25. Jinx
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jinx
I press the charcoal down too hard, and snap . The tip breaks clean off and slices straight through the paper, splitting it like skin under a dull blade.
A hiss escapes my throat, sharp and angry, but not loud enough to match the fury rising behind my ribs.
“Seriously? Seriously ?”
I hurl the sketchpad across the room. It smacks the wall with a limp, unsatisfying thud , then flutters down into the heap of ruined canvases, dried out markers, and bent paintbrushes.
My little “studio corner” is more of a graveyard now. An altar to everything I used to be and can’t seem to reach anymore.
The whole place reeks. Of linseed oil. Of dust. Of surrender.
I drop to the floor, back against the wall, knees up, palms pressed over my face. My fingers smell like graphite and sweat.
My eyes sting. I don’t know if it’s from frustration or fumes or the fact that I’m so tired of trying to claw my way back to a version of myself that feels like it died without warning.
I thought sketching would help. I thought maybe I could bleed the ache out onto paper. But everything I draw looks wrong. Flat. Soulless. Like it was made by someone impersonating me but doing a really shitty job.
Even my dumb little punk skeleton, the one I’ve doodled in the margins of every notebook since high school, looks fake. Like a parody. Like someone else’s nostalgia dressed in my skin.
I tried running this morning, hoping maybe if I got my heart pounding, I could outrun whatever’s sunk its claws into me. I didn’t even make it around the block before my chest clenched and my lungs gave up.
Every step felt like I was dragging concrete, every breath like I was inhaling molasses. I came back in sweaty, pissed off, and more tangled up than before.
Then I tried putting on one of my comfort shows. The kind I usually curl up to with snacks and a hoodie, the ones where I know every scene by heart.
But the jokes just sat there, stale and echoey. The colors felt too bright, too fake. Like I was watching someone else’s happiness through a window I couldn’t open.
Nothing is working.
Nothing feels right.
It’s like I’m watching my identity erode in real time, one failed attempt at normalcy after another.
And the worst part is, I don’t even know who I am without this. Without the art. Without the movement. Without the stupid little sketches that used to make me laugh, or the canvases I used to get lost in for hours.
Everything I used to lean on feels brittle now. Hollow. Like I could press on it and watch it crack apart in my hands.
I don’t feel like a person.
I feel like static in a skin suit.
And the more I try to pull myself out of this fog, the deeper I seem to sink. Like I’m clawing through wet cement. Like I’m losing myself, piece by piece, and no one even sees it happening.
Or worse… maybe they do.
And they’re letting me disappear anyway.
Now I’m face down on my bed, half buried under blankets, scrolling through social media because apparently I enjoy torturing myself.
I tell myself I’m just bored. I tell myself I’m not actually looking for them.
But I’m totally looking for them.
Bruno’s page is first. Of course it is. He’s smiling in his latest post, kneeling next to a massive German Shepherd at some park event, the caption something wholesome and on brand like, “Rex is the real MVP.”
I stare at his smile for way too long, trying to ignore the pinch in my chest.
Next is Thomas. He’s posted a video of himself skating down a hill wearing a glittery cowboy hat and nothing else but boxers and knee pads. I laugh despite myself.
The comments are unhinged, as usual. Someone called him “chaotic good in human form.” Again, accurate.
Then Rowan. His post is from a few days ago, just a moody black and white shot of the ranch. Fog rolling over the fields, shadows stretching long. No caption, no explanation. Just him , basically.
I let my phone fall onto my chest and stare up at the ceiling.
I miss them.
God, I miss them.
Bruno, with his steady hands and his soft voice that always made me feel like the world wasn’t ending.
Thomas, with his ridiculous energy and the way he made everything feel lighter… even my own tangled-up thoughts.
And Rowan, with his quiet strength and those eyes that looked at me like he saw me. Like, really saw me.
I miss being held between them. Being known.
But I can’t do this to them again.
I can’t keep letting them drift back into my life just because I’m lonely or confused. I’m not staying. School starts in a few weeks, and that’s the path I chose. The one that matters. The one I’ve fought like hell to get back to.
I don’t get to have both. I don’t get to chase this dream and also keep three ridiculously beautiful, wonderful, complicated men wrapped around my heart.
It’s selfish to even think about texting them. They deserve more than someone who’s always halfway out the door.
Still… I pick up my phone again.
I don’t open the messages. I just stare at the home screen until the light fades and my reflection stares back at me: tired eyes, smudged eyeliner, hair a mess.
I bury myself under the blanket like it’ll protect me from everything I’m feeling.
“I hate this,” I mumble into the fabric. “I hate feelings.”
Outside, someone honks. A bird screeches. The world keeps spinning.
I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m fine.
I’m not. But I try.
I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling fan, watching it spin like maybe it’ll hypnotize me into peace. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Instead, my brain, traitorous gremlin that it is, starts spiraling.
How the hell does anyone figure out child support or parenting time when they’re not married? I don’t even know what county I’d file that stuff in.
Is that something you can just… Google? Hire a lawyer? Ask Siri?
Hey, Siri, how do you co-parent with three men you’re in love with but technically not involved with anymore?
Siri doesn’t answer, obviously. Coward.
I groan and drag the blanket over my face.
I don’t even know what I want. Like, okay, yes, I want the baby. At least, I think I do. Most of the time. Some of the time?
I press a hand to my stomach, like I’ll feel something. There’s nothing there yet, not really. Just the idea of a life. A little maybe. A possible future.
Sometimes I imagine holding them, tiny and warm and blinking up at me like I’m their whole world. And I think, Yeah. I could do this. I want this.
But then I remember how hard everything is already. The schooling. The career I’m still clawing my way back toward.
The fact that I’m barely keeping my own life together, let alone trying to shape someone else’s.
And then there’s the boys.
What if they want to be involved? What if they don’t? What if they fight about it, or what if they don’t fight and that hurts worse somehow?
Would I be dragging them into something they never signed up for? Would I be asking too much?
I could keep it simple. I could walk away, stay quiet, raise this baby on my own. I’ve done things solo before. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be mine .
No messy custody battles. No emotional landmines. No mornings where I have to pretend I’m not devastated watching one of them buckle a car seat and drive away.
But also… no Thomas grinning like a maniac the first time the baby kicks.
No Bruno building a rocking chair by hand because “nothing from the store is good enough.”
No Rowan holding them like they’re made of stardust, whispering lullabies in that low, steady voice that always calms me down.
My throat tightens. I sit up and hug my knees to my chest.
I want it all. That’s the stupid, impossible truth. I want everything . The baby. The degree. The career. The life. Them .
But I don’t know how to fit it all in the same damn box.
And the longer I sit here doing nothing, the heavier it all gets… like if I don’t make a move soon, the decision will make itself. And that scares the crap out of me.
I reach for my water bottle and take a sip I don’t really want. My stomach does a slow roll.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one. “Get it together, Anderson.”
But before I can take any action, my phone buzzes.
It’s the group chat.
Ally Just a heads up… your guys are not doing great. Like, emotionally imploding levels of not great.
Kenzie They’ve been snappy and weird in practice. Bruno and Rowan nearly threw down yesterday over a drill. A drill, Jinx.
Ally Thomas isn’t talking. Not even in GIFs. We’re worried.
I stare at the screen, heart doing that awful achy thumpy thing that feels too much like guilt and not enough like anger to push through.
They’re hurting.
Because of me.
Because I walked away. I thought maybe it was the right thing, for the baby, for me, for them , but it’s not like I left unscathed. I’ve been walking around with this hollow pit in my chest since the second the door closed behind me.
I run my thumb over Ally’s message again and again, as if I rub it hard enough, the truth will smudge away. But it doesn’t.
They’re fighting each other. And hurting. And spiraling.
And maybe I thought I could protect them from this mess by taking myself out of the equation, but all I did was leave everyone bleeding out in separate corners.
I close my eyes and press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
What do I really want?
Not what’s easy.
Not what’s expected.
Not what some fantasy version of Future Responsible Jinx would pick from a tidy life catalog.
What do I, Jessica “Jinx” freaking Anderson, want?
I want to stop waking up alone, listening for footsteps that don’t come.
I want their stupid bickering and Bruno’s over-buttered toast and Rowan’s late-night ranting about the water heater and Thomas’ sock collection that is somehow everywhere, always.
I want all the chaos. The loudness. The comfort. The love.
I want them.
I exhale slowly, like maybe I can breathe out all the fear and indecision, make room for something steadier. Something braver.
Then I pick up my phone and type back:
Can you guys keep them from murdering each other for like 48 hours?
Kenzie No promises, but we’ll try.
Ally Wait… does this mean what I think it means??
I don’t answer. Not yet.
Instead, I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and grab the little notepad off my desk—the one I use for impulsive art ideas and half-finished to-do lists. I flip to a blank page and scribble one sentence in big block letters:
You know what you want. Stop pretending you don’t.
Then I underline it twice.
Because maybe the path forward is still messy and weird and full of hard conversations. But at least now, I know which direction I want to walk.
I grin, slow and wide, the kind of grin I haven’t worn in weeks, the kind that usually leads to questionable decisions and great stories. It’s the kind of grin that means I’m about to do something very me .
“I can fix this,” I say aloud. The words buzz in the air, sharp and bright like the first strum of a punk guitar. “And I can do it in style.”
My brain’s already racing a mile a minute. This can’t be some quiet little apology. That’s not our style. That’s not my style. If I’m gonna do this, I’m going full throttle, big, loud, and heartfelt enough to knock the wind out of all three of them.
I grab my phone and start scrolling, ordering supplies like a woman possessed. Paint pens. Poster board. Temporary pink hair dye… because why the hell not?
If I’m making a scene, I might as well look the part. Maybe even throw on that old “ Love is Chaos ” crop top I never got rid of.
Oof.
Okay, maybe not the crop top. My stomach is starting to swell just enough for it to ride up in a way that’s less punk rebel and more confused belly dancer.
But I’m doing this.
No more running. No more hiding behind excuses. I’m pregnant, I’m terrified, and I’m in love with three ridiculous, beautiful men who deserve to hear that out loud.
From me. In a way, they won’t forget.
I tug my chaos jacket out of the closet, the denim one covered in safety pins, scribbles, and that patch that says “Keep your heart wild.” Yeah. That feels about right.
“Let’s make some goddamn art,” I murmur, pulling it on like armor.
It’s time to go win them back… with glitter, probably too much paint, and absolutely no chill.