Swiping, I answer the call, put it on speaker, and say hello.
“Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas, Meg!” His voice booms through the phone, all loud and happy, and something inside my chest squeezes.
After pausing just to make him hesitate with confusion, I say, “Are you calling me a ho?”
“What? No!” He starts stammering, and I start laughing.
“I’m just kidding. Merry Christmas, Jack.” My smile is so big I’m certain he can feel it through my words.
“Funny, very funny,” he teases, and I can feel him grinning through his words, too. “What are you doing?” he asks. There’s no noise in the background, and his voice comes through loud and clear. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s still midmorning for him in Arizona.
“Perfecting my own beef Wellington recipe.” I look down at the plastic wrap where I’ve evenly spread the duxelles mixture on top of the prosciutto. The trick to making the perfect duxelles is to use fresh thyme and shallots instead of a regular onion. I sprinkle some salt, pepper, and a few more pieces of the chopped thyme.
He groans as I pick up the sheet pan and move it to the refrigerator. I can’t help the spark I feel at his blatant desire to eat my food.
“Who are you making that for?” he asks, subtle but also not at the same time.
“Myself.” I wonder if it bothers him, the thought of me cooking for someone else, but then again it shouldn’t—we’re just friends. “You’d think I would take the day off from cooking, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
“I could be there in a few hours to help you eat that.” There’s a hint of hopefulness in his voice.
“I thought you were visiting your parents.”
“I am, but . . . beef Wellington,” he says on a moan, as if that explains it all.
Happiness trickles through me, because deep down I think he’s serious. If I asked him to come here, he probably would. His picture from yesterday was of him boarding a Wheels Up private jet, which tells me he’s a member. That seems to be the new thing for athletes and such lately, getting them where they need to go quickly and without the hassle of commercial airlines.
“If you ever make it to Charleston, remind me and I’ll make it for you.” I pick up the room-temperature beef and move it to my work station.
“Really?”
“Sure, whatever you want.” Rolling it into a cylinder, I tie it in four places to help it hold its shape while I brown the outside, and then I drizzle olive oil over it.
“Where’s your aunt? She didn’t feel like driving up?”
I sprinkle the meat with salt and pepper then gently place it in the pan to begin searing all the sides.
“Actually, she decided to brave the cold and went to Denver to see my cousins Jayce and Ethan. Jayce has a new baby, and she’s been itching to head back out there to see her. She’s staying with each of them for a week before she heads back.”
“Well, that’s great for her, but I don’t like you being alone on Christmas.” His voice has dropped in tenor.
I look around my house and smile at the ambiance I’ve created. How can I be sad about being alone today when I’ve been blessed with all this? It’s my place, my space, and that makes it my perfect holiday.
“I don’t mind. Besides, it’s better than the alternative where I’m not here at all.” I meant this to come out light and chipper, but silence stretches between us as he doesn’t say anything. “How’s Phoenix?” I ask, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject.
“Pleasant. My dad and I played a round of golf this morning, stopped for brunch in the clubhouse, and now we’re back at their house. He’s taking a quick nap and I’m on the back porch staring out at the Phoenix Mountains. There’s a trail over on Camelback I’m thinking about hitting up later today.”
“That sounds nice. Is it a hard trail?” A picture of Jack hiking up a mountain fills my mind. Blue skies, clay colors, trails, a long-sleeved T-shirt, shorts, a small backpack that holds snacks and water, and a nice southwesterly breeze that sweeps through his hair. I know I shouldn’t imagine him this way, but he is gorgeous, and I can’t help but appreciate the vision.
“Yes and no. I’ve done it before, so I’m used to it. It’s only about three miles, but the view is gorgeous.”
My vision changes, and now he’s standing at the top with one foot propped on a rock, his hands on his hips, staring out at the view in front of him. I laugh inwardly and say, “You’ll have to send me a picture later.”
“You know I will, and I expect one of the beef Wellington in return.”
“Of course.” I flip it over, and the sizzle sounds so good. “What is your mom making today?”
He chuckles. “If you mean what she picked up premade from Fresh Market, I think there’s some mashed potatoes and a green bean casserole in there.”
“No!” I start laughing.
He laughs with me. “Yep.”
“I’m so sorry. Now I’m kind of wishing you could ditch them and come here to have a real meal.”
“Why do you think I was so excited at Thanksgiving?” he asks.
“That’s just sad, Jack.”
“Tell me about it.”
Picking up my spoon to baste butter over the meat, I accidentally drop it on the floor, and as I bend over to pick it up, a flash of light pink and yellow hits my peripheral vision. Folded over the back of one of my kitchen chairs is an apron from Jack that showed up to the restaurant for Christmas. It was obvious he had wrapped it for me; to say I was shocked is an understatement, but there really isn’t a more perfect gift for me.
“Thank you again for the apron. I love it,” I tell him as I rinse the spoon off in the sink and move back to the stove. Tilting the pan, I scoop up the butter, pour it over the meat, and repeat.
“You already thanked me, and it’s nothing. I saw it, thought of you, and well, you did say over Thanksgiving how much you love aprons.”
The thoughtfulness from this guy over the last couple of months hasn’t gone unnoticed by me. In little ways, he always goes out of his way to make sure he’s at least said hello once a day, he comments on my photos, and recently, he’s started texting me good night.
“I guess I did. Where did you find it?” Feeling satisfied with the browning of the beef, I remove it from the pan, cut the ties, and set it aside to cool a bit.
“I can’t tell you all of my secrets,” he says. “What would be the fun in that?”
“You kill me.” Moving to the refrigerator, I grab the sheet pan with the prosciutto and a bottle of Dijon mustard.
“But in the best way, right?” Do I detect a little vulnerability in his voice? No, can’t be. Jack is the type of person who knows just who he is and is perfectly okay with it.
“Always. When do you fly home?” Using a rubber spatula, I smear the Dijon all over the meat.
“Tomorrow morning. We have light practice tomorrow night and then a full practice again the next morning. At least our game is at home this weekend.”
“You’re playing the Broncos?”
“Yep. We already beat them once, so we’re feeling pretty good about it.”
“They have a cute quarterback.”
“Meg . . .” Jack basically growls in warning, and I laugh.
“What?” I feign innocence. “There’s no way you don’t agree with me. I mean, look at him.”
“Looks can be deceiving. The guy is an asshole,” he states very matter-of-factly.
“That he might be, but his arms . . .” I drawl out. What is it about a guy’s arms that’s such a turn-on? From their shoulders to their hands, long, defined, and muscular, and so inviting.
“I have nice arms, too,” he says.
“Fishing for compliments?” I grin, knowing he doesn’t need compliments from me. He’s very proud of the way he looks.
“No, just stating the obvious. Tell me about your December date, and how does corned beef hash factor in?”
Placing the beef on top of the d
uxelles, I use the plastic wrap to help me tightly cover it with the prosciutto. “It was actually really nice.” I tuck the ends in and twist the plastic wrap to hold it in place in the shape of a log.
“Nice—girls only use that word when they’re trying to be polite.”
“No, really. It was nice, nicer than a lot I have been on this past year.” My mind drifts over the last couple of guys I’ve met: all interesting, and there’s someone out there for them, but it’s definitely not me.
“Are you going to continue these dates next year?”
“I think so, but I’m not going to worry so much if I miss a month.”
Despite some of the guys being complete weirdos, it has been fun to put myself out there and meet new people. You would think I meet them daily in the restaurant, but I barely come out of the kitchen.
“Back to food. Tell me the story.”
Lifting the pan, I take the meat and put it back in the refrigerator so it can settle and hold its shape. I’ll leave it there for at least thirty minutes.
“I’m certain you’re thinking it’s because he’s Irish, but that’s not the case. He’s a middle school history teacher. Currently, they’re talking about the Lewis and Clark expedition, and apparently they ate a lot of protein, from bison to elk to pork, and even dog.”
“Well, that’s disgusting.”
“I suppose it is what it is if you’re hungry, but they also had potatoes. I’m not sure if they made a hash or not, but seemed like something I would have cooked—salted meat to make it last and chopped-up potatoes.”
“Did he kiss you good night?” he teases, certainly not expecting the answer I’m about to give him.
“He did actually.” I never bring guys back to my home—they don’t need to know where I live—so he walked me back to the restaurant, thanked me for a nice night out, and leaned in to lightly brush his lips across mine.
There’s a three-second pause.
“And?”
“It was nice.” And it was. There was nothing aggressive or unwanted about it. It was sweet and appropriate for a pleasant night out.
“There’s that word again.” He chuckles.
“Well, it’s true. It was nice. I haven’t been kissed in a while.” A guy earlier in the year kissed me, but none since then.
“I’m always available if you get the itch.” His devilish tone has me shaking my head.
“Stop it.”
“Just sayin’. Will you go out with him again?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s just sad. I almost feel bad for the poor guy.” There’s a creak in the background, like he’s shifting in his seat.
“Why? I’ve told you before—I’m not looking to find a boyfriend.” I move the pan and other utensils to the sink to wash.
“Then I don’t understand . . . why do you keep going out with these guys?”
“I like meeting new people.”
“And you can’t do that without the pretense of dating them?”
I see what he’s saying, and he does have a point.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Well, let it be known I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“Noted.”
Two minutes after the phone call ends, a picture appears on my screen. Jack has removed his shirt and is flexing his bicep to show off his arm—just his arm. I can’t help but laugh, and he’s right . . . can I just say eye candy times ten? It’s a good thing he doesn’t live closer, because I could easily see myself getting lost in those arms.
Three hours later, a notification pops up that Jack has posted a new photo. It’s a selfie of him at the top of the mountain, only it’s not quite how I imagined it. He’s wearing a green T-shirt that says Mr. Christmas, and the goof has a Santa hat on. The caption says: If I can’t have beef Wellington, at least I can have this view. #blessed #wishyouwerehere
Beef Wellington
IT’S CLOSE TO midnight as I find myself walking down to the small boat dock behind Reid’s house under a sky full of twinkling stars. The smell of saltwater and fresh grass permeates the air, but it’s cool, not cold, and there isn’t even a trace of humidity lingering.
Looking out across the water to the houses lining Bayshore Boulevard, each one lit up in all its splendor, I chuckle as I wonder how much these people pay monthly for electricity. It’s not that I would mind owning a large home one day; I’m just not sure I see the purpose of it being that big.
As I take a sip of my beer, my shirt sleeve pushes up under my jacket, and I use my fingers to pull it back down, straightening the platinum football cufflinks my mother gave me one year for my birthday.
It’s New Year’s Eve, I’m dressed in a black tuxedo (per Camille’s request), and I’m so happy with life right now, everything feels damn near perfect. My friends and family are happy, my team is undefeated, and well, between Meg and Zeus, I’m just smiling all day.
Turning around, I lean against the dock railing and look back up at Reid’s house. I’m proud of him, too; he’s really done well for himself. Don’t get me wrong, I miss him being across the hall from me like crazy and I think poor Zeus went through a slight phase of depression, but he’s got this amazing life he’s started with Camille, and only every now and then do I find myself a little bit envious.
Speaking of Camille, distinct laughter floats my way and I find her, Lexi, Missy, and a few other women deep in conversation. They’ve just raised their fruity champagne punch glasses and I watch as they clink them together, toss their heads back, and swallow. I tried the punch when I arrived—way too sweet for me, perfect and girly for them.
Seeing Lexi, I can’t help but think that Meg would have liked it here, and again my mind drifts to her and I wonder what she’s doing. She posted a photo earlier of herself laughing, and she was so gorgeous I felt my chest tighten. She had on a short fitted dress that was silver and sparkly along with a pair of killer red heels. Her lips were also red and she kept her hair down, letting it spill over her shoulders and down her back. On top of her head, she had one of those cheap Happy New Year! tiaras. Obviously she was headed out somewhere, and I found I was uncomfortable wondering who she might be with.
I left a comment, like I always do, but this time I didn’t say anything, just put three flame emojis. After all, she looked smokin’ hot, friends or not.
“What are you doing down here?” Reid asks as he comes to stand next to me.
“Just taking it all in, brother. Taking it all in.” I clap him on the shoulder and squeeze hard. Behind him, Billy and Jonah follow and step up to join the conversation. We look sharp tonight, and I decide Camille wasn’t wrong to make us dress up. It’s nice and a change of scenery from our regular workout attire.
“I think he’s hiding.” Billy smirks, eyeing me with a knowing expression.
“From who?” Jonah asks, flipping his head back and to the side a little to move the hair off his forehead.
Turning, all four of us stare up at the back of the house, and I reply, “See that girl standing next to Missy? Shoulder-length straight blonde hair and big pink lips.”
“Yeah,” he responds, his brows rising slightly as he drinks her in.
“Missy invited her and apparently pushed her my way thinking I would like some company tonight when I’m just fine on my own.”
“Hold up, bro,” Billy says, raising a hand. Of course he’s going to come to his wife’s defense. “In all fairness, she really likes that girl. They’re friends, and she knew you were going to be alone tonight. As you’re always up for a good time, she thought y’all might have one together. Her intentions were good.”
“I’m not arguing with you there, man, but maybe she should have run it by me first. All I wanted was a low-key night with my friends. I’m not interested, and the girl isn’t getting the hint.” I can’t help the frown that overtakes my face as we watch her break away from the group and look around like she’s looking for someone specific. I want
to slink back into the shadows so she doesn’t find me.
“I’m interested,” Jonah says eagerly, facing us again and looking excited by the prospect.
“Really?”
Jonah, who is younger, newer to the team, and one of our starting tight ends, never partakes in willing girls, so I’m kind of surprised but insanely relieved. He nods, and I graciously wave my hand in her direction. “Then go for it. Have a ball.”
“I think I will.” He grins as he raises his bottle toward us, tips it in a solo cheers, and then walks back up toward the party. The three of us stand there silently and watch as he approaches the girl. Both of them start smiling at each other, and I feel like I’m off the hook. I think my shoulders loosen for the first time since I arrived and she was dropped in front of me.
Billy chuckles then turns back to our little group.
“You guys talk to Bryan tonight?” My eyes skip over from Jonah and land on Bryan. He’s standing with Lexi, but he isn’t saying anything. His back is straight, he’s got one hand in his pocket, and the other is white-knuckling his drink. He’s been like that for the last two hours. Of course he’s being cordial, but it’s like he’s just going through the motions of being here and his mind is definitely somewhere else.
“I did briefly, but he’s got the look,” Reid says, taking a sip of his beer.
“He does. Dude needs to relax, but something is definitely going on in his head,” Billy says.
Yeah, and I know what it is. He’s unhappy with his performance from yesterday’s game—well, the last couple of games—but man, does he need to let it go.
“I think you should talk to him,” Billy suggests. Of course he does. Everyone else is afraid of him, at least when he gets like this, and I somehow always get volunteered.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 7
