Chapter 3
JAX
Currently playing: Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac
“Jax, are you still alive?” Rose’s light-hearted voice asks through the guest room door.
I groan, holding my pounding head. “Yeah, I am, even if I wish I wasn’t.”
I hear a male chuckle join Rose’s giggles. Ollie. He must have stayed over too.
“Fresh coffee and breakfast are waiting for you downstairs. I made pancakes with mini chocolate chips just for you, J,” Rose says through her giggles.
Always so damn sweet. “Thanks, Rosie. I’ll be down in a bit.”
“You better,” Ollie quips before I hear their footsteps retreat as they head downstairs. I want to say something back, but my head hurts, and my mouth feels like a desert is forming there.
I should have known that one beer wouldn’t be enough. Now I need to deal with the consequences of my actions.
What I remember, I ended up staying at Eli and Rose’s after we shared a bottle of Eli’s favorite whiskey.
By sharing, I mean I drank at least half, Ollie and Rose both had a drink each, and Eli got the rest. I should buy Eli a new bottle, even though he isn’t short on cash.
It just doesn’t feel right that I drank most of his favorite.
I stretch my aching muscles and let out a blissful sigh as I feel cool cotton sheets against my mostly naked skin. For a second, I think about checking my phone but decide against it as I don’t want to move. Not yet.
I finally get out of bed after deciding I can’t handle my headache and the silence around me. I fucking hate the silence. It gives me time to overthink.
The soft dark gray rug under my bare feet feels like I’m walking on a cloud.
I take a few steps toward the ensuite bathroom, where I hope a bottle of aspirin awaits me, and open the door without turning on the light.
With each step, my head is pounding more, and I need something to take the edge off.
There has been way too much drinking lately, and I need to stop before it sucks me in. I will not become my mother, not in this lifetime. Swallowing two pills without water, I freshen up quickly and leave the bathroom.
The clock on the nightstand shows it’s almost one in the afternoon as I grab my clothes from the armchair in the corner of the room.
When was the last time I was able to sleep this late?
But I definitely needed it. I can’t even imagine what my hangover would have been like if I was awakened earlier.
My entire body needs a detox after last night.
Best to start with Rose’s pancakes, which are my favorite.
Downstairs, I look around at the new illustrations Rose has added since I last visited two months ago.
There are interesting pieces that I want to explore when I’m more awake and less hungover.
I especially like the artwork inspired by the Greek island Santorini.
The colors take me in, and I stop for a moment before continuing toward the kitchen.
“Morning, sunshine, don't you look fine as hell,” Eli’s voice teases, and I flip him the bird, looking for the coffee pot.
“I haven’t even had my first cup of joe yet, and you’re making me feel shitty. What’s up with you all being so fucking bubbly this morning?”
Eli laughs while Ollie fills a cup and slides it to me. Just how I like it—black with no milk or sweetener. I gulp a mouthful and close my eyes to savor the moment.
“Better?” Ollie asks. I hum my response as I feel the effects of the coffee taking over. Coffee is the elixir of the gods that they let us mortals enjoy.
My friends let me eat my breakfast in silence before Rosie needs to leave.
She comes downstairs and kisses Eli goodbye before hugging Ollie and me.
When the elevator doors close, Ollie turns to me.
“Want to have a jam session? Eli and I have date nights planned tonight, but we’ve got a few hours to kill. ”
“I don’t have my guitar.”
Eli shrugs like it’s nothing. “You could always borrow one of my Gibsons.”
“You know I’m a Fender guy,” I say, referencing my favorite guitar brand.
It has been a long-ass argument between us.
But what can I say? My Uncle Joey taught me to play with a Fender, and I can’t imagine having it any other way.
The first guitar I ever got from my uncle was a vintage Fender from the ‘80s.
It used to be his, but he wanted me to have it when I got out of the foster system.
“C’mon, man. It can’t be that bad to try the better option for once.” Ollie snickers. He also has a Gibson at his place, even if he doesn’t play as much as Eli and I do.
Eli laughs with him and gets up from his seat next to the kitchen island.
He takes three water bottles from the fridge and motions us to follow him.
When Rose moved in last year, they remodeled the empty rooms upstairs.
We head to the one turned into a chilled home studio space.
The setup is where Rose works if she edits video interviews for her job as a journalist, but the room also holds Eli’s guitar collection and a comfy seating area.
“Here, take this one,” Eli says as he hands me a guitar from his collection.
I take hold of the black acoustic Gibson and sit down.
I balance the guitar on my thigh, position myself, and strum it softly.
The melodious sound fills the room, and I instantly feel better.
My calloused fingers play with the strings, and I feel like I can breathe again.
There isn’t much music and art can’t fix. And these two idiots with me.
I met Eli two weeks after I was placed in the foster system. He happened to live with the Browns, our foster parents who later died in a house fire.
I remember my first day with them like it was yesterday.
I had just done something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy—I almost killed a man.
Even though it was self-defense, it took its toll on me, and the memories still haunt me during restless nights and quiet moments.
There are times when I wake up covered in sweat, gasping for air, and it has been over twelve years since that one fateful night. Nothing can help me forget that day.
But what made it all easier, a little bit better, was Eli and later Ollie.
Both have complicated family histories, just like I do, with Eli being adopted at a young age and then his adoptive parents dying in a car accident.
Years before that, Ollie’s mother had a mental breakdown and couldn’t look after her three young children.
Both were placed in foster care just like I was, and from day one, we were bonded together by our experiences.
Before moving in with the Browns, I was worried that my foster home would be another prison after living under the same roof with my abusive stepfather and mother, who didn’t give a shit. I even puked in the car on the way to the Browns. I was scared shitless and so fucking alone.
Once I got to my new room, I was told I would be sharing with a boy named Eli. He had just moved in as well, and the room looked pretty sparse. But I noticed his collection of CDs on top of his drawer and his acoustic guitar in the corner.
Later that night, when we were introduced and left alone, Eli noticed me admiring his collection and said, “You know, you can have a closer look. I don’t mind.”
I remember asking him if he was sure. He just nodded and continued reading his book. That was the moment I could finally relax after one of the worst months of my life. I knew that no matter what, I might have a friend after I left the house once I graduated high school.
Eli turned out to be even more. He, just like Ollie, is my brother from another mother. I really hate that saying, but it fits here. We’re chosen brothers for life. No matter where we came from, we’re family. Always there for each other.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
When I arrive home after having a three-hour jam session with Eli and Ollie, I know something’s up. Angry chick music is blaring, my two suitcases are open on the living room floor, and I can’t see her anywhere.
“Tiff?”
I don’t hear her at first. But then I see her carrying another load of my black clothes to the living room.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout at her over the music.
She stops abruptly and drops everything she’s carrying on the floor, making an even bigger mess. Fucktastic.
“Hi babe, you’re home earlier than I expected,” she chirps too fucking cheerfully.
“And what are you doing with my clothes?”
“I was packing because lying, cheating assholes can’t stay here.”
Wait a second. What the fuck? “Please fucking explain yourself.”
“I mean that it’s time for you to go somewhere else and leave me alone. I don’t want to see your lying, cheating face anymore.”
“Are you crazy? This is my apartment, so if anyone is leaving, it’s you.”
“You can’t do that to me,” she shouts and stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues.
I move closer and see some of my records under the clothes. Just great. I’m about to lose it with her mood swings, but I have to remain cool to get away unscathed. But this is the last straw.
“I surely can. It’s my loft, after all.”
Instead of saying anything, Tiffany starts sobbing so loudly that our neighbor’s dog barks. Big, massive tears stream down her cheeks, smudging her makeup. Not knowing what to do in my shock, I walk to her and rub her back, trying to soothe her. After all, I didn’t want to make her cry.
“But I have nowhere to go. What should I do?” she squeaks between sucking in large gulps of air.
I slowly move away from her and take a step back, putting distance between us. “I’m sorry, Tiffany, but I don’t know. This thing between us isn’t working, so you’ve got an hour to pack your shit and leave.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and then Tiffany drops a bomb I didn’t see coming. “Are you sure you want to kick out the mother of your unborn child?”
I snort and shake my head. If Tiffany is pregnant, it isn’t mine.
I know it with a hundred percent surety.
After a one-night stand had a similar scare three years ago, I made sure I wouldn’t ever be able to father a child.
We also used protection every fucking time, even though Tiffany complained about it.
My thoughts must show on my face as Tiffany’s face twists into a smug smile.
“Honey boo, I thought you would be happier about the news,” she purrs, grabbing my arm.
I stare at her stoically. “Get your hands off me.”
I don’t want kids. Ever. That’s why I got a vasectomy and always wear a condom.
If she’s pregnant, she cheated on me. Even thinking of her fucking some random dude while she slept in my bed makes me see red.
I want to smash my fist into the face of the man who knocked her up, to get some relief from this anger building inside me.
Tiffany’s face crumbles again, and she starts sobbing dramatically. “I knew you didn’t love me. I gave you everything, including the baby, and you still want to break up with me.”
“I know you aren’t pregnant with my child, so quit lying.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I can’t have kids, okay? Unless you cheated on me, there’s no way you’re pregnant.”
Between her cries, Tiffany admits, “There isn’t a baby, but I just wanted to make you stay.”
“You managed the opposite. We’re really over.”
As I look into the watery eyes of the woman I thought I loved, I realize that Tiffany is crazier than my other exes.
And that’s saying a shit ton since most of my ex-partners are nuttier than squirrel shit.
Fuck. How did I manage that? I bet the Guy above is laughing while looking down on my miserable life.
That Jackson Reid Bennett always knows how to fuck up his life with the poor choices in women. He will never learn. Har har har.
My main problem is that Tiffany acts like I didn’t just ask her to leave.
Her name isn’t on any of the papers, including the lease, meaning I can kick her out any time.
It was a little plan B I made when she moved in.
She never even questioned my logic. Good for me, bad for her.
But what can I do if she isn’t listening?
“Tiff, like I said earlier, you’ve got an hour to leave. If you don’t, I’ll call your brother and ask him to come over. Then your entire family will hear about this.” I say as I look at her again—mascara is running down her cheeks, and her nose is red.
Tiffany whimpers like a hurt puppy and shakes her head. How am I supposed to know what the fuck that means?
“I need words, Tiffany.” She ignores my attempt at communication, so I continue. “Get your shit and go.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Shit. Tiffany walks to the corner where I keep my four guitars.
She takes the one I love the most, the Fender I got from my uncle, and before I can do or say anything, she smashes it against the floor—pieces of my favorite thing in the apartment shatter all around us.
“Can you feel how much you’re hurting me yet, Jax?” she asks with glee in her eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout and pull at my hair.
Tiffany breaking my guitar alone would have made me break up with her.
That guitar was my most valuable possession after Isla.
I know I can get a new one, but the emotional value is lost. I try my best to avoid calling women bitches, but damn, this bitch is taking it too far.
“You hurt me, so it’s my time to hurt you,” she replies and takes hold of my other guitar.
I’ve had enough. Taking my phone out of my pocket while keeping eye contact with Tiffany, I call her older brother who lives in Long Island.
Tiff’s face falls as she listens to what I tell him.
“Hi man, it’s Jax. Um, can you get your sister?
She isn’t leaving my loft, even though she no longer lives here. ”
He talks back to me while I keep my eyes on her holding my guitar. I only speak whenever I’m asked something, nothing else.
Tiff collapses onto the floor and starts whimpering again when I confirm that he’s on his way with their dad.
For a second, my heart hurts for her. There must be something wrong with her.
Sane people don’t act like she does—it still didn’t give her permission to use my loft as her personal rage room.
Tiffany can explain herself more to her family when they get here.
At least I told her what would happen if she didn’t listen.
Think about the silver linings and shit.