“It’s sincerity,” Jack says as we walk back toward the office. “No matter what you’re saying or how golden the flattery, if you’re not sincere, they can tell.” He shrugs. “What they choose to do with that sincerity is up to them.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Jack gives me a look that makes me want to run and duck, or maybe just look in his eyes and hold him forever—I’m not sure which. But something passes behind the blues that is both old and fresh, like a wound that refuses to heal.
“Jack?”
He shuts his eyes and laughs, a low, short sound. When he opens them again, all that turbulence is gone. “You know, there are some really great places on Blaker. You could sign up for a culinary class or something. There’s an art studio. You could sign up for something there.” He nudges me in the shoulder. “I hear they have a nude painting class. A model, that is, not the class. You know what else you might want to do?”
Together, we walk toward Blaker.
****
When all is said and done, I have not only signed up for a pottery class (I’ve always wanted to learn how to make a pot a la Demi Moore in Ghost—and if I could get a Patrick Swayze to sit behind me and help, I’d take that, too), but I also enrolled in six sessions of krav maga.
Jack seems surprised, but pleased. “Aggressive. I like it.”
“Maybe it’ll be good for me. If I’m having a bad day, I can just punch something.”
“I don’t think that’s the krav maga motto. I think it’s something about learning to protect yourself, to defend yourself…”
“Tomato-tomahto. Either way, you better watch out. I’ll be able to throw you over my shoulder with enough training.”
“They’re worse things in life.”
I laugh. In the span of less than an hour, I feel like I’ve climbed Everest. Or, at the very least, have gotten to base camp one. And for a gal who hasn’t been off the couch in a while, what a feeling. I pull out my paper and pluck a pen from my purse.
“Aw, look at that,” I say, handing the list to Jack. “Three things crossed off already.”
Glory’s Twelve Challenges of Christmas
1. Wear high heels to work. And jewelry. Express yourself! You’re twenty-nine and have legs for days. Show ‘em off, honey!
2. Sign up for a class. Expand your horizons.
3 Compliment ten random strangers. Be sincere!
He nods. “And you’re even doing them in order. Very efficient. And hey, if you wanted to knock off another one, my sister was telling me about this big sale she just went to at Fortino’s. It’s about three blocks away and—”
“We have about two minutes left to haul ass and get back to the office. I can’t do a shopping spree in two minutes.”
“Okay then. I’ll see you at seven.”
He nods, pleased with himself, then turns and starts to walk away.
“Seven?” I quickly grab his arm. “For what?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “For you to shop. Oh, and we can double-up and do that tofu thing too. It’ll be great.”
“But—”
He grins. “See you tonight.”
Chapter Four
Snow Globe and Saxophone
Ten minutes left. Ten minutes until he knocks on the door and for the first time in years, I invite him in. My heart is racing. Denny Crane watches me with supreme boredom.
“You don’t get it,” I say to him. “Jack is coming over. Do you remember him?”
Denny Crane blinks. Then he sits up, lifts his back leg high and starts grooming himself.
I scoff. “No I didn’t do that to him. In fact, I didn’t do much of anything.”
The rain had threatened to shatter the windows. Jack and I refused to use the elevator; the lights kept flickering on and off and we weren’t about to tempt fate. Instead, we used the emergency stairwell, turning the five flight trek into a stunningly ill-conceived race. I was neck and neck with him for all of three seconds before his long legs propelled him to the second floor before I even made it up the first flight.
“Come on,” he shouted down. “I’ll be old and feeble by the time you make it up.”
I gave him the finger and he grinned. With the light shining down, his rain-soaked hair looked like it was shimmering, a piece of anime artwork come to life. His eyes were bright in his flushed face, his tawny skin looked vibrant and warm. My pace slowed even more as I took in the way his shirt clung to his body, accentuating a toned definition that his loose button-downs never even hinted at. He was leaning against the railing, watching me as I climbed up, and I couldn’t help but think I was approaching a lion in his lair.
He must’ve seen what I was feeling, or sensed it in the air. The minute I hit the landing, he grabbed my wrist and hauled me against him. His lips crushed on mine and he kissed me like he wanted to devour me. A delicious stretch shot all through my body as I rose on tiptoe to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him just as deeply. He lifted me off my feet. The feel of his wet shirt against my burning skin made me gasp aloud.
Knock knock knock.
Denny Crane makes a beeline for my bedroom at the sudden loud noise. I set down my dish rag (I always clean when I’m nervous) and, after a quick glance in my mirror—nothing in my teeth, hair still looks good—I open the door.
Jack holds out both hands. “I’ve got tofu and scary movies.” He comes in and sets both on my coffee table. “Shall we eat first or take you shopping?”
I eye the block of bean curd. “I’m not sure I know how to make that stuff.”
“When in doubt, always fry.”
With those wise words, we head into the kitchen. He moves around like he knows the place, which I guess he does. He finds my skillet with no problem, opens the fridge like he’s done it a thousand times, and lays out everything on my counter. But then he suddenly stops.
“Sorry,” he says. He begins putting away everything he just laid out. “Totally forgot. This is all you.”
I give him a look. “You’re really going to sit on your butt while I try to fry tofu?”
He flashes me a grin and takes a seat on a kitchen stool. “I can think of no better way to spend an evening.”
With a sigh, I bring out the skillet. I try to get everything he took from the refrigerator, but I can’t quite recall it all and in the end, I bring out eggs (not sure why), onion (because of course), garlic (because always), and carrots (because). I read the package. It tells me to put something heavy on the tofu to get the water out. The heaviest thing I have is J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so I put the book in a big pot and put the pot on the napkin-wrapped tofu.
I flash Jack my own smile. “This isn’t so hard. Maybe I’m a natural.”
****
I am not a natural. As Jack and I take our first bite of my little tofu stir fry concoction, I realize just how not natural I am. I shudder—shudder—the minute the food hits my mouth, and not in a good way. Jack’s entire body stills, as if once false move could send him barfing.
I look at him. He looks at me. We both spit out our food in our napkins.
“Okay,” he says, his face scrunched up, “I’ve had tofu plenty of times before and never wanted to die.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“But that”—he gestures to the plate—“was not good.”
“What did I do wrong?’
“I don’t know. Didn’t press out enough water? Didn’t use the right spices?”
Grabbing both plates, I get up and dump the contents in the sink. When I come back in the living room, Jack is already ordering pizza. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you,” he says, clearly on hold. “It’s just there’s no tofu left and I’m so hungry.”
I raise both hands. “Just order me a pineapple one and we’re square.”
With a smile and wink—that deadly combination—he places our order.
“Alright. Should be here in half an hour. And hey, we can still
do your shopping spree once we’re done.”’
My shopping spree. I should’ve told Layla my deep, dark clothing secret. But since it’s too late for that conversation, I decide to do the next best thing.
“Come on. I need to show you something.”
Without a word, though with a question in his eyes, Jack follows me to my bedroom. He watches as I go to my closet and crouch down to pull out the long plastic containers at the bottom. He grabs them and puts them on my bed.
“Diaries?” he asks. “Old cd’s? Piles of money? Dead bodies?”
I give him a look (I seem to do that a lot), and pop open a lid. Then I tip the container and let the contents pour out.
Jack’s eyes widen. I tip over another container and another. Pretty soon, my bed is packed with all the colors of the rainbow. From sparkly tops to tassel scarves to expression tees to jeans in every shade imaginable, it’s like a Crayola crayon box exploded. Most of the clothes still have their price tags. Jack sifts through the fabrics: silk, cotton, wool, gauze, satin, tulle. Things I purchased—bright, beautiful things—but have never worn.
“I loved them when I saw them, but I just couldn’t ever find the right occasion.”
He picks up a tank top with a graphic of Bret Hart twisting the legs of some poor sucker in his famous sharpshooter move. The catchphrase the best there is, the best there was, the best there ever will be is emblazoned on the chest. “Oh now, there is always occasion to wear this.”
I snatch it away on a laugh. “People at work would die if I wore this stuff.”
“Who cares about people at work? You bought all this because you wanted to, because you liked it. So wear it.”
I shrug. It’s easy for him to say. Though the compliments today were nice, I definitely don’t want every day to be the Glory McNally show, and that’s what I’d feel like if people continued to compliment and stare. Just the thought churns my stomach.
“Well,” I say, “the point is, I don’t need to shop. I have enough colorful stuff. So we’ll just have to do something else on the list.” I walk past him and turn off the bedroom light, but before I can leave, he catches my wrist.
Jack nods. “Okay. I know something we can do right now.”
I raise my brow. “Don’t even think about number ten.”
His mouth stretches into a wide grin. Then, without a word, he lets go of my wrist and takes out his cellphone. A few clicks later and the sounds of I’ll Be Home for Christmas come on. A simple piano, a beautiful voice.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“Number seven, of course. Or is eight? Whatever your ballroom lesson is.”
“You know how to ballroom dance?”
“I’ll have you know that not only can I foxtrot, but I can do any dance in Dirty Dancing you throw at me.” At my look, he shrugs. “Sisters. And their friends.”
I gulp. “I’m not a very good dancer.”
“Have you tried?” When I don’t reply, he extends his hand. “Dance with me, Glory. Please.”
The only illumination is a lamp in the dining room and the lights from my tree, but it’s enough. I can still make out the planes of Jack’s face, the blue of his eyes. I can still see that wave in his hair, the one that makes my fingers itch to slide through the silken strands. And though I’d like to blame it on my challenges, I know that when I take his hand, it’s not because I have to. It’s because I want to.
He pulls me close. His left hand holds my right, his right hand rests on the small of my back. The song is slow and languid and just a bit lonely sounding.
Softly, I say, “You are a good dancer.”
“I’m trying to impress you.”
I grin but Jack doesn’t grin back. As he turns us slowly, snow starts falling outside my window, fast, fluffy flakes that make it feel as if I’m in a snow globe.
“Why are you really helping me with these challenges? Or is just for fun?”
“Would it be wrong if it was just for fun?”
“I just want to know the truth.”
We turn again. A light shines through the window, probably from a snow plow truck. It makes his skin look luminous, his hair every bright color: gold to bronze to sunlight. A saxophone begins to play.
He says, “I think this list is good for you. I think you need to get out of your comfort zone more. You need to trust yourself more.”
Jack’s hand moves from my lower back up. It’s a mindless thing, as if he just can’t help himself from caressing me.
“And you think you can help me learn to trust myself?”
“No. But I can cheer you on. And there’s something else, too.”
The saxophone solo is over and other instruments have joined in, but the song still feels like a cry. But then…a violin. A crystal-clear note right above the sweeping low of the brass. And even though the melody is still melancholy, there’s something strong about it, too. Something unbreakable in the midst of all that heartbreak.
Jack repositions his hold. He twirls me once and then moves me back in a dip that makes me whole world spin. Finally, he says, “I’m helping because I miss you.”
He sets me back upright, about to say more, when someone rings the door bell. And just like that, the moment is gone.
Chapter Five
Snow Day
The sun is shining, the snow is falling, and I’ve woken up to the best news ever: A water main break. It not only shut down Plaza Building Four, but Plaza Building Six as well. Even when you’re almost thirty, snow days are definitely still the best days.
“Wow,” Layla says as we walk from her car to the animal shelter. She’s holding my list in her mitten-clad hands and is nodding. “Very impressive. I can’t believe how much you’ve gotten done so far.”
Glory’s Twelve Challenges of Christmas
1. Wear high heels to work. And jewelry. Express yourself! You’re twenty-nine and have legs for days. Show ‘em off, honey!
2. Sign up for a class. Expand your horizons.
3 Compliment ten random strangers. Be sincere!
4. Go to a museum and talk to five guys. Dust off those flirting skills! And no, you cannot combine this with number 3. Up the ante!
5. Speaking of up…update your wardrobe! Buy stuff with colors and sequins. Buy an expression tee and wear it! Buy a push up bra and let the ba-zingas do the talking!
6. Bake with tofu. Try something new.
7. Watch a bunch of scary movies. Push beyond your comfort zone!
8. Attend a ballroom dancing class. I’ve seen the many episodes of Dancing with the Stars on your DVR. You obviously love it, so give it a whirl (See what I did there?) And no, you cannot combine this challenge with number 2.
9. Go to a bar and stay out until midnight.
10. Walk around naked. I know this sounds weird coming from me, but get back in touch with your body and your sexuality. Hmm, even when I explain it, it still sounds so weird.
11. Karaoke
12. Volunteer somewhere, put yourself in a situation with lots of kids or people around. Expose yourself to more crowds. Not literally. Do NOT combine this with number 10.
“Oh, and look,” she says, “we can cross of number twelve.”
I pull a pen from my purse and hand it to her. “You can do the honors.”
And she does, happily. Then she hands me back my paper and we head into the Boli Foundation Rescue Site. Today is pictures with Santa for all the adoptable pets. Layla and I spend the morning putting bows around dog collars and twirling hair ribbons in fur long enough and, though they don’t stay on for long, we put little elf and Santa hats on any cat that won’t scratch us to ribbons. Layla spends the majority of the time cooing over all the animals, while I spend the duration chasing down rabbits that are so much quicker than I ever gave them credit for. Dozens of other people are volunteering, and even though my stomach was in knots when I first walked in, by nine o’clock, I was chatting and laughing as if I was out with my best friends.
&
nbsp; “Alright,” Layla says to a gorgeous pit pull as she rubs her on the belly, “I have to go now. I have to eat. But I’ll be back and you are the most beautiful thing ever. Yes you are. Yes you are.”
“Oooh, I’m going to tell your dogs on you.”
Layla finally manages to drag herself away and we head to the cafeteria. I grab a Snickers and Sprite, giving nutritionists everywhere something to be proud of. Layla grabs a burger.
“So, how’s the list treating you? Do you feel different?”
I tell her about my coworkers that first day and how nice it was, how I’m getting used to talking to strangers, but then I tell her about the other night with Jack.
“And that’s when the door bell rang and the pizza guy showed up. We both scarfed it down, although whether it was because we were actually hungry or because we both just wanted to avoid talking remains to be seen. And then we watched a scary movie and then he left.”
“Did he bring up that missing you comment again?”
I shake my head. “We mostly talked about how Sebastian Stan makes a really good Winter Soldier.”
She nods in agreement.
I sigh. “It just sucks. The moment was so good and then it was gone and I couldn’t get it back. The more I tried, the more he backed off. Admittedly, I didn’t try too hard. But I’ve got to face it. What we had is gone and I may not ever get it back or—”
“Whoa. Wait a second. What you had is gone? I thought this flirtation was something new.” She narrows her eyes. “You have been holding back on me.”
I look down. I take another bite of my candy bar. “Maybe.”
Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances Page 3