Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
Colton
Everything I say to Jenna comes out wrong. But then again, I probably chose the worst words I could. My tongue felt heavy, like lead.
I sit on the couch, hunched, hands braced on knees, like I’m about to take a face-off against my own stupidity. My fingers tap together, pop the knuckles, tap again. I wish I could turn back time and unsay those words. I’m an idiot. She saved me. Saved us.
And I just couldn’t for the life of me say those words.
All I can see is her face right before she left—eyebrows raised, mouth tense, like she’s holding in the world’s biggest sigh.
No, not a sigh. More like she’s keeping herself from saying something she’d regret, and I’m the reason.
At least she’s smart enough to hold it back.
I’m the idiot who let’s it all out even if I shouldn’t.
You know it’s a bit fast to go from strangers to husband and wife in just two months.
I can’t believe I said that. Two months can be a lifetime when it comes to love. There were people going to war for two months. It’s not the actual amount of time you spend with a person; it’s the quality of that spent time. And with Jenna, it was the best time I ever had.
I notice Livy lurking behind the pillar. She looks up at me, squints with that eerie Kirillov family stare. “Is something wrong, Papa?
Even at six, Livy’s radar for this stuff is tuned way too high. Maybe from all the back-and-forth between Mira and me, all the time spent peeking through cracks in doors to see which version of the adults she’s getting today. Or maybe just because she’s smarter than me.
I force a smile and try to sit straighter. “No. Just tired, baby. Go back to sleep, okay?” The lie is so obvious she doesn’t even react.
I want to say I’m sorry to Jenna. I want to say those words out loud but… I’m scared I’m going to mess up everything—again—and I don’t know how to stop it.
“Go back to sleep baby, everything is okay.”
“Okay.” She goes back to her room, and I fumble for my phone, even though I already know there’s nothing to see.
No new messages from Jenna. Last night she texted that she’d made it home.
There’s a text from me asking her if she ate enough, if she wants to keep my hoodie because she stole it.
Another text asking if she’d mind if we just cuddle a little tonight.
Now there’s a new text from me.
Colton
Sorry. I am bad with words. Can I try it again?
But she’s not answering. Maybe her phone died.
Maybe she blocked me. Maybe she’s already written me off, put my name in the same box as her ex, every other idiot man she ever hated.
She was hurt so many times, and I promised her I would never.
But now she’s crying because of me, and I feel like the worst shit there is.
I grip the phone so hard it creaks.
Next, I call her. Nothing. It’s off. Is it off or did she really block me?
I call Isla. It rings four times, five. Maybe she’s looking at the screen right now, Jenna right there beside her, both of them watching my name light up. Showing me the middle finger.
“Hello?”
My stomach sinks. “Is she with you?”
A pause. “Who is this?”
“Sorry. Colton.”
“Hi idiot, no she’s not here. Why?”
I exhale. “You know why.”
“Oh yeah, you mean the part where you told a million people that you’re not in love with Jenna? Yeah. I haven’t decided what to do with the episode yet. If I should delete it or let everyone see what kind of asshole you are.”
I press my thumb into the edge of the couch until it goes white. “Okay. That’s fair. So, you have no idea where she is? She left a half an hour ago and I can’t reach her.”
“Nope. Is that all?”
“Yeah. Thank you, Isla.”
She hangs up.
I stand up.
Sit back down.
The office. She could be at her office. I could grab Livy, just drive there. Or to her mom’s—she mentioned her mom once, some neighborhood on the East Side, I can’t remember the street. I should remember the street. I should know this.
My phone rings.
An unknown number lights up the screen, and I answer before the first ring finishes.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Colton Kirillov?”
“Yes. Yeah.”
A hiccup. A wet, terrible pause. “This is Jenna’s mom. I’m calling from the hospital.”
The floor drops out. No, please, no.
“She’s been in an accident.” Another hiccup, or maybe a sob. “A car. She was hit by a car. The driver’s—” her voice cracks.
“Who? Who did this to her?”
“Your ex-wife.”
The phone stays at my ear long after she stops talking.