Page 51 of When We Are Complete

I’m surprised by the sense of protectiveness bubbling up for Adele. And for Jake. I want this to be an issue he doesn’t have to worry about, a future where his daughter doesn’t have to navigate the same pitfalls I did.

I spot Jake and tap the table nine times in quick succession to steady myself, line up my knife and fork so the bottoms sit exactly at the edge of the table, then make my way over to him. As I walk toward him, it hits me: I want to be a part of the reason things go right for him.

“Hey,” I say softly, not wanting to sound alarmed. “I wanted to mention something. I had a… friend once, back in school, who struggled with food stuff. You know, body image issues and an eating disorder. And, well, I noticed Adele might be showing some signs of that. I could be wrong, but I thought it was worth mentioning.”

I tell him what I’ve seen this afternoon, and Jake’s smile falters, his eyes darkening with concern. “Thanks for telling me,” he says quietly. “I’ll speak to Jenny and make sure we keep an eye on it.”

I try to shake off the heaviness. Everything’s fine. I did my part. Jake will take care of it.

As the evening winds down, I find myself leaning against the railing, watching Jake talk to Nora’s brother, Liam. Coming to this party, meeting Adele, facing Jenny… it was all so much easier than I imagined, as though maybe this could be more than just a step forward.

I catch Jake’s eye, and every nerve ending lights up. That old spark is still there, somehow stronger than ever.

Maybe I’ve been guarding my heart for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to want something just for me.

Chapter 29

Jake

The house emptiesof teenage girls and most of my friends around 8 p.m., and I’m in the kitchen with Mom and Lucy, scrubbing dishes and wiping down counters. Nora and Kelly are on the deck, chatting over mugs of tea, while Adele is opening presents with her mom, step-dad, and brothers in the living room.

“So, my boy, what’s going on with you and Kelly?” Mom doesn’t even look up from the pot she’s elbow-deep in.

I pause, sweeping the last of the crumbs into my palm before dropping them into the bin. “Nothing much,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Mom doesn’t bite right away. She dries her hands on a dish towel, glancing over at Lucy who’s sitting at the kitchen table, eyebrows raised.

“Come on, spill,” Lucy says. “We haven’t seen you this happy since—”

“Since the last time you were dating Kelly,” Mom finishes for her, finally looking at me with that half-smile she always wears when she knows more than she’s letting on.

I shift on my feet, avoiding her gaze. “Look, it’s new, okay? We’re taking it slow.”

“Slow is good,” Mom says, nodding approvingly. “But make sure she knows how you feel, and you support her. It can’t be easy stepping back into this. You’re not a kid anymore. You come with baggage.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Don’t be grumpy. Kelly and you are perfect together, and it’s not often you get a second chance at love.”

“I know, but ease up.” I hesitate, glancing at Lucy, who’s leaning forward now. “We’re just figuring things out.”

Mom wipes her hands and comes over to stand next to me, leaning on the counter. “She’s not going to stay around forever. Women need to know they matter, that they’re seen. You can’t just go through the motions this time.”

I tense up, defensive. “I’m not going through the motions.”

Lucy snorts from her seat. “Yeah, because you’re so good at opening up and being emotionally available. So good at having an adult relationship. And you’ve had so much success with women.”

I throw her a look. “I always show up for the people I care about.”

“Showing up isn’t the same as being open,” Mom says, her voice gentle. “You’ve got a big heart, but you’ve got to let her see it. It’s not just about being there and doing things for her.”

I swallow hard, that familiar itch under my skin. I hate going deep on this stuff—feelings, emotions—we’re not having some kind of therapy session. Dad never wasted time with things like this; he just worked hard and provided.

Lately, Mom’s been on this mission to get me to open up, as though she’s had some kind of awakening or epiphany. She keeps telling me I don’t want to end up like Dad—closed off and distant, missing out on real connections. It’s weird, her pushing me to talk about how I feel, when she used to be just as reserved. But maybe she knows something I don’t.

I shake out my hands, trying not to get frustrated. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. You think I don’t want to make this work?”

“Of course you do,” Mom says, placing clean tupperware containers into a fabric tote bag.

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