“IT’S GOING TO be fine,” Jesse says. “Stop stressing.”
“Stop stressing?” On the center of the table I set down the bouquet of dahlias and magnolia leaves that I had Jesse drive me to town to pick up earlier this morning. “I can’t stop stressing. I’m about to have dinner with my bosses.”
I step back and look at the flowers. They’re not in the center of the table. I push them to the right. There. No wait! Now they need to be a little farther to the left.
“Harper, seriously,” Jesse reaches for my arm to stop me from adjusting them again and turns me toward him, resting his hands on my shoulders.
“My parents are going to love you, and they’re going to think we’re doing a great job running this place, and they’re going to think this dinner table looks amazing. Even if the flowers aren’t quite in the middle.”
“They’re not?” I take his wrists to remove his hands so I can get back to work but stop when Jesse laughs.
“If you got a ruler out, they couldn’t be more centered, Harper. But please don’t do that.”
I can’t help but laugh myself, because at this point neither of us would put it past me to retrieve one. Ever since Jesse told me yesterday that his parents were coming to dinner tonight, I’ve been acting like a crazy person. Last night, I stress-ate the candy we bought to hand out on Halloween. Today I haven’t stood still. He keeps telling me they aren’t going to be judging us, but come on. How they feel about the way things here are going will likely factor into their decision about whether or not to sell the inn or let Jesse run it for them after the holidays.
“Come on, sit down.” Jesse pats the chair beside him and I groan and sink into it.
“Now turn around,” Jesse says.
“What?”
“Just do it.”
I’m too tired to argue, so I do. Then Jesse is rubbing my shoulders, and he’s fantastic at it. He could be a masseuse, only I hope he doesn’t become a masseuse, or switch to any other career, because he’s a really good innkeeper and this is what he wants to do and what I want to do and I hope his parents can see that.
This is what I want to do?
“Are you calm yet?” Jesse asks.
“Yes,” I say. So calm I might not be thinking straight. Or maybe I am thinking straight.
“Good,” he replies. “Because my parents just walked in.”
Ohymygod. I’m back on my feet in seconds, eyeing the sixtysomething couple walking through the parlor toward us: a tall man nursing a limp from his fall with dark features similar to Jesse’s, and a shorter woman with snow-capped gray hair and warm and inviting eyes peering out through horn-rimmed glasses.
—
Jesse was right. I had no reason to freak out over meeting his parents. Absolutely none whatsoever. In my entire life, I have never felt so welcomed and at home around people who aren’t my immediate family. No wonder Mr. and Mrs. Hudson ran such a successful inn for so many years.
Sorry, Mark and Beth.
They reminded me at least three times to call them by their first names over the course of the evening, usually in between regaling Jesse and I with their most humorous stories from their years as innkeepers and complimenting the two of us on a job well done so far.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dessert?” I ask them now as Mark gives me a hug goodbye. I wish they’d stay longer.
I’m starting to wonder if this is a hereditary trait because it reminds me of how I feel each time I say goodnight to Jesse. The past week we’ve both stayed up till well after midnight playing cards and talking. Each night we tell ourselves we’re going to go to sleep earlier, but when it comes around to it, we never do.
“Thank you, honey,” Mark says. “But since we’ve stopped working at the inn, we’ve become early nighters.”
“Plus, we don’t want to interfere with your nightly fire ritual,” chimes in Beth after she hugs me.
“You told them about that?” I nudge Jesse with my arm.
“He looks forward to it every night,” Beth answers for him.
“Mom,” Jesse gives her a look that says “please stop,” and this makes me chuckle. It’s cute seeing Jesse blush—he doesn’t do it often. It’s even cuter that he told his parents about our fire ritual. He doesn’t talk much about his parents to me, but clearly he talks to them a lot about what’s going on here, including how we spend our time together.
When Mark starts to mention something to Jesse about maintenance for the pool, Beth turns to me and takes my hands in hers, giving them a good squeeze. “Thank you, honey,” she says. “Not just for tonight, but for everything you’ve done so far to help with the inn.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say. “I’m so grateful to you and Mark for this opportunity.”
She smiles and shoots a glance at Jesse, then turns her attention back on me. “Thank you also for being such a good friend to my son. I haven’t seen Jesse this happy since . . . well . . . I’m sure he’s told you.”
“He has,” I say, squeezing her hands back. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She thanks me. “It’s been a challenging eleven months and hard for me, as his mother, to know how much Jesse has been struggling. I was worried that spending all this time at the inn would be difficult for him because it was difficult for my husband and I after what happened, but I don’t see him struggling right now. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so content. Something tells me you have a lot to do with that, young lady.”
I shoot a glance at Jesse and catch his eye, giving him a brief smile before returning my gaze to Beth. “Your son has played a big role in my experience here being such a positive one as well,” I say. “We make a good team.”
“Yes, you do,” Beth says.
Jesse and Mark finish their conversation, so we wrap up ours too. “All right, then,” she says. “Until next time, honey.”
I watch from the window as Jesse walks them to their car, still in disbelief that I was nervous tonight might not go well. Part of the reason I was so nervous might have been because the last parents I met were Sky’s, and they were the opposite of Jesse’s.
Not that this was the same situation at all. Sky is a guy I’m going to date, and Jesse is one of my best friends.
Still, I could see how my brain might have linked the two scenarios.
And, well, lately the thought has crossed my mind that if I hadn’t met Sky, if I weren’t here to find myself . . . well . . . maybe I would entertain different thoughts about Jesse.
But I did meet Sky. And I am here to find myself. So the what-if is sort of a dumb mental exercise.
When Jesse returns, he’s beaming.
“What’s up? Did they tell you they had a good time?”
His face reads like a headline announcing good news but what’s the rest of the story? What’s he not telling me? “My mom might have mentioned that if things keep going as well as they’re going . . . they’re going to let me continue to run the inn and give partial ownership to me.”
“Oh my gosh, Jesse!” I launch into a hug and he hugs me back, hard. “That is such great news!”
“For both of us, really,” he says. “You wouldn’t have to keep working here if you didn’t want to, but you would have the option to stay if you do. Obviously, I’d love you to stay, but more than that, I want whatever you decide is best for you.”
“I was just thinking tonight how much I might want to stay.”
“You were?”
“Yes, I really was. So thank you.”
“Thank you for all your help.”
This entire conversation takes place while we’re hugging. I’ve felt the rumble of Jesse’s voice against my cheek this whole time, we’re so tightly glued together. Neither of us can seem to let the other go.
When I finally do pull away, I tell myself I held on so long because of the excitement. And any part of me that wasn’t convinced feels convinced the following morning. Because not only did I dream about receiving another letter from Sky, but it’s also Wednesday—which means I get to, and I couldn’t be looking forward to that more.
—
To: Harper
From: Sky
Subject: Letter Number Five
Date: October 17
Dear Harper,
I hate hearing that you’re forgetting details of our time together, but I get it. I’m forgetting some parts of our night together too. On the one hand, I think that’s a good thing, because the farther we get from that night, the closer I get to seeing you. But on the other hand, I don’t like losing the vivid detail.
Which brings me to this question I’m dying to ask: have you found yourself yet? Just wondering, because if you happen to find yourself early, just say the word, and I’ll be on the first flight out.
Typically, days speed up and speed past, but now that I’m waiting for something, it feels like days drag on forever. Have you noticed that too, or am I the only one experiencing this?
I thought I’d like the feeling of time slowing down because life does seem to speed up the older I get, but in this particular case I wish I could skip ahead until Christmas Eve and then press pause.
Do you sometimes wish you could play with time like that? Speed up the bad parts, slow down the good, pause the moments you wish you could live in forever?
I’m thirty-six, by the way. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that. How old are you?
Missing you,
Sky
P.S. Forget what I said about the fantasies. You can send them along. Hopefully those will refresh my memory of our time together ASAP.
—
To: Sky
From: Harper
Subject: Re: Letter Number Five
Date: October 17
Dear Sky,
I feel the same way about time. It’s surprising that more people don’t talk about how irritating it is that we can’t seem to figure out how to manipulate it better. If I could have one superpower, it would be to do exactly what you wrote: speed up the bad parts, slow down the good, and pause the incredible.
I’d pause the moments I receive your letters, slow down how long it takes me to read them, and speed up the amount of time until I could see you again.
Well, half of me wishes I could speed it up. If I’m being honest, the other half wishes time would slow down because I don’t feel like I’ve found myself yet. I wish I could tell you that I had so we could reunite sooner rather than later, but that’s just not the case.
I’m sorry because I hate that the wait feels hard. I appreciate your patience. As a token of my gratitude, I thought I’d do you one better than reciting my fantasies. I’ve attached a photo that is for your eyes only, mister!
Hopefully this makes the wait a little easier.
Harper
P.S. I’m thirty. I had a birthday recently.