It’s only nine o’clock when I pull up behind Jake’s Chevy and shift into park, idling in his gravel drive. But it feels as though I’ve lived an entire lifetime since crawling out of bed this morning. After a long heart-to-heart with Lily over cinnamon rolls and coffee, my voice is nearly hoarse and my eyes require Visine. But I know what I have to do. I can’t keep pretending. As well-intentioned as Jake and I might have been, it’s time to be honest. If only my heart hadn’t fallen so hard in the midst of our make-believe, then maybe what I need to do wouldn’t feel so impossibly hard.
My future stretches ahead of me—no Dad, no Jake—a landscape too bleak for contemplation. Twisting the now-familiar ring around my finger, I look out the windshield, taking in the expanse of Jake’s property. Pine trees dot the periphery of a well-kept yard. A cabin-style ranch home sits on one side of the drive and a two-story man-shed sits on the other, only it’s set farther away from the road. Jake has all the benefits of country living—the privacy, the property, the quiet—and none of the hassle or hard work that comes with a farm. Over the past several weeks, people have asked whether we’d live in my bungalow or Jake’s cabin. Even though it was not a decision we really had to make, I’d find myself weighing the pros and cons. Usually, Jake’s place would win.
Letting out a long breath, I swing open the car door, step outside, and head toward Jake’s house, each step heavier than the one before. When I finally muster up the strength to knock, Jake doesn’t answer. I turn around and head toward the shed, hoping he’s at the hardware store. The place is closed on Sundays, but that doesn’t mean Jake’s not there, taking inventory or cleaning before church. If he’s not here, that will give me more time. To think about what I will say. To rehearse the right words. To drum up the determination.
But a sound comes from the shed as I walk around the corner and stand in the large doorway. The sun shines at my back, illuminating the space inside—filled with beautiful handmade furniture in various stages of completion. Jake stands with his back to me, already dressed in his Sunday church khakis, sanding the top of a gorgeous oak table.
A bit of sawdust tickles my nose and I sneeze.
Jake spins around and broadens his posture, as if attempting to block the lovely table behind him. “Hey.” He sets his palm on the edge of it and pulls at his earlobe, strangely flustered. “What are you doing here?”
I step inside and close the distance between us, my heart thudding so slowly, it could be a funeral dirge. The closer I get, the more Jake expands his shoulders and the more charged the air between us seems to grow. By the time I’m all the way there, I reach past him and touch the table, halfway expecting an electrical zap. “Jake, this is really exquisite.”
His posture relaxes. “You like it?”
“Like it?” My fingers linger on the wood surface. “I love it.”
“Good. Because it’s yours.”
I look up. “What?”
He smiles. “Patty kept heckling me about a wedding present. And you’re always complaining about that small table in your kitchen.” He scratches the nape of his neck, making his baseball hat tip up a little. “So I decided to make you a bigger one.”
Jake made me a table—one that could comfortably seat a family of six. Does it mean anything to him? Or is this just another one of his kind gestures?
“Hey, Emma.” He dips his head to catch my attention. “Is everything okay?”
The concern on his face undoes me. How could I have let myself get into this mess? Why didn’t I just say no to Jake’s proposition that day on my porch? Laugh it off like any sane, normal person would do? I know why. Because I had been in denial then—and a little bit in shock too. I shake my head. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
I close my eyes. “The wedding.”
Jake says nothing.
I take a deep breath and force my voice to come out steady. “I’m so incredibly grateful that you were willing to do this for me and my dad. But it’s not real. And I can’t keep pretending that it is.” I look up at him, hoping and praying he will argue. Hoping and praying he will tell me it was real for him.
He looks down at me, his face etched with desperation, like he wants nothing more than to reach out and sand away my hurt, patch up the broken bits. A hope I don’t want to feel bubbles in my heart. It’s a hope I’ve felt once before, after my high school graduation. “Emma, I’m sorry. I thought . . .” He shakes his head and drags his hand down his face. “I thought this would make you happy.”
“It did for a while.”
“That’s all I want, you know. For you to be happy.”
Happy.
Like a flower left too long in the sun without any water, my heart wilts. It’s not enough. It’s not even close. I slip the ring from my finger, place it in Jake’s broad palm, and curl his fingers over the gift. He looks bewildered, dumbfounded. Like this is all happening too fast. I want to tell him that he makes me happy. I want to tell him that us makes me happy. But my throat is too tight to get the words out and I won’t put Jake in that position. I won’t jeopardize our friendship. So I squeeze his hand, then turn around and walk away.
I hate that he lets me go.