Chapter Twenty-Eight
I escape to my room before they return from dinner. I’m loathing myself because I know—I just fucking know I acted like an ass to Serena all goddamn day, even after we had such a perfect night not even twenty-four hours ago. After I left the AA meeting, Sam’s series of texts led me to having not one, but two calls with him once I was home. But it’s not like a single meeting and a couple of calls will control the urge set off by Grayson dropping the dishes.
The fucking dishes?
“Jesus Christ, get it together Jensen. It’s only dishes.” I repeat aloud to myself over and over.
But in that single second, it wasn’t dishes.
I wasn’t here in Phantom Shores. I wasn’t even in the goddamn United States.
When Serena sauntered in, it wasn’t her. When she touched me, it wasn’t her hands on me.
All my mind could perceive was danger. If that ringing in my ears hadn’t brought me back—hadn’t made my soul recognize hers—I don’t know what I would have done.
Close to a full mental breakdown, I start pacing. I question why I brought her here, I’m not ready to tell her what I’ve been through or what I was forced to do in combat. I can’t tell her anything yet. I just wanted a week of happiness—a week of serenity with my Serenity—I deserve that much at least, don’t I?
Isn’t everyone entitled to having at least one thing or person who makes them irrevocably happy? Maybe that’s what normal people deserve, but I’m not normal, I think before slamming my fist into my punching bag that my grandfather had gotten me as a teenager. It was placed strategically in the corner specifically for these moments—moments where my anger feels out of control. At times it still feels like I am that lost teenager.
It’s there when my body goes into fight mode, but the only thing that needs to be fought are invisible demons. Preparing to wrap my knuckles and get in a session with the punching bag, I am suddenly interrupted by a very angry looking Serena.
Looks like my invisible sparring partner is going to have to wait, I think, he’s being replaced by a scorned woman. By the looks of her, she is out for blood, and she’s coming for it in nothing but lacy underwear and a t-shirt. The pungent smell of alcohol mixes in the air with her sea salt and sage.
Good god, she might as well kill me now.