Chapter 25 Jesse
TWENTY-FIVE
JESSE
I’m pulled out of a restless sleep by the incessant ringing of the doorbell.
It’s a chiming, high-pitched tune that bounces off the walls and makes my brain feel like it’s vibrating.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the vibrations.
Now that I’m awake, I notice my stringy hair dangling in my face, the way the sock on my left foot has come off my heel, and the weeks’ worth of scratchy stubble on my face and crotch.
My teeth feel like they’re wearing little sweaters.
The sheet is damp with sweat and creased at the small of my back.
Every little feeling is compounded and adds to my discomfort.
Cory’s on the landing. I know that. He checked in with me when he took over for Tad, who had first watch this morning. They’ve been trading shifts until we can get full-time security now that the paparazzi have figured out where my mom lives.
Whoever’s at the door was approved to come up, so it’s got to be one of the boys, or Blake, or my mom. Naz has a key. Mom has a key. If it’s someone who doesn’t, not my problem. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t have the energy to talk about any of it anymore.
I am bone tired in a way that’s not just a lack of proper sleep.
It’s a hollow, under-the-ribs exhaustion, a heavy pressure on my sternum.
The last week has been a treadmill of approved interviews, of careful phrasing and pre-cleared questions.
I hoped we could move past the deep dive into my personal life by acknowledging my struggles with mental health and addiction.
Maybe if people could see my face and hear my voice, they’d remember that I’m a real person who has experienced a deep violation.
Then I went on Keep It Real because PR thought that reaching Zach Lawson’s audience was worth the risk.
He signed the agreements and the list of approved topics like everyone else.
Unlike everyone else, he did not stick to the list. It was barely five minutes before he went off it.
I waited for Blake to pull me out of it, but I couldn’t see him behind the glass walls of the recording booth.
Zach dug in hard in the most disrespectful way possible, bound and determined to pull the worst out of me.
I knew I was being baited. And I still let it happen.
I got up to leave. I did. I was walking out, but then that bastard poked at my greatest weakness.
He questioned my relationship with Luc. He questioned Luc’s devotion to me if he wasn’t willing to stand in the fire with me.
He poked and poked at that bruise until I felt myself unravel, and I snapped.
I won’t lie and say I didn’t get a small amount of pleasure out of seeing that troll cower. Part of me wishes I had hit him, so the assault charges he’s trying to file would have been worth it.
I regret losing control, though. Not because of Zach Lawson–fuck that guy–but because the entire purpose of the press tour was to pull the focus away from the scandal and towards healing. I wanted to quiet things, not add gasoline.
I can’t help but picture Luc out there somewhere, hearing the same headlines and looped footage of my name being dragged through the mud and being asked on repeat if he’s my mystery man like my life is some kind of game show.
I’ve been hanging by a thread, holding on to the mere idea that I might be able to make things better for Luc so he can stay out of the public eye.
Mission failed. I just made it worse.
So now I’ve run home to Mommy with my tail between my legs.
I’ll probably rot here in this bed, too tired to even get up to pee until it hurts too bad to hold it.
My throat is raw. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t showered.
Despite not leaving this bed since I arrived, which was…
What day is it? I crack an eyelid and see that it’s dark outside.
So it’s probably Sunday night? Or is it Monday night?
It’s been a few days. All I’ve done is sleep, but I haven’t actually gotten any actual rest.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” I yell when the ringing graduates to frantic banging on the door.
Flinging the duvet off, and stomping to the door, or more like stumbling because my muscles ache. How long does it take for muscles to atrophy?
The hallway light outside the condo door is blinding after lying in the dark for so long. I squint as I throw open the door, ready to tear into Naz or whoever the fuck has the nerve to keep making so much racket.
It’s no one I expect.
It’s Luc.
He stands in front of me, looking objectively like shit with his clothes disheveled and wrinkled, his hair past the point of needing a haircut, one side sticking straight up while the other is plastered to the side of his head.
Dark stubble casts a shadow over his lower face, almost as dark as the circles under his eyes.
Where is his coat? It’s fucking December.
I can’t breathe at the sight of him. Everything in me goes stupidly quiet, like he found the pause button on the screaming feed in my head.
“Luc?” I question, testing the waters of whether this is a hallucination or not. My voice cracks, and I hate that it cracks. I hate that I care if it cracks, because even if he’s not a hallucination I’m mad at him for hanging up. For giving up.
For breaking my fucking heart.
Luc huffs out a ragged breath that puffs white in the air. He swallows. “Jesse–”
My name on his lips is just as raw and pained as I feel. He takes a small, tentative step towards me, then drops to his knees and wraps his arms around my hips.
“Jesse, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”
What?
My knees wobble, and I lower myself to eye level with him.
I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t find the words, so I surge forward and wrap my arms around his neck instead.
He pulls me close and breathes in at the base of my neck.
He probably regrets it. I really need a shower. And a toothbrush.
We haven’t discussed or decided anything, but heat and relief radiate in my chest so strongly I almost mistake it for pain.
He’s real. He’s here.
I stand up, not trusting myself to think clearly when I’m so close to him, and gesture for him to do the same. Clumsily pushing the door open wider, I gesture into the entryway. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold as shit out here. Why aren’t you wearing a jacket? Are you insane?”
He shrugs and gives me a tired, exasperated little half-smile.
His eyes catch mine, and the blue of his irises seems dimmer.
The look he gives me is full of complicated things.
Exhaustion is probably paramount. There’s fear, some anger.
And there’s just enough hope that we can find forgiveness with each other.
There’s a lot to talk about. We both know it. But for now, I step into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He smells like cold air and clean laundry and hope.
I, however, probably smell like shit, so I pull away. Or I try to. Luc is holding on to me too tight.
“I smell. I’ve been lying on the same sheets, in the same clothes, since yesterday morning.”
“Why?”
I shake my head, and he grabs my chin to direct me to look at him. “Why, Jesse?”
A small flare of anger has me spitting out the truth before I can think better. “I gave up hope that I’d ever see you again, and it hurt too much.”
His shoulders move forward almost imperceptibly, like he can shield his chest from an ache.
“I know we have a lot to talk about, but right now, I just need to take care of you,” he says, voice strained.
He wants to… take care of me?
“Okay,” I whisper, because honestly, I need that too.
He has me point him towards the bathroom, but other than that I don’t lift a single finger.
He starts running a bath before stripping me out of my dirty clothes, tenderly but clinically.
He actually sits me on the toilet, turning away to give me privacy, adding some random bath salts from a row along the edge of the tub to the water.
I can walk, but he still lifts me to lay me in the tub.
He washes me, rinses me, dries me off, and dresses me.
I insist on brushing my own teeth, feeling a little better now that I’m clean, and he’s here.
In whatever capacity, he’s here. Luc makes me some toast and changes my bedsheets while I eat.
I can’t handle much. I’m not really hungry, but I eat one whole slice with butter, and Luc finishes the rest.
When he tucks me into bed, he murmurs against my forehead that he’s sorry again. I’m too tired to tell him this isn’t his fault. This is just how I am. I tend to feel it all or nothing.
I’m not sure where he thinks he’s going when he stands to leave me, but I hang on to his hand and pull him into bed with me.
“My clothes–” he starts.
“Just take them off, you can borrow some of mine in the morning,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m too tired to get hard, so you won’t be bothered.”
His quiet huff of laughter is sad. But he strips down to his boxer briefs and socks and climbs into bed behind me, pulling me securely against his chest.
The next time I wake up, it’s light out.
I have a moment of panic that Luc showing up last night was a dream, but there’s a deep indent in the pillow next to me, and I feel almost rested.
I haven’t felt that since the last time I slept with him next to me, the night before the paparazzi mobbed our car.
I hear movement in the kitchen, dishes clinking, and low murmured voices.
The smell of coffee wafts in with the understanding that Luc is in the kitchen with my mother.
Just weeks ago, we were talking about introducing each other to our respective families and going public with our relationship.
Now he’s probably in there discussing my well-being.
After brushing my teeth and pulling a hoodie over my shirt and boxers, I pad into the kitchen.
I pause, staring at the comfortable, weirdly domestic scene in front of me.
Luc, wearing a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s baggy on me but almost obscenely tight across his chest, is also wearing one of my mother’s aprons, the one that looks like a big-breasted woman in a bikini.
He sets a plate with what looks like an omelet in front of her, and she thanks him.
Without looking up, he sets a coffee cup that says, I’m A Fucking Rockstar, That’s Why, in front of the seat next to my mom and fills it, adding the perfect amount of cream and sugar.
Warily, I enter the kitchen and take a wide berth around the island, but it’s not wide enough.
Luc hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me against his chest, rubbing his nose in the back of my hair. “Much better,” he mumbles, and I don’t know if he means that he feels better because he could hug me this morning, or if it’s because my hair smells better.
My mom tries to hide her grin but fails. I roll my eyes at her.
“So…you two have met then.” I hate feeling so awkward about it when I was so looking forward to them meeting. “This wasn’t really how it was supposed to happen.”
“Things rarely happen the way they’re supposed to,” my mom says, pushing a lock of hair off my forehead.
Luc slides a massive omelet onto a plate and cuts a small portion off one end, putting it on a separate plate and sliding it to me wordlessly. I pick up the fork, thankful he didn’t give me too much. My stomach won’t tolerate much.
“So, Luc, how long are you able to stay? You mentioned you play in Atlanta next week?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll need to be home Friday to pack and get on the plane, but I could stick around until then if I’m not in the way. I can get a hotel or–”
“Absolutely not,” I say, interrupting him.
“You’re lucky you weren’t spotted getting here last night.
” He wasn’t. Blake would have called. He has all kinds of alerts set up so I don’t have to look at my phone and fall down a rabbit hole of hate and vitriol.
“You should probably not leave unless you have to, and when you leave–”
“Jesse. If I were worried about them seeing me, I wouldn’t have come. I’m not doing that to you anymore.”
“Don’t suck up to me,” I tell him lightly.
“Whether you’re ready to come out or not, I don’t think this is the right time.
The paps and even the mainstream news are feral right now.
It’s not safe.” I want to tell him to discuss it with our PR team, but I don’t want to subject him to a bunch of rules just so he can be with me.
“We also don’t even know what’s going to happen.
With us, I mean. We haven’t discussed it yet. ”
Luc wipes his face with his napkin and nods. “You’re right, we haven’t. So let’s discuss.”