Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
JESSE
As predicted, my body hates me the next day.
My eyes crack open in the late morning and the faint light feels like a stab through my eyeballs.
I’ve no idea what time I fell asleep. Probably when the exhaustion became finally too much and I shut down.
I don’t get up immediately, sleep still clinging to me, as well as something else—the last remnants of a dream I can’t remember, slipping away and leaving behind nothing but a wistfulness tinged in warmth and sadness.
Smelling like soap and mint.
I rub my eyes aggressively to shake off any remaining sleep, which is a fantastic move that only makes my headache so much better. But it’s when I throw the sheet off me and attempt to jump out of bed that I regret every choice of my life that led me to push myself that much on last night’s run.
Boy, is this going to hurt today.
But hey, at least I can focus on the way my whole body is in pain and not think about what I shouldn’t be thinking about.
I groan out loud and the sound echoes in the almost bare bedroom.
Shower. That’s what I need, a nice, hot shower to reset this whole fucking day.
And surprisingly, it mostly works when I emerge from the steamy bathroom half an hour later in a pair of well-worn, light-blue jeans and a pink T-shirt—the only clothes I left unpacked for today’s drive—hair still wet and loose, smelling of my favorite vanilla and caramel shampoo.
Some soreness still lingers, but nothing I can’t deal with.
Since there’s no hurry to set off, I take my time to carry everything to the car and make sure it all actually fits inside, which thankfully it does, and then, pop over to the café nearby for some much-needed coffee and breakfast.
Loaded with more food and coffee for the drive later, I take the short walk back to my now-former place, soaking in the early summer heat.
The weather is damn near perfect right now, and when I get in the car and start driving in the early afternoon with the windows down, I know I couldn’t have asked for a better weather.
It’s almost enough to take my mind off last night, to make me feel like my mom’s call never happened and she never told me what she did.
But it did happen, and since that moment, it feels like my skin is too tight to contain me. Like something was set loose last night and no matter what I do, I can’t stuff it back into the place it occupied before.
I shake my head at myself, my hands tightening on the steering wheel.
I fucked up. It’s as easy and simple as that.
All it took was one mention of something related to him and everything I’d carefully put away and buried deep inside me is already clawing to get out.
It lurks just beneath the surface, begging for me to reach out with my hand and feel it all—the happiness, the longing, the ache.
And it takes everything in me not to lean into it again, like I did last night.
Not to fall in the arms of that beautiful, devastating hurt, knowing that it will make me feel alive even if it’s just temporary, even if it’s just an illusion, even if it hurts.
The wind whooshes in, whipping my hair against my face and neck and I exhale harshly, focusing on the road instead, rock music playing softly in the background.
I drive and drive, until the afternoon sun bleeds into twilight and eventually darkness sets in. I barely make any stops, only when it’s absolutely necessary, hours fading into nothing.
I don’t realize I’m taking a different route until the city lights grow distant and I’m just cruising through familiar suburban areas, houses I’ve driven by in the past, in another life. Until the car comes to a stop in a driveway I left years ago.
For several seconds, I don’t move, staring at nothing, listening to myself breathe in and out in the absolute quiet.
And then get out of the car as if in a trance, taking in the house, the garden, everything.
It all looks the same. So much so that when I tilt my gaze up, I’m sure there will be a gauzy curtain flapping lazily from the upstairs open window.
Something twists violently in my gut when I see that window sealed shut, no curtain betraying that there’s someone in that room drawing, breathing, existing.
I—I don’t know what I’m doing here.
I was supposed to be heading down to the city where the studio apartment I’ve booked is waiting for me to get settled for now, where I should already be, unloading the car so that I can get some rest after hours and hours of driving.
I shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing for me here anymore.
I swallow, turning just enough to reach for the car door handle, before something stops me.
The lone front porch light is on, glowing a faint yellow on the wooden steps and white door, a matching warm glow coming from the kitchen window.
Someone’s in there.
I stand frozen by the car, not even sure I’m breathing, as I stare at those lights for long minutes, or hours, or maybe seconds.
Jesus, I’m being so stupid.
So what if there’s light in that house?
It could be anyone—someone looking after it now that Andrew is gone. Or a complete fucking stranger, for that matter, who’s been living here for years for all I know.
My feet start carrying me towards that pristine, white door, my heart beating louder with every step I take.
It could be anyone, I think as I climb the three steps that bring me to knocking distance.
Please, let it be anyone else, I plead as I lift my hand and the sound of a doorbell echoes inside.
Please, just this once.
Let it be him.
The door swings open with a force that startles me, and for one moment—one horrible moment of mind-numbing relief, or vicious disappointment—I actually think that it’s not him.
Because the sight of thick arms covered in tattoos momentarily throws me off, my gaze drawn to them even though it’s too dark to see more than that.
But when my eyes travel up the body I used to know better than mine—dressed in all black, a bit bigger and stronger but still the same—and meet that dark gaze that haunts my dreams, I see nothing else. No one else.
Roman is standing mere feet away from me, his eyes boring into me beneath black hair that is now longer but still falls on his forehead and frames his face the way I used to love.
So close and yet so far away.
I can feel the way his eyes roam over every inch of my face like a physical touch, surprise, incredulity, tension, and more—so much more—battling for dominance in that gaze.
His hand tightens on the door where he’s still holding it open, almost like he’s thinking of shutting it closed once again.
And I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t do anything but stand there and look at him as if he is something my exhausted mind made up to make me finally feel better, and if I blink, I will miss it and he will disappear.
My lips part, whispering his name, and I’m not even sure he hears me.
But he does, because in the next instant, he’s stepping outside, his palm wrapping around my nape and pulling me in.
My arms go around his back, fisting his T-shirt, while he holds me close, so close my body molds to his, my face finding that perfect spot in the crook of his neck, slotting in as if it was just yesterday when I rested my head there.
I inhale deeply, greedily, like I only have a few seconds to live and all I wish for is his scent in my lungs—smoke, crisp mint, and fresh sheets.
I could die in this moment and I wouldn’t care.
He could hurt me and break me again and again, and I would let him.
And it’s that thought that holds me back, that makes me loosen the grip I have on his shirt and tear my face from his skin.
No. I can’t do this to myself. I can’t go through this again.
His arms stiffen, tightening around me when he feels me starting to pull away, and my stupid heart hammers in my chest, but he eventually lets me go when I take a step back.
I can no longer feel any of the warmth of this summer evening, crossing my arms in front of my chest so they don’t hang uselessly while trying to press some of Roman’s lingering heat closer, before it’s all lost in the air between us.
A breeze gently ruffles my hair, shaking the strands loose from where I’d tucked it behind my ear, and Roman’s hand makes an aborted move, before I notice the way it clenches into a fist.
“What are you doing here, Jesse?”
Well, that is an excellent, excellent question.
What am I doing here in the middle of the night, knocking on my ex-stepbrother’s door, trembling at the sound of his rough voice, of his familiar touch, like a needy little thing that apparently hasn’t learned his lesson?
I swallow in an attempt to sound normal, which is far from how I’m feeling.
“I heard about your dad.”
The words are raspy as they float to him, and it’s probably the first time I notice how tired he looks. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t avert his gaze, a small frown appearing between his brows.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” I blurt out. Jesus, how the fuck do I even explain this? “I was just heading to the city and I must have taken a wrong turn.” Or twenty. “And I found myself here.”
Yeah, that didn’t sound weird at all. But Roman nods, so it must make sense to him.
I start to fidget under his unflinching, focused eyes, trying to gather the courage to just say that I’m sorry for his loss and get the fuck out of here while I still can. While I still think I can.
But he fucks that up with just a few words.
“Do you want to come in?”
One question. It only takes one damn question from him for me to realize that this is probably what being addicted to something feels like—knowing that something is bad for you but craving it all the same because you can’t help it.
Wanting to see how long you can resist, how far you can push yourself, what your breaking point will be this time.
Because you just can’t help it.