Page 76 of Five Stolen Rings
“Well, we’re always happy to have you here,” I say instead of begging her to stay. Because what I think shouldn’t have any bearing on what she decides, especially when I have so many commitment issues.
We continue to drift around the kitchen, joined every now and then by Mrs. Partridge—who, I have a sneakingsuspicion, is trying to give us alone time. I appreciate it, as much for Stella’s sake as for mine. Once the conversation has moved on to other topics, though, she’s fine again, her smiles genuine, her laughter sincere. We convene in the living room to play games after an hour or so, and dinner is ready a few hours after that.
I know for a fact I haven’t eaten so well in years. My dad hired a cook when I was younger; she made pretty good food. But this is different, and I can’t get enough. I think I’ll probably gain ten pounds from this meal.
I glance up just as I’m finishing my slice of apple pie, only to find Stella watching me with a little smile playing at her lips. A few strands of hair have fallen into her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“What?” I say blankly. “Why are you smiling?”
She hums and then leans closer, lifting one hand. With a quick swipe of her thumb over the corner of my mouth, she pulls away and holds it up.
“Oh,” I say when I spot some of the apple filling. “I didn’t realize I was such a messy eater?—”
But I break off when her tongue darts out and licks her thumb clean.
For a second I just stare at her. “There are napkins for situations like that,” I finally say, pulling my eyes away and clearing my throat.
“This tastes better,” she says, and I swear her eyes flash with humor.
She’sflirtingwith me.
I can’t stop the curl of my lips, but I don’t say anything in return; her parents are sitting right next to us, and all the responses dancing on my tongue are completely inappropriate anyway. So I just hold my silence and look at herinstead—at the teasing glint in her gaze as she dares me to play this game with her.
I want to. Desperately. I want to dive into everything she offers; I want to drown in her eyes and never resurface.
“Well, I have to say,” Mr. Partridge says with a contented sigh—I startle and look guiltily away from Stella—“that was the best Christmas Eve feast I’ve ever had.”
“You say that every year,” Mrs. Partridge says, but she looks pleased.
“This year it’s true,” he says as he pats his stomach. “Leave all the dishes here; I’ll do them in a minute, as soon as this food has settled in my stomach.”
Mrs. Partridge nods and then waves her hand at Stella and me. “Why don’t you kids go for a walk or something?” she says, glancing out the window at the snowy evening. “Get some fresh air; start the digestion process.”
My gaze jumps to Stella’s before I’ve even thought about it. And I know, without knowing how I know, that my fate is sealed.
If I go with her now, we’ll be having the conversation we’ve both been hovering around—the conversation I’ve been running from.
Something settles in my chest as I look at her, this woman I can’t get enough of. Then I nod and stand up. I know I’m not imagining her surprise, but she stands too.
“Get your jacket on,” I tell her. “It’s cold.”
“Always so bossy,” she mutters—but she puts her coat on all the same, and with that, we head for the front door. It creaks open, and we step out into the falling twilight.
We walk in silence for probably ten minutes before either of us speaks. The evening is silent, but every house we pass is lit warmly from within; there are more cars lining the streets than is probably usual, too. This, it seems, is a gathering place.
And I wonder, for maybe the first time, where my gathering place is—where I retreat when I’m wounded, where I return when I’m tired, where I celebrate when I’m triumphant.
Do I have one?
I shake my head before the question has even disappeared from my mind. I have been my own gathering place for so long that I don’t remember what it’s like to go anywhere else.
Stella stops in her tracks next to me, and I stop too, startled from my thoughts. We’ve halted not in front of a house but in front of a stretch of trees, too sparse to be calledwoodsbut more than two or three. Their skeletal arms reach eerily into the dusky sky, gilded with snow.
I turn to look at Stella just as she speaks.
“Give me one good reason you can’t go on a date with me,” she says. She holds up her pointer finger. “One single reason. Because you like me, Jack. And I like you. So if you have a reason, tell me. At least then I can—” She breaks off, laughing bitterly. “I can move on, or something.”
No.
