to remember where she’d managed to put her secret stash of fluffy, white, gooey kosher marshmallows. She always overbought during Passover and slowly doled the results of her treat hoarding out over the year, only to continue overbuying the next Passover. It was a cycle she enjoyed, which paid off during moments like this one.
“Here,” she said, holding the package of marshmallowy goodness out to him. It was closed, wrapped well with the treats inside.
“Thanks,” he said, surprise in his voice. “Wow. You are amazing.”
She blushed. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m addicted and obsessed. Not amazing.”
He smiled, then turned back to the complicated maneuverings that making his hot cocoa required. Stirring, pouring, and then topping the mugs with the marshmallows she provided.
“Voilà,” he said with a flourish as he placed the mugs in front of her.
And then, without pausing for a second, she kissed him. She let her fingers fly through his hair, her tongue brush his, and her mouth press against his own.
“Thank you,” she murmured against his mouth. “Thank you”
Jon
JON WASN’T SURE how they ended up on her couch, her holding him like he was her own personal security blanket, but he wasn’t going to complain. She needed this, she needed him, and he was comfortable.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Please.”
“About?”
“Your childhood? Your parents?”
He sighed, taking a breath as he managed to pull a piece of her hair off her face. “Mom was special. Took my sisters and me everywhere. We had the best road trips, the best food. We went crazy places each summer; my mother had family everywhere, and so we’d visit them on the way to some weird great American landmark. It was wonderful. The rest of the year, she took me to practices, debate, Sunday school, music lessons, and bar mitzvah lessons, and didn’t even complain once. “
He held his breath, waiting for the question he knew she’d ask, the question everybody asked him. And when it didn’t come, he smiled. “I had four sets of grandparents who doted on me regularly, and if they didn’t like my mother, I never knew it. As far as I knew, they loved her as much as they loved my sisters and me. Childhood was . . . amazing, actually. I was lucky to have the relatives I did on both sides of the family.”
“I loved my parents,” she said, settling her head on his chest, “but they live on the other side of the country. I didn’t grew up in New York, but I went to college here and never looked back. I had Aunt Linda, and that was all I needed here, really. I mean I went back for certain things, but I mostly made my family come here. My grandmother didn’t need much of an excuse until she died, and my father indulged my grandmother, and my mother indulged my father. I was an only child,” she said, “so they all, I guess, indulged me.”
“Mom still lives in Westchester,” he said. “One of my sisters lives in Queens—the one who’s lactose intolerant. The other lives in a Prospect Heights shoe box, as she sinks most of her money into her crazy Manhattan bakery.”
The question still hung between them; at least he could hear it.
“I lost my father when I was about ten,” he said, because she needed to know and wasn’t going to ask. “Nobody expected it; he’d gone out for a jog on an early morning, and . . . he never came home. It was hard. My mom figured it out, but it was hard. She focused on us instead of herself. She wanted to make life better for us, easier for us. I know, now, my grandparents all chipped in and helped her, but there it was.”
“So that’s how,” she said softly.
He wondered what she meant, what she was talking about. Then decided that it didn’t matter so much.
“It’s how you understand,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “It’s how you get why I’m such a mess right now and how you know it will eventually be easier even though it won’t ever go away, or that you don’t ever want it to go away.”
“It won’t. It doesn’t. I mean, yeah. I wish he was here to be part of the craziness that my life has been, and I wish I could have asked his advice for so many things, but my grandfather . . . both of my grandfathers stepped up in in a way that never would have happened otherwise.”
“So you got to know them better than you would have?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I did. I definitely did.”
She sniffed, and he pulled her closer. “I guess I did, too. I mean . . . . . . coming here, staying here, living here . . . I got to know Aunt Linda better than I ever would have if I’d stayed back home. I got to see the world through her eyes. And yet . . .”
“You lost her.”
And that was when she burst into tears on his chest. All he could do, all he wanted to do, was to hold her like she needed. This time he let her cry on his stomach, held her in the warmth of her apartment, filled with love and memories.
“This was her place,” she said, her voice scratchy with tears. “It’s hard . . . I’ve made it mine in most ways but I just . . .”
“You need a bit of her to still be here,” he answered. “I know. My mom left his study the way it was for years. Longer, I think, than she needed it to be there. Mostly because she realized that I went in there a lot. I did homework in there, went in there to study and to maybe try and smell like him for a little bit. It made me feel like he was still there for just a little bit.”
“Your sisters?”
“They’re older than I am so they got more of him. They didn’t really . . . act like they’d lost him in front of me all that much, because I think they focused on me, and making sure I was okay. I didn’t notice when I was younger, but I’m guessing they did a lot of crying with my mother after I’d gone to bed.” He paused and remembered late nights where one of his sisters needed hot chocolate. “It’s also when I learned how to make hot cocoa, and why I started to obsess over coffee.”
She put her head on his shoulder, settled in against him like she’d needed a pillow.
“Mom was busy on certain days,” he continued. “Saturday was an early morning. Breakfast was my mom’s favorite meal of the day, so she taught me how to make coffee. Every Saturday morning she’d make breakfast and I’d make her coffee, and we’d talk. We’d have time to chat. My sisters both liked cocoa, and they were always trying new recipes, you know? They always had a willing guinea pig in their little brother, so I drank a lot of cocoa and paid attention to the recipes.”
But he trailed off, feeling her breath rise and fall on his chest. He smiled, lay back against the armrest and closed his eyes, dreaming of her.