Purely Unconditional: A Romantic Tale of Snow Days and Second Chances (4 page)

He must’ve seen what I was feeling, or sensed it in
the air. The minute I hit the landing, he grabbed my wrist and
hauled me against him. His lips crushed on mine and he kissed me
like he wanted to devour me. A delicious stretch shot all through
my body as I rose on tiptoe to throw my arms around his neck and
kiss him just as deeply. He lifted me off my feet. The feel of his
wet shirt against my burning skin made me gasp aloud.

Knock knock knock.

Denny Crane makes a beeline for my bedroom at the
sudden loud noise. I set down my dish rag (I always clean when I’m
nervous) and, after a quick glance in my mirror—nothing in my
teeth, hair still looks good—I open the door.

Jack holds out both hands. “I’ve got tofu and scary
movies.” He comes in and sets both on my coffee table. “Shall we
eat first or take you shopping?”

I eye the block of bean curd. “I’m not sure I know
how to make that stuff.”

“When in doubt, always fry.”

With those wise words, we head into the kitchen. He
moves around like he knows the place, which I guess he does. He
finds my skillet with no problem, opens the fridge like he’s done
it a thousand times, and lays out everything on my counter. But
then he suddenly stops.

“Sorry,” he says. He begins putting away everything
he just laid out. “Totally forgot. This is all you.”

I give him a look. “You’re really going to sit on
your butt while I try to fry tofu?”

He flashes me a grin and takes a seat on a kitchen
stool. “I can think of no better way to spend an evening.”

With a sigh, I bring out the skillet. I try to get
everything he took from the refrigerator, but I can’t quite recall
it all and in the end, I bring out eggs (not sure why), onion
(because of course), garlic (because always), and carrots
(because). I read the package. It tells me to put something heavy
on the tofu to get the water out. The heaviest thing I have is J.K.
Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so I put the book
in a big pot and put the pot on the napkin-wrapped tofu.

I flash Jack my own smile. “This isn’t so hard. Maybe
I’m a natural.”

****

I am not a natural. As Jack and I take our first bite
of my little tofu stir fry concoction, I realize just how
not
natural I am. I shudder—
shudder
—the minute the
food hits my mouth, and not in a good way. Jack’s entire body
stills, as if once false move could send him barfing.

I look at him. He looks at me. We both spit out our
food in our napkins.

“Okay,” he says, his face scrunched up, “I’ve had
tofu plenty of times before and never wanted to die.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“But
that
”—he gestures to the plate—“was not
good.”

“What did I do wrong?’

“I don’t know. Didn’t press out enough water? Didn’t
use the right spices?”

Grabbing both plates, I get up and dump the contents
in the sink. When I come back in the living room, Jack is already
ordering pizza. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you,” he says,
clearly on hold. “It’s just there’s no tofu left and I’m so
hungry.”

I raise both hands. “Just order me a pineapple one
and we’re square.”

With a smile and wink—that deadly combination—he
places our order.

“Alright. Should be here in half an hour. And hey, we
can still do your shopping spree once we’re done.”’

My shopping spree. I should’ve told Layla my deep,
dark clothing secret. But since it’s too late for that
conversation, I decide to do the next best thing.

“Come on. I need to show you something.”

Without a word, though with a question in his eyes,
Jack follows me to my bedroom. He watches as I go to my closet and
crouch down to pull out the long plastic containers at the bottom.
He grabs them and puts them on my bed.

“Diaries?” he asks. “Old cd’s? Piles of money? Dead
bodies?”

I give him a look (I seem to do that a lot), and pop
open a lid. Then I tip the container and let the contents pour
out.

Jack’s eyes widen. I tip over another container and
another. Pretty soon, my bed is packed with all the colors of the
rainbow. From sparkly tops to tassel scarves to expression tees to
jeans in every shade imaginable, it’s like a Crayola crayon box
exploded. Most of the clothes still have their price tags. Jack
sifts through the fabrics: silk, cotton, wool, gauze, satin, tulle.
Things I purchased—bright, beautiful things—but have never
worn.

“I loved them when I saw them, but I just couldn’t
ever find the right occasion.”

He picks up a tank top with a graphic of Bret Hart
twisting the legs of some poor sucker in his famous sharpshooter
move. The catchphrase
the best there is, the best there was, the
best there ever will be
is emblazoned on the chest. “Oh now,
there is
always
occasion to wear this.”

I snatch it away on a laugh. “People at work would
die if I wore this stuff.”

“Who cares about people at work? You bought all this
because you wanted to, because you liked it. So wear it.”

I shrug. It’s easy for him to say. Though the
compliments today were nice, I definitely don’t want every day to
be the Glory McNally show, and that’s what I’d feel like if people
continued to compliment and stare. Just the thought churns my
stomach.

“Well,” I say, “the point is, I don’t need to shop. I
have enough colorful stuff. So we’ll just have to do something else
on the list.” I walk past him and turn off the bedroom light, but
before I can leave, he catches my wrist.

Jack nods. “Okay. I know something we can do right
now.”

I raise my brow. “Don’t even think about number
ten.”

His mouth stretches into a wide grin. Then, without a
word, he lets go of my wrist and takes out his cellphone. A few
clicks later and the sounds of I’ll Be Home for Christmas come on.
A simple piano, a beautiful voice.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

“Number seven, of course. Or is eight? Whatever your
ballroom lesson is.”

“You know how to ballroom dance?”

“I’ll have you know that not only can I foxtrot, but
I can do any dance in Dirty Dancing you throw at me.” At my look,
he shrugs. “Sisters. And their friends.”

I gulp. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

“Have you tried?” When I don’t reply, he extends his
hand. “Dance with me, Glory. Please.”

The only illumination is a lamp in the dining room
and the lights from my tree, but it’s enough. I can still make out
the planes of Jack’s face, the blue of his eyes. I can still see
that wave in his hair, the one that makes my fingers itch to slide
through the silken strands. And though I’d like to blame it on my
challenges, I know that when I take his hand, it’s not because I
have to. It’s because I want to.

He pulls me close. His left hand holds my right, his
right hand rests on the small of my back. The song is slow and
languid and just a bit lonely sounding.

Softly, I say, “You are a good dancer.”

“I’m trying to impress you.”

I grin but Jack doesn’t grin back. As he turns us
slowly, snow starts falling outside my window, fast, fluffy flakes
that make it feel as if I’m in a snow globe.

“Why are you really helping me with these challenges?
Or is just for fun?”

“Would it be wrong if it was just for fun?”

“I just want to know the truth.”

We turn again. A light shines through the window,
probably from a snow plow truck. It makes his skin look luminous,
his hair every bright color: gold to bronze to sunlight. A
saxophone begins to play.

He says, “I think this list is good for you. I think
you need to get out of your comfort zone more. You need to trust
yourself more.”

Jack’s hand moves from my lower back up. It’s a
mindless thing, as if he just can’t help himself from caressing
me.

“And you think you can help me learn to trust
myself?”

“No. But I can cheer you on. And there’s something
else, too.”

The saxophone solo is over and other instruments have
joined in, but the song still feels like a cry. But then…a violin.
A crystal-clear note right above the sweeping low of the brass. And
even though the melody is still melancholy, there’s something
strong about it, too. Something unbreakable in the midst of all
that heartbreak.

Jack repositions his hold. He twirls me once and then
moves me back in a dip that makes me whole world spin. Finally, he
says, “I’m helping because I miss you.”

He sets me back upright, about to say more, when
someone rings the door bell. And just like that, the moment is
gone.

Chapter Five

Snow Day

The sun is shining, the snow is falling, and I’ve
woken up to the best news ever: A water main break. It not only
shut down Plaza Building Four, but Plaza Building Six as well. Even
when you’re almost thirty, snow days are definitely still the best
days.

“Wow,” Layla says as we walk from her car to the
animal shelter. She’s holding my list in her mitten-clad hands and
is nodding. “Very impressive. I can’t believe how much you’ve
gotten done so far.”

Glory’s Twelve Challenges of Christmas

1. Wear high heels to work. And jewelry. Express
yourself! You’re twenty-nine and have legs for days. Show ‘em off,
honey!

2. Sign up for a class. Expand your horizons.

3 Compliment ten random strangers. Be sincere!

4. Go to a museum and talk to five guys. Dust off
those flirting skills! And no, you cannot combine this with number
3. Up the ante!

5. Speaking of up…update your wardrobe! Buy stuff
with colors and sequins. Buy an expression tee and wear it! Buy a
push up bra and let the ba-zingas do the talking!

6. Bake with tofu. Try something new.

7. Watch a bunch of scary movies. Push beyond your
comfort zone!

8. Attend a ballroom dancing class. I’ve seen the
many episodes of Dancing with the Stars on your DVR. You obviously
love it, so give it a whirl (See what I did there?) And no, you
cannot combine this challenge with number 2.

9. Go to a bar and stay out until midnight.

10. Walk around naked. I know this sounds weird
coming from me, but get back in touch with your body and your
sexuality. Hmm, even when I explain it, it still sounds so
weird.

11. Karaoke

12. Volunteer somewhere, put yourself in a situation
with lots of kids or people around. Expose yourself to more crowds.
Not literally. Do NOT combine this with number 10.

“Oh, and look,” she says, “we can cross of number
twelve.”

I pull a pen from my purse and hand it to her. “You
can do the honors.”

And she does, happily. Then she hands me back my
paper and we head into the Boli Foundation Rescue Site. Today is
pictures with Santa for all the adoptable pets. Layla and I spend
the morning putting bows around dog collars and twirling hair
ribbons in fur long enough and, though they don’t stay on for long,
we put little elf and Santa hats on any cat that won’t scratch us
to ribbons. Layla spends the majority of the time cooing over all
the animals, while I spend the duration chasing down rabbits that
are so much quicker than I ever gave them credit for. Dozens of
other people are volunteering, and even though my stomach was in
knots when I first walked in, by nine o’clock, I was chatting and
laughing as if I was out with my best friends.

“Alright,” Layla says to a gorgeous pit pull as she
rubs her on the belly, “I have to go now. I have to eat. But I’ll
be back and you are the most beautiful thing ever. Yes you are. Yes
you are.”

“Oooh, I’m going to tell your dogs on you.”

Layla finally manages to drag herself away and we
head to the cafeteria. I grab a Snickers and Sprite, giving
nutritionists everywhere something to be proud of. Layla grabs a
burger.

“So, how’s the list treating you? Do you feel
different?”

I tell her about my coworkers that first day and how
nice it was, how I’m getting used to talking to strangers, but then
I tell her about the other night with Jack.

“And that’s when the door bell rang and the pizza guy
showed up. We both scarfed it down, although whether it was because
we were actually hungry or because we both just wanted to avoid
talking remains to be seen. And then we watched a scary movie and
then he left.”

“Did he bring up that missing you comment again?”

I shake my head. “We mostly talked about how
Sebastian Stan makes a really good Winter Soldier.”

She nods in agreement.

I sigh. “It just sucks. The moment was so good and
then it was gone and I couldn’t get it back. The more I tried, the
more he backed off. Admittedly, I didn’t try too hard. But I’ve got
to face it. What we had is gone and I may not ever get it back
or—”

“Whoa. Wait a second. What you
had
is gone? I
thought this flirtation was something new.” She narrows her eyes.
“You have been holding back on me.”

I look down. I take another bite of my candy bar.
“Maybe.”

Layla sets down her burger. Whenever she sets down
food, I know I have her complete attention.

I take a breath. Then: “A few months after Jack moved
in and we started working together…I…well…we kissed.”

Layla’s brows raise and her eyes widen. “Now you tell
me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, whenever it first happened, I
made such a bungle out of it that I was too embarrassed to talk
about it.”

“Alright. Spill it all now.”

So I tell her the whole story. How Jack and I, both
rain-soaked and drenched, kissed in the stairwell, how his body
scorched mine. How he lifted me like I weighed absolutely nothing
and I wrapped my legs around his waist and he carried me like some
romance novel hero to his apartment. He knocked over a lamp and
sent a box full of papers scattering as we made our way to his
bedroom. We got as far as the dining room before he started pulling
my shirt from the waistband of my pants. His hands slid all over
me, kneading me, caressing me, and I—