by Shirley Jump
It was the most honest thing she’d said in the last few weeks, heck, maybe in the last few months. That was what this all boiled down to. Rebecca, who thought she had always had her life on track, her plans in place, had no idea what she wanted. Steady, dependable, clueless Jeremy, or the hot, unpredictable, hurtful relationship she’d had this summer?
She turned away from him, her heart in her throat, the tears back behind her eyes. “I don’t know what I want,” she repeated.
His hand went to her shoulder, secure, comfortable, there. “I know what I want. I was just too stupid to go after the woman I loved when you walked away in June.”
She shook her head. Damn him for being a nice guy. Damn him for making her cry. Damn him for saying the words she’d wanted to hear back in June, now after all the mistakes she had made, all the decisions that couldn’t be undone. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “You don’t want me, Jeremy. I’m not the same Rebecca who left in June.”
“Of course you are.” That grin, so sure, so confident she was the girl he remembered. “And yes, you’re right, maybe I didn’t pay as close attention as I should have before, but that’s going to change. If—”
She put up a hand to stop him. “Don’t. Please.”
“Why?” He studied her. “This is about more than me not knowing your favorite color. What aren’t you telling me, Rebecca?”
“Nothing.” She turned away, and tossed the rest of the ice cream in the trash. Her appetite had disappeared. “Just let it go. Please.”
He sighed. “I love you, Rebecca. I have almost from the first day I met you. And I suspect you love me, too. But maybe that’s not going to be enough. Or maybe we’re both just looking for something that isn’t there. And never was.” Now his smile turned bittersweet.
And oh how that smile hurt, even long after Jeremy had gotten back in his car and driven away.
1/2 cup butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar
1 egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour (plus a little extra if the batter is too wet)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
3 1/2 ounces macadamia nuts, chopped
1/2 cup vanilla chips
1/2 cup white chocolate chips
You keep changing your mind which is, after all, a woman’s prerogative, but hard on the heart when you break up, then call, the man who still cares about you. Try these divided chip cookies, with a little of two kinds of chips (for a sweet surprise) while you decide which direction your heart wants to go. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg, then the vanilla. In a separate bowl, combine flour and baking soda, then add to the batter a little at a time. If the batter is too moist, add another 2 or 3 tablespoons of flour. You want it pliable but not sticky, like the mess you’ve created. Stir in the nuts and chips.
Cut a sheet of parchment paper for each cookie sheet (trust me, it's worth it. You end up with pretty much zero cleanup and that gives you more time to see your man, or shop for the next great collectible!). Drop by heaping teaspoonfuls onto the ungreased sheets, about two inches apart. Bake at 350 for 10 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove from oven and let cool on the sheet for one minute before transferring to a wire rack.
And if you really want to win him over, pick up the phone, and invite him over for some cookies and milk—just the two of you!
CHAPTER 8
A small mountain of Beanie Babies filled the center of the coffee table, like Noah’s Ark gone horribly awry in pastel and faux fur. “Ma, how many of these do you have now?”
Gloria shrugged, a who-me, I-didn’t-spend-a-fortune-on-these look on her face. “Enough for all my grandchildren.”
“You don’t have any yet. Besides, this is enough for all the children in China.” Rebecca shook her head, then picked up a small purple bear with a white rose embroidered on its chest and a deep purple ribbon bow. “Though this one is kinda cute.”
“That’s the Princess Diana Beanie. I had to wait forever for that one. There was a run on them, you know, after she died.” Gloria shook her head. “Such a shame, and just when she was about to find true love, too.”
Rebecca snorted and put the bear back on the pile. “Ma, even princesses don’t get to live in fairy tales.”
“That sounds a little jaded, coming from the little girl who dressed up as Cinderella three Halloweens in a row.” Gloria’s face shaded with concern. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Rebecca heaved a sigh that verged on a sob and dropped her head into her hands. “Everything. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what to do.”
“About Jeremy? Or the other guy?”
Rebecca jerked her head up. “How do you know about him?”
“Honey, I’m your mother. I know…” Gloria grinned. “Okay, so maybe your grandfather mentioned you were dating someone when you were out at his lake cottage this summer.”
“I dated a mistake is what I did.” Rebecca shook her head. “I wish I could go back and undo all of that.”
“Why? That mistake is the best thing you ever did.” Her mother’s hands covered Rebecca’s with soft, warm comfort. “You are so like your father. Always worried about getting everything just so. Do you remember how you would start your homework over again if you misspelled a word? Or your handwriting got sloppy? Thank God they invented computers or I think you would have had a stroke in high school. You were obsessive. You’d keep working on those papers, making them perfect, until I made you go to bed.”
“I wanted good grades. I knew that meant I could get into a good college, and get a scholarship.”
Gloria brushed a strand of hair off Rebecca’s forehead, as if she was still that little girl fretting over her spelling words. “And you did. You’ve always been so afraid of making a mistake, that you sometimes hurt yourself in the process.”
“Kind of counterintuitive, huh?” Rebecca said, thinking of all the nights she’d stayed up late, the worries that had filled her thoughts. “The whole point is to avoid getting hurt.”
“Exactly.” Gloria sighed, then sat back against the leather sofa. “Did I ever tell you about the time your father proposed?”
“When he took you to the park and asked you to marry him?”
“Not that time. The first time.” Gloria arched a brow. “No? Well, he asked me once, about a month before that. We were at a Chinese buffet, going up for refills, when your dad leaned across the sneeze guard and said, “marry me.””
Rebecca laughed. “He did? But that’s so…un-romantic.”
“Exactly. But I loved him, and I said yes on the spot, then by the time I got back to the table, I’d started to panic. I mean, this is a guy who asked me to marry him over a buffet of Kung Pao Chicken. What did that spell for my future? By the time we sat down again, I took back my yes.”
“You took it back? What did Dad do?”
“He nodded, you know, in that somber, deliberate way he has, then took a few bites. After he finished, he put the plate to the side and said that I was going to have to get used to him asking, because he was a lot like that buffet, and he was going to keep coming back until I said yes. He called himself the Mike Wilson Buffet of Love.” Gloria laughed. “Your father was dorky and determined, and I loved him for it then and now.”
Rebecca had never heard this story before, but it made sense. Rebecca had inherited that dogged determination and perfectionist streak from her dad, but there were days she wished she had more of her mother’s adventurous, risk-taking spirit. “How did you know he was the one?”
“Because,” at this, her features softened, and ten years seemed to drop away from Gloria’s face, “I couldn’t imagine a single day without him in my life.”
Wise advice, Rebecca thought. If only she was brave enough to take it.
*~*~*
He’d thought the first time they broke up had been miserable.
> He was wrong.
The second time was a thousand times worse, the pain multiplied. The first time, he’d always had this flutter of hope that after a summer away, she’d clear her head and they’d get back together, falling back into place like two pieces to a puzzle. But this time, the hope had fizzled, and he knew better.
He’d tried, and it hadn’t worked. He had to move on, for his own sanity.
He made it through the day at work by picking the most complex project on the board and burying himself in measurements and variables. Still, the eight hours at work dragged by. After work, he slipped on his running shoes and took a long, hard, painful run up Beacon Hill and through the winding neighborhoods of Boston. He avoided the Esplanade.
Then he got in his car, and instead of taking the right toward home, he took a left and found himself heading down Storrow Drive, his gaze flicking to the path along the river every few feet. He saw lots of brunettes running, but none of them was Rebecca. Disappointment warred with relief in his gut. Seeing her, he knew, would only make it worse. That was why he’d avoided the Charles River on his run, then let himself be drawn back to the area again. He was either a magnet or a masochist. Maybe both.
He parked, then got out and walked onto the Harvard Bridge. A strong breeze swept over the Charles River, forming choppy waves and peppering mist onto his face. The sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, kissing the city of Boston with gold. How many sunsets had he watched from this spot? Easily a hundred, each one more beautiful than the last. He’d shared all those sunsets with Rebecca, who liked to take this walk with him after their run, ending each day on the peaceful note of watching the sun go down and the boats float by.
He kept walking until he reached the middle, his heart filling with each step. Why did he torture himself like this? He should have just gone home. Called Dan. Headed to a bar. Anything but come here.
His steps slowed when he saw a familiar figure in shorts and a Suffolk T-shirt leaning over the railings. The number 182 decorated the sidewalk on one side of her, the number 183 on the other. Rebecca stood halfway between MIT and Storrow Drive, in the exact spot where he had met her over a year ago.
He tried not to take that as a sign. Tried to be practical, to keep that bubble of hope from resurfacing. “Smoot 182,” he said as he approached her. “It’s a famous spot on this bridge.”
She turned to him and a ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “So I hear.”
He stopped beside her, close enough to catch a whiff of the jasmine perfume she wore, but not close enough to touch. “We keep running into each other. I think that says something.”
“Maybe it’s just a weird coincidence,” she said.
“Or maybe we know each other so well that we’ve got this little radar between us.” He took a step closer to her. “A magnetic pull.”
For a long moment she stared out at the water and the city skyline beyond, her hands clasped, the breeze dancing her hair around her face. “You know, when we first met, I thought you were all wrong for me.” She turned, leaning an elbow on the railings. “Do you remember the first thing you said to me?”
“If you overinflate your tires, that will cause them to puncture more easily.” He’d seen a pretty girl with a bike and a flat tire on the side of the bridge, and the first thing that came out of his mouth had been a fact. He had kicked himself afterwards for the terrible opening. Pick up lines had never been his forte—clearly. “It was because you made me nervous. I wanted to impress you, and instead I ended up lecturing you.”
“Ten minutes of information about tire pressure,” she said with a laugh. “I learned a lot, though.”
“Sorry.”
“But what changed my mind was how you talked to me, while you changed my tire and checked out my bike. You had this way of explaining everything so it made sense, yet didn’t make me feel stupid. And even though you didn’t know me at all, you took care of me. Made those adjustments to the cables, tweaked the handlebars. It was…nice.”
“Yeah, that’s me. The nice guy. Or I used to be anyway.” He turned to the water. Why had he come here? To revisit a history that was over? Every time he saw her, it was torture. He needed to forget Rebecca once and for all.
She reached out and covered his hand with one of her own. “Don’t say that. That was what I liked about you and also what drove me crazy about you. You were so nice. Too nice.”
He shrugged. “Apparently, that’s not a good thing.” What was the saying? Nice guys finish last? Someone should have added and alone to that.
“Sometimes, being nice is a good thing,” she said softly, and that bubble of hope bobbed to the surface again. She exhaled, her gaze on the water below. Behind them, cars rushed along the pavement, a constant whoosh-whoosh of tires against road. “When you asked me to marry you, it was all so…”
“Clinical? Cold? Analytical?” He shook his head. “I meant to do this big romantic thing, but I’m not exactly Casanova here. I can figure out how to design a water system, can tell you useless facts, like why they chose to install six longitudinal girders instead of four when they did a structural improvement to this bridge, how the cantilever fixed span system works, and even exactly how long a Smoot measurement is supposed to be—”
“Five feet, seven inches, plus or minus an ear,” she said, smiling. “Named for the shortest pledge at Harvard that year.”
He nodded. Yet another bit of data he’d shared with her. Jeremy Hamilton, Mr. Romantic. If he could go back and get a do-over, he’d definitely try for more Hallmark moments. “My brain is filled with all this data and facts, but when it comes to poetry and love songs and romance, I’m about as flowery as a juniper bush.”
She laughed. “That’s okay. It’s who you are. And who else knows the Smoot thing?”
“A lot of people in Boston. It’s not like it’s a big secret.”
“Maybe. But you knew it, and that impressed me.”
“Oh, I have a whole lot of useless trivia if you want more.” He grinned. They stood there like that for a while, in the kind of comfortable silence that came after knowing someone for a long time. Jeremy could have let himself believe they were back to old times, but in his heart, he knew better. There was something standing between them, something more than what she was telling him. There was a wall here, brought about by more than just his own failings. “Why are you here, Rebecca?”
“Because I missed those sunsets.” She waved toward the setting sun, and the beautiful golden wash it dropped over the Charles River and all of Boston.
“I meant with me. You called me the other night, but then you retreat. You do the same thing you accused me of doing. You get behind this wall, and then I can’t reach you. Why?”
Her face crumpled a little. “Because I’m afraid of making another mistake.”
Fear. He knew that feeling well. But why? What had made Rebecca so afraid? And why didn’t she trust him?
He pulled away from her, and turned back to the bridge. A boat passed beneath them, a couple in a rowboat, taking their time getting down the river. It was the perfect day for such a trip, breezy and sunny, and still warm enough to enjoy the Charles without a jacket. His gaze dropped to the blue-green water below him. “Did you know Harry Houdini once jumped off this bridge?”
“He did?”
Jeremy nodded. “It was April of 1908 and the water was colder than hell. He had that straightjacket on, got it all locked up and secure, then jumped. Something like ten thousand people were here, watching it. He went under the water and it’s so dark and cold, no one can see him. No one knows if he’s drowning or working a key into those locks. Five seconds go by, ten, thirty, more. People start to panic, sure that he’s dying. Women start to cry, men offer to rescue him, and then he just rises to the surface, out of his shackles. He went on to perform a show that night in Boston, too.” Jeremy smoothed a hand across the railing, then turned to Rebecca. “Someone asked him before he jumped if he was afraid and he just laughe
d and said, ‘What do I have to fear?’”
“A lot.” She shuddered. “I can’t imagine jumping in this water like he did.”
“I used to think he was crazy. You know, in the Charles it was still winter. He could have died of shock, hypothermia, a hundred other things. But then I realized why I like that story. He might have said he didn’t have anything to fear, but he had to be scared. Looking down into that dark, cold water, praying he’d undo the locks fast enough. And he did it anyway.” Jeremy took a step closer to Rebecca, and took both her hands in his. “I used to think that taking the safe way out was the best way to lead my life. No jumping off perfectly good bridges, no daring escapes, no risks. Be as predictable and practical as a design for a water system. But where did that get me?” He let out a gust. “Alone and miserable. I got that job at Griffin the other day—”
Her features brightened, and a smile winged its way across his face. “That’s awesome, Jeremy. I know you wanted that for a long time.”
“The only person I wanted to tell, the only person I wanted to share that news with, wasn’t with me anymore, and I realized that no job, no award, no achievement matters if the people you love aren’t there to share it with you. I let you go, Rebecca, because I was afraid of taking a risk with my heart. It was the same reason I couldn’t tell you I loved you, even though I wanted to marry you. What kind of sense does that make? I was afraid that I would lose my concentration and focus if I had you, too. But you know what? I can’t concentrate or focus on anything but you. You are the one who makes me want to jump off bridges,” he laughed when he realized how that sounded, “in a good way. And you’re the only one I want to see when I come back to the surface.”
“Oh, Jeremy. I—”
He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t say it. I don’t want you and me to get back together because of a moment during a sunset. I want us both to be sure that this is what we want forever. I want you to jump off that bridge and be okay with it. Something’s scaring you, but you’re not telling me what that is.”