"You didn't get it," I tell him after he wipes at his face fuzz with his napkin.
Without thinking, I reach across the table and pick at his beard. My ring and middle fingers rest on his jaw as I pinch at the crumbs.
"So what IS with the beard and long hair, anyway?" I decided I would take the straightforward approach.
I nudge his chin up to get a better view of him, like a mom cleaning her baby after a meal. "You look a bit like a homeless guy."
A quiet chuckle.
"Well shit, tell me how you really feel," Jack responds as leans back and my hand remains suspended in air for a second. "Right after you land a nice compliment, you land an insult."
Okay. Maybe the straightforward angle was a bit brash. It didn't really sound that bad until the words hit the cool night air.
Trying to smooth over the conversation I try a new angle. "I mean, you used to keep your hair super short and your beard trimmed. I remember when you would rub your beard against Aunt Amber's face and..."
I pause. Jack became motionless at the sound of his ex-wife's name. His eyes were as big as my golden retriever's when I catch him red-handed tearing up the trash.
Shit. I am an idiot. This angle seems to make things even worse.
"Uh..." I struggle for words. I am so stupid.
Thank goodness Jack is able to recover himself. He looks into the darkened woods.
"There isn't really anyone I am interested in impressing around here," he says without taking his eyes off of the forest.
Even Claire?
"Fair enough," is all I end up saying. I quickly notice that the conversation is over. Completely dead. An owl calls from the dark somewhere. The frogs play their nightly orchestra.
Jack stands and stacks the plates and bowls. Without a word, he leaves me sitting at the table on my own. I remain, sitting there taking in the twilight and reflecting about how I actually care that I hurt his feelings.
***
Entering the kitchen a few minutes later, I find Jack already rinsing the last of the dishes.
"I got out some red wine. It is on the kitchen table if you want a glass. A glass of red is a great way to end a well-worked day," Jack says.
I find the bottle opener and two glasses.
"I am going to head up and take a bath and call it a night," he adds without turning from the sink.
"Cool." I uncork the bottle and pour two generous glasses. When I turn around I see the kitchen door swing shut and hear the creak of the first step in the hallway.
"Jack. Where are you going?" I rush into the foyer with the glasses.
He turns on the second step and faces me. "I told you. I am calling it a night."
"I know but you didn't get your wine." I hand him his glass. "Or hear my toast." A toast? What the hell? I didn't know I was giving a toast. Jack seemed to read my mind because he raises a questioning eyebrow.
"To remaking this old cabin." I clank my glass against his.
I am about to sip my wine when he puts his hand on my forearm.
"To remaking ourselves," he adds.
His hand stays for a moment longer. Our eyes meet. Sharing a smile with each other, we cheers again and his hand leaves my wrist.
"Goodnight, Ty."
It's now that I realize he has been calling me Ty. He is the only one who does or ever really has. Even though I haven't heard him say my nickname in eight years, it felt as natural as though he never stopped.
"Goodnight, Jack."
And with this, we turn and go our own paths. He up to the four-claw tub, and I to the living room to relax.