32. Jenna
Chapter thirty-two
Jenna
I heard him, but I did my best to pretend as though I hadn’t.
I pulled all of my focus on my breathing and made sure it remained completely steady, and not at all inconsistent. That would’ve been a giveaway.
The idea of him knowing that I’d heard what he’d secretly said…it was terrifying, and I wasn’t even the one who made the confession.
But if I was being honest with myself, they were blurring for me, too, and it came completely out of left field.
I wasn’t expecting to feel whatever it is I feel for him, and now that it’s hit me, I don’t know how to combat it. Pretending to sleep until I no longer had to fake it felt like the only smart choice.
According to the time on my phone, it’s midafternoon, and I’m woken by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. My head feels like a bowling ball rolling around, crashing against the walls of my skull.
Every single part of me aches, and the only drink I’d had was when I was trying to relax and fall asleep, long before Cole even arrived.
This always happens, though. When the weight of a thousand, ignored feelings come crashing down on me. I should be used to it after twenty-six years, but I still end up feeling the ache in every inch of my body.
My heart, though? She remains ice cold, but I fear she’s beginning to thaw out.
Years ago, it felt like that particular organ had forgotten how to function, forever stumbling to her death every time I was in the presence of Becky Rogers. But now…maybe it’s beginning to realize that just because my mother gave birth to me, doesn’t mean I owe her anything.
I did my best to support her when I finally had the means to do so, but now, physically and emotionally, I don’t think I can handle it anymore.
Sliding on my black, fluffy slippers, I don’t put a bra on under my t-shirt when I walk into my kitchen to find a shirtless Cole working overtime at the stove. “Breakfast?” he asks with a quick look over his shoulder, and it confuses me. Last I checked, I had no groceries in my house at all. “Or is this technically lunch?”
“I could have my first meal of the day at dinner time, and I would still call it breakfast.” I eye him suspiciously as I approach. “So much for not knowing how to cook,” I say, my voice raspy as I make my way to a stool. He turns to face me, placing a pot of coffee onto a heat protection pad on the countertop, a glass filled with ice cubes, a bottle of creamer, caramel drizzle, and a thick, glass straw down onto the table. The only items I did have in my kitchen.
An easy guess . Don’t overthink it.
I inhale the smell deeply, my nose hovering over the rim, hoping just the scent alone will cure my emotion-induced hangover.
No immediate luck, but the day is still young.
“I said I don’t like to cook, not that I don’t know how.” He smiles softly, placing a plate down in front of me with fluffy, buttermilk cupcakes, ice cream and maple syrup drizzled on top.
He knows how I like my coffee and my favorite breakfast?
“How did you know this is how I eat my pancakes and how I drink my coffee?” I ask, racking my brain with all the things I told him last night with no memory of mentioning anything like that .
“I texted Cassandra last night once you’d dozed off, and I woke up to a reply.” He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” Rounding the corner, he pulls out a stool to sit beside me, no plate or bowl of food set for him. “What are your plans for today?” he asks as I swallow my first mouthful of breakfast goodness.
“Holy shit, these are incredible!” I take another bite, and his tanned cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. “Are you going to eat?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
I’m trying my hardest to ignore the fact that he asked my best friend how I like my coffee and what I like to eat for breakfast, so I could wake up to both, but the thought seems to linger in my head for longer than necessary.
“Tate would kill me if I ate anything that wasn’t chicken and rice right before shooting the creek scene.” He taps his knuckles on the countertop while he watches me eat, and suddenly I’m all too aware of the food that’s entering my body. But I’m even more aware of the fact that he made it for me, and doesn’t seem to care.
He is not your mother ; I scold myself internally for comparing the two.
“I have no real plans today.” I drizzle the caramel around the edges of my glass, throw five cubes of ice into the bottom, and pour in the coffee and creamer, before giving it a stir with my giant glass straw. I take a long, dragged out sip, desperate for the caffeine to take away the throbbing in my head.
Still nothing.
“Do you think you could run some lines with me?” he asks casually but quickly. “I have a…” he hesitates, and I know in my gut what he’s about to say, so I place my cutlery down and turn my body to face him.
“A specific scene?” I finish his sentence, and he nods awkwardly, both of us suddenly incapable of even saying the word ‘ sex’.
My stomach falls at my feet.
I have no right to feel the way that I do at this moment. We’re friends who occasionally have sex, and pretending to be in love with Mara is part of his job description.
But he pretends to be in love with you, too. I try to remind myself, but it’s no use.
Mara is everything that I’m not.
Tall.
Thin.
Beautiful.
“Sure, I’ll help,” I finally say, even more aware of my body type, my mom’s constant disapproval ringing in my ears. How am I the girl he’s sleeping with, when girls like Mara exist in his everyday life? She’s the woman he gets paid to be with, and still, he apparently wants me.
I shake my head. “When do we start?”
“As soon as possible, if that’s okay? The interview we filmed in New York is going to air tonight, and Tate is expecting to be flooded with calls for more interviews, and photoshoots, and apparently I need to create more of a social media presence.”
He’s anxiously rambling, that much is obvious. It’s such a change from the man I’ve come to know. “Unless it’s too uncomfortable for you to…you know, be that way with me after last night, and you need to talk to Cassandra or Tahnee about everything with your mom.”
I don’t interrupt him, I just let him go.
Who knew that watching Cole Green panic would be so endearing.
“Cole.” I smile, and his head flips in my direction. “Get your script. I will focus on all things Becky Rogers when I need to. Right now, you have all of me,” I say with a smile, and he swallows hard. “I mean, you have all of my attention .” I correct myself. “Last night…it was a one-time thing. I let it get to me, and unfortunately, you were there to take the brunt of it. Which, by the way, I’m grateful for, and really sorry about,” I say, brushing it off with a wave of my hand, but he takes it in his.
“I’d do it over again, Snow. You should never be embarrassed about being vulnerable. If the last twelve hours have taught me anything, it’s that you’re a lot stronger than anybody knows. And any scars you have, visible or not, they make you the person you are.” He kisses the back of my hand, and I force myself to look away.
I showed him more of myself than I ever intended to. More than I’d shown even Cassandra in my darkest days. We lived together when I went through my breakup with my ex, so she had no choice but to see me like that. Neither of us were ready for our friendship to progress so quickly, but if it didn’t, we wouldn’t be where we are now.
One minute, she was knocking on my door after answering the ad I’d put up in a local cafe, and the next, I was curled up in a ball, crying my eyes out, overwhelmed with loss and heartbreak. I lived in the darkness of my bedroom, because the light of the outside world was just too much for my heart to handle.
I was constantly hunched over a toilet bowl, throwing up everything I’d consumed, because I couldn’t keep it down, and she held my hand through it all.
She held my hair back, too.
My mom, though? I didn’t hear a word.
When she finally called to ask where I was, because she hadn’t seen me in so long, she mentioned that she bumped into him at the gas station, and said he asked how I was.
I’ll never forget that phone call.
She was crying to me , asking how I could ruin something so good , begging me to get back together with him because he missed me. As if she wasn’t the reason he broke up with me. Like her ruining his parent’s marriage was my fault.
She’s always had a hard time understanding that I don’t need another friend in this life. I may not have many, but the ones I do have, mean everything to me.
But I did need a mother.
Did being the key word.
I’ve come to realize that while having a motherly figure in your life is important, you can get by without one. That’s exactly what I’ve done, because she gave me no choice.
The more something triggers my memory about my upbringing, the more I know I made the right decision in not sticking by her side through all of this.
I wasn’t brave enough to say it all to her face, but maybe one day I will be.
If the roles were reversed, she probably would’ve just left me on my apartment floor for somebody else to eventually find.
“I‘ll be back,” Cole tells me with a kiss on the cheek, throwing a t-shirt over his head before rushing out the door.
Cleaning up from breakfast, I check my phone to see the Herring Girls’ group chat popping off. Texts from each sister either talking about how incredible Olive’s demos are sounding, or asking Cassandra how she and Harley have enjoyed the first few days of their honeymoon.
I’ve barely had time to respond and wash the single pan he used for breakfast before he rushes back through my door, face bright red and splotchy.
“Was the elevator not working or something?” I ask, washing my hands in the sink after putting the dishes on the drying rack.
“I took the stairs.” He throws himself onto my couch. Cole has spent one night in my home, and is already way too comfortable for my liking.
But it’s my fault.
He wouldn’t have stayed the night if I didn’t beg him to.
He did what any good friend would do.
Maybe he’s asking me to do this with him as a distraction technique? Maybe he thinks I’m still too emotional to be left alone? Or maybe I’m his only option because everyone else is busy.
I can’t have been his first choice to help him run lines, that’s for sure. I’m a hairdresser, not an actor.
He pats the empty spot on the couch next to him, an excited grin on his face, and I can already tell he’s up to no good. “Here you go,” he says, handing me a thick stack of paper, stapled and folded at the corner.
Flicking through it, I quickly realize it’s not at all what I expected it to be. “This isn’t…” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“A sex scene?” He quirks a brow. “No, Snow. Get your mind out of the gutter.” Laughter rumbles through his chest. “It’s one where I have to be emotional and I’ve…never had to do that with anyone.” He clears his throat, hand rubbing the back of his neck, and his eyes burning holes in the paper.
“And you want to do it with me?” I ask. “In character, I mean. I’m not expecting you to be vulnerable with me just because I was with you. I don’t want to see you cry or anything. Hell, I don’t want anything from you. Even though if you cried, it would be about something completely scripted and fictional and totally make-believe.” This time it’s me scrambling for words, and he doesn’t interrupt me. He waits patiently for me to be done, his lips tugging up at the side.
“You’re my friend, right?” He asks.
“Right.” I nod.
“Friends help each other in times of need, and I just happen to need help.” He places a hand on my thigh and quickly pulls it away, as if my skin is hot to the touch.
The two of us have thrown around the word ‘friend’ a lot in the last day, and it feels as though it’s slowly starting to lose its meaning.
He’s spent the night at my place, and cuddling was as far as it ever got.
I haven’t had a sleepover with any man since my ex, and even those were few and far between. There wasn’t exactly space in a single bedroom trailer to share a bed with your boyfriend, and his parents were too religious with an open door policy.
Cole paces my lounge, eyes darting between me and the piece of paper while he reads his lines with conviction. Anger, sadness and fear dripping out of every word, every gesture, every expression.
I don’t know why he felt self conscious about this scene. He’s making me feel everything he needs me to feel, and he’s doing it with God damn ease while I sit on the couch, watching him, only realizing that my line is due when the silence lingers a little longer than necessary.
He moves to sit next to me, still in character, eyes searching mine, and my stomach flips while my heart rips out of my chest, seeing him so strained, yet so…
“I said, do you love me?” His eyes flick to the paper in my hands, before looking back at me, clearing his throat, and I realize I got so caught up in the moment, that I forgot this wasn’t real—forgot he wasn’t talking to me, Jenna Rogers.
I hate that it rips me apart.
“Yes,” I say, reading the single word off the piece of paper awkwardly before he strokes my cheek with his thumb.
He leans in closer, lips brushing mine, and I convince myself that I never saw a kissing scene written on the paper that I hold in my hands tight. That he’s doing this because he wants to.
Because he wants me.
But when he pulls away, disappointment hits me like a freight train.
“How was that?” he asks, dropping his hand, and I feel the loss immediately. But those eyes…they remain firmly locked on mine. I clear my throat.
“Good. Great. You were…great.” I smile, shifting in my seat, edging away from him ever so slightly, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“You think?” He doesn’t believe in himself, and while I know what that feels like, I wish he would. Pretty soon, the entire world is going to see what I just witnessed, and they’re all going to fall in love.
Not me, though. He was the love of my life for one night and one morning only, and I’m trying so hard to make sure that remains the same.
I nod. “Yeah, you were great,” I tell him again, but this time I make sure my voice is more believable than it was.
His phone rings on the coffee table in front of us. “I should go.” He holds it up, Tate’s name displayed on the screen along with a photo of him as a child.
We stare at each other for a while before either of us finds the courage to say goodbye, until I blurt words out that I regret the moment they leave my lips. “Are you going to kiss Mara?” How old am I? Fifteen? Getting jealous over something and someone I have no right to be jealous over? “In the scene, I mean,” I clarify. “I just didn’t see it written on the paper and you almost kissed me, so I wasn’t sure if you were improvising or—” He closes the gap between us, his hand cupping my cheek and he kisses me softly.
We’ve done this so many times before, but this…this feels different. Just like the last time we had sex.
It’s gentle.
It has a different sort of want behind it.
A different type of need.
But then he pulls away, and my hand flies up to my lips, hoping to feel his presence still lingering.
“Not in this scene, no. I improvised that because I so desperately wanted to kiss you, but wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” he admits with a slight shake of his head and clenching of his jaw. “And if I kiss her, it’s never because I want to, Snow. I need you to know that.” He places another soft kiss on my lips. “It’s because I have to for my job.” And another. My heart feels like it’s about to rip through my chest and leap into his.
“You can if you want to, you know?” I force myself to take a tiny step back. His hands fall by his sides. I have this need to let him know. I have no claim over him, and he’s free to do anything and anyone he wants.
He told me no one else could touch me, but the topic of who could touch him was never discussed.
“Are you sleeping with someone else?” he asks me, deadpan, and my brows pinch together in confusion with an adamant shake of my head. “Good. Because while we might be friends who fuck, I would have a really hard time knowing you’re fucking someone else at the same time. I told you that already, Snow. So long as you and I are doing this, I won’t touch anyone else, and no one else touches you.” Relief. “If you want that to change, you say the word, and this ends with no hard feelings on my part. Got it?”
There would be hard feelings on my part, my heart wants me to reply, but I refuse.
His voice is firm. It feels like I’ve just been given strict instructions by the professor I have a crush on, and it sets my lady bits alight.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
Because I don’t have a crush on Cole Green.
Not even a little bit.
No chance in hell.
Could somebody please tell that to my heart, though? Because I don’t think she’s got the memo.
God, I’m in so deep.