Summer, 1994 – Suburban New Jersey

The summer heat was real — the kind that stuck to your skin even with the faint breeze drifting through the kitchen window. Your mom was on her third bowl of potato salad, your dad was cleaning the backyard like he was hosting the president, and you… you were sweating bullets.

“He’s just a guy,” you kept telling yourself, adjusting your hair in the hallway mirror. “Just a normal guy. Who happened to be on the cover of Rolling Stone. Three times.”

The familiar rumble of his Chevy echoed down the street. You knew that sound by heart. It was the same car that used to pick you up in secret when things were still new — back when the world didn’t know, and maybe you were both scared of what would happen if it did.

He stepped out in faded jeans, a plain white tee, and a flannel shirt tied around his waist. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, sunglasses pushed down to the tip of his nose. And that smile — the one that could shut up a stadium, now aimed only at you.

“Brought wine… and a cassette. Your brother still has that old tape player, right?” he said, holding up the bag and pressing a quick kiss to your lips — just enough to send your stomach into chaos.

Inside, it was like stepping into a slightly dusty indie movie: Your grandma called him “Johnny.” Your mom asked if he was “rock and roll or weed.” Your 13-year-old brother asked for an autograph… on his forehead. And your aunt kept squinting at him like she was trying to figure out if he was a Backstreet Boy.

But Jon handled it all like a pro. He talked about growing up in an Italian home in Sayreville, shared the time he nearly singed his eyebrows trying to light a grill alone, and complimented your mom’s sauce so genuinely she said he was “too polite for someone that famous.”

By dessert, he was barefoot on the porch with your dad, sipping iced tea and laughing about the days when he “still had time to go to Blockbuster.” You watched from the kitchen window, heart soft and open. He belonged there — in the wicker chair, with a sweating glass of tea, and the old radio humming Alanis Morissette somewhere in the background.

“I like them,” he said softly when you were alone in the kitchen. You were doing dishes, he was drying. “Your mom called me ‘a handsome boy who needs to eat more.’ That’s like a baptism, right?”

You laughed, bumping your hip into his.

“They liked you too. My dad said ‘you can tell he loves you right.’”

Jon paused. Put the towel down. Looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time — even after the shows, the long drives, and late nights watching VHS tapes on your couch.

“I do love you,” he said. No background music. No crowd. No rehearsal. “In a way that’s as simple as this Sunday. As certain as summer potato salad. As inevitable as me and you.”