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It’s maddening.
    And fabulous.
    Finally, Sandi’s phone rings and the sound of her Brantley Gilbert ringtone—the absurdly apropos “17 Again”—blaring forces me to focus on her for real. Then she’s looking at me and pointing to the phone, mouthing her husband’s name with a lighthearted eye roll before shimmying out of the booth to finish her call outside, where she’ll be able to hear better. The moment she’s gone, I know exactly what’s going to happen in the next sixty seconds. I actually smooth my skirt down and fluff my hair as slyly as possible.
    â€œChrist, I thought she’d never leave.” Jake doesn’t ask permission to sit down, simply takes Sandi’s spot and slides his hands onto the tabletop, thrumming his fingers softly.
    No use fighting my smile in response to reeling him in, so I let a slow grin take over. I’m sure he tried to come out on top in our little game, but he’s a man. They’re easily persuaded by feminine wiles. Just ask poor young Cole.
    All that matters is this: I. Win.
    â€œYou could have come over here at any time. She doesn’t bite.”
    Jake raises one brow. “You sure about that?”
    â€œNot entirely.” Silence settles, only for a moment, but long enough for us to look at each other squarely and size up whatever is happening right now. “Is that who I think it is?” I tip my head in reference to his booth mate.
    â€œUncle Rick. Figured I should do the family catch-up thing, if I’m here. He hasn’t called me Shirley or thumped me in the back of the neck with a ratchet, which feels like a minor victory over my adolescence. So, you know, there’s that.”
    Jake’s uncle Rick owned a ramshackle two-stall mechanic’s shop just outside of town, and Jake used to pick up a few bucks working there when we were kids. The job provided him the opportunity to discern a proclivity for fixing things, discovered while he shimmied under a farm truck to do a brake job or swap a leaf spring. Only when he managed to hone his skill set enough to do an oil change in record time did Rick even utter a slight word of encouragement. Mostly, he complained and griped until Jake learned how to tune him out and still look like he was listening.
    â€œHe sold my grandma’s farm after she died, closed up his shop, got a job with a liquor distributor, and it seems he met the love of his life on one of his deliveries. At a strip club. Where I’m sure she’s working because law school is so expensive, right? Because that relationship’s obviously gonna work out.” Jake rolls his eyes and then stretches his hands flat against the table.
    My eyes drop to take in the small tattoos on his fingers. A heart, a spade, a club, and a diamond across the knuckles of each hand. He didn’t have those before. When he notes my interest, his hands come together, fingers clasping loosely until the ink is mostly obscured. I lift my gaze up again.
    â€œWhy are you still here, Jake?”
    I allow myself a good long look while waiting for him to answer, letting my eyes run over his face, across the red flannel shirt he has on over the ragg wool sweater, over the slight scruff of a beard coming in. He looks so much more like the old Jake now; instead of that trim-cut uniform from yesterday, he’s all relaxed appeal. Which is problematic. Because even more so than yesterday, he’s my Jake right now. Or, who used to be my Jake.
    â€œThis storm’s got me grounded. I can’t take off until this cloud deck lifts. Trevor’s letting me crash in the mansion they refer to as a guesthouse, and he said I could borrow Kate’s truck if I needed to.” His eyes drop a bit. “Probably should have dropped Trevor off yesterday and bailed to beat the snow, but curiosity got the best of me. Figured I might see you at the hospital. I made up a bullshit excuse to tag