Chapter 8
EIGHT
RYAN
Inside the rental, my grip relaxes. The Batman mask drops to the marble floor.
Kristen will be irritated if I have enough courage to tell her the truth—that I did not, in fact, tell Nora who I am.
Probably never will.
Slinking down against the inside of the front door, I swallow. Fuck. I can still feel Nora’s lips on mine. This isn’t good. It’s fucking petrifying. God fucking dammit.
Why do I do this to myself?
Because she’s something special , a soft voice whispers in the back of my mind. A voice I choose to ignore.
’Cause man, do I hate that pesky voice.
I met Nora only two days ago. Didn’t even know her name until today.
There can’t be anything deep there—I refuse to allow myself to think, or feel, that. No. The only special connection I’ve ever truly shared with another is with a woman who’s currently one thousand miles south.
Memories of Jasmine flood my brain, because I force them to, both soothing me and instilling panic. My body is happy and anguished and plagued with doubt. Doubt as in, did I make the right choice flying up here? Should I go back now, ignore Frank, never see Nora again, and throw caution to the wind? Find Jasmine. Tell her she’s been everything to me for years.
Let go of these new, terrifying “feelings” for a woman I hardly know.
Tell Jasmine what I’ve never told her—that we belong together.
That if she were to let me in, I’d never let her go.
It’s these thoughts that drive me as I rip my phone from my pocket and start doing the thing I’m not supposed to do. Send Jasmine a message.
It starts out short. Me saying I’m thinking of her and all that. I tell her I miss her—I’m bothered by how things ended. Explain there are things I want to talk to her about once I’m back in LA. I tell her I genuinely hope she’s doing okay—and that she can reach out to me if she needs a shoulder to cry on. That I’d make myself available for her any hour of the day.
Then the message isn’t so short anymore, and I’m rambling, getting into a tangent about being lonely up here in Seaside. Feelings spilling out of me I didn’t even know I had.
Like being scared I’m going to end up alone.
While admitting to her I need to be alone out of fear.
I mention Nora—and how that kiss tonight reached down into my core.
My message is too much. Much too much.
I’m too much.
I know it.
So, before I send anything, I do the logical thing. I delete the entire thing. Rewrite something short. Then, delete that, too.
Shutting my eyes, I steady my pounding heart—thinking of what one of my many therapists said to me one time.
You’re so afraid of getting hurt that you only let the people in who are unreachable.
I’m frozen in place. Waiting for I don’t know what. A sign? A grand epiphany?
Nothing takes shape.
Except, I see Nora’s lips on mine again, relive the passion of that moment, and my heart races—both from excitement and fear. It’s like I’m back in middle school all over again, after I kissed Lara—the first girl I was sweet on—and I simultaneously wanted to throw up and wanted to kiss her again.
Just like Jasmine, Lara was another girl I thought I could help. Except, unlike Jasmine, Lara had no restrictions, and nothing stood in our way.
Lara’s depression nearly drove her over the edge multiple times. At first, I thought love could save her. That maybe if I could be her knight, the ray of light in her life, it would pull her back from the brink. Eventually, her devotion to me caused so much anxiety that I stopped taking her calls—and avoided her in the hallways at school. I’m sure I hurt her. Badly.
And then, through the years, I’ve had a whole slew of “Lara’s” come and go. Always with me doing the “going” part in the end.
My therapist was right.
I run from commitment.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d even run from Jasmine, too. Even though Jasmine’s different—or so I keep telling myself.
Truth is, I’ve never been given the chance to know what I’d do if Jasmine and I had nothing stopping us from being together.
And the thing is, I was— am —a cold asshole to anyone who has ever wanted something serious with me.
Maybe tonight, I shouldn’t be a cold asshole.
There’s someone I really should be texting instead of Jasmine.
Clicking on Nora’s name, I compose words completely different than the message I was about to send Jasmine.
Me : Send me a text to let me know you got home safely. Or Batman will need to take to the streets to make sure you’re safe.
Within two seconds, Nora’s typing.
Nora : And they say chivalry’s dead.
Nora : I’m home.
Nora : G’night, Batman. I mean, Bruce. Don’t worry, your secret identity is safe with me.
She sends a giphy of Batman and Robin—’60s Batman and Robin—with the words POW popping behind the two characters.
Cute .
Me : Sleep well, beautiful.
She hearts the message.
For reasons I can’t explain, that puts the biggest smile on my face that I’ve had in forever.
God, what have I gotten myself into?