Straight Up Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 2)

“Well, if I’m not successful . . .” She looks away. “I have no right to ask this, but would you have money to loan Molly for a while? I have a little, but since your father handles our finances, it’ll be tricky to get to it. I’ll pay you back just as soon as I can manage.”

I bite my tongue. My father doesn’t “handle” the finances. He controls them. The difference is significant—I’m well aware from experience—and anger on my stepmother’s behalf flares in the pit of my belly. But I’m angry for more than her. I’m angry for Molly. I’m angry for me.

I don’t need to wonder how Dad will react if I’m successful in my plans and he discovers I intentionally became a single mom. I already know how he will feel. Tonight wasn’t a revelation; it was a reminder.

“How much do you think she needs?” I ask.

“I’ll find out, but I’m sure it’s just temporary. You know Molly—something always comes around for her. She’s never depended on anyone else.” She snaps her mouth shut, as if she suddenly realized she just insulted me. I depended on someone else once, and it didn’t end well. Then again, maybe she’s thinking of how she depends on my dad.

“I could float her a small loan if you think that would help,” I say softly. It’ll come from my emergency fund, but I know between Jill and Molly, I’ll get it back.

She exhales in relief. “I’m sure anything you can spare would make a difference. I’d like her to have a chance to get on her feet without it crushing her spirit. Your father doesn’t realize how hard she’s had to work to stay afloat these last five years. He doesn’t know that she’s had to make sacrifices for . . .” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your help as much as I do.” The stress in Jill’s eyes makes me feel like I just stepped off the tilt-a-whirl. She always brought calm to this household, but something’s changed. “I’ll let you know what your dad says when I ask him to reconsider, but . . .”

“I know. That’s Dad.”

She swallows and gives a tight smile. “He’s not always easy to love, you know.”

None of us are, I think. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“You don’t have to say that,” she says softly. She shakes her head and sighs as she squeezes my hand, and I wonder if she truly doesn’t see the truth.

Ava

I let myself into the back of Jackson Brews and go straight to the walk-in cooler in search of Jake’s famous “goat balls.” I had no appetite at Dad’s, but now I’m hungry and stressed, and I want comfort food. I find the breaded bites of fresh goat cheese on a sheet tray at the back of the cooler, slide it out, then head to the deep fryer.

Jake pushes into the kitchen just as I’m dunking the bites in the bubbling oil. He looks at the sheet tray then at me. “Rough night?”

I wrap my arms around my middle. “Nothing a little fried cheese and honey can’t fix.”

“I’ve got barbecue bacon donut burgers on the menu tonight.” Jake leans against the counter. “Want me to put one together for you?”

I open my mouth to say no, but then shrug. “That actually sounds amazing.”

He throws a patty on the grill next to me and studies me as it fries. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About how my dad is a dick and probably an alcoholic, or about how I’m thirty years old and still can’t reconcile my desperate need for approval from a selfish prick?” I pull the basket out of the frying oil and shake it.

Jake’s expression softens. “Both? Either?”

“No thanks. Maybe another time. Tonight, I just want to eat my feelings, if that’s okay.”

He hesitates a beat then nods. “Plate of feelings, coming right up.”

Jake has many specialties, but this Saturday night menu item is a local favorite—a bacon cheeseburger with frizzled onions and barbecue sauce, served on fresh glazed donuts from Ooh La La! Tourists always say it sounds gross, but then they order it anyway, too curious to pass, and always clean their plate.

I put my goat balls in a wax-paper-lined basket and drizzle them with locally sourced honey—the closest thing this whole kitchen has to “health food.” Next to me, Jake puts together my burger, and my panic dissipates in the shadow of his calm. He grounds me. Always has. Even when he was a ten-year-old boy who made fun of my pigtails, he always knew what to say—or not say—when I was upset.

The day my Dad moved out, I held my chin high all evening. I had to put on a strong face for my mom, who was devastated. She went to bed early that night, emotionally exhausted. After she fell asleep, I snuck outside and climbed into the tree fort in Jake’s backyard. I was crying when Jake found me there, but he didn’t say anything about my tears. He sat cross-legged on the plywood floor beside me and handed me a box of those things that snap when you throw them at the ground. We didn’t say a word to each other, just sat in the fort and tossed them at the floor.

He knew exactly what I needed then, and has so many times after.

“Cindy’s got the front covered,” he says when he plates my burger. “Want to eat this in my office?”

I nod, grateful that he understands I’m not up for chatting it up with the barflies tonight. “I’m going to grab a water from the cooler. Want one?”

“Sure.”

I get the bottles, and Jake carries my burger to his office. The space is utilitarian—a couple of desks, a computer for bookkeeping, and two tall filing cabinets. Jake keeps it meticulously organized, and the surfaces are clean and clear of the miscellany that clutters my home office.