Chapter 35 #2
Maybe Andrew’s right; I acted irrationally.
My breaths turn uneven, and I have to consciously suck air in. I didn’t even talk to Isabelle before quitting.
That last thought hurts more than everything else. I stop at a crosswalk, the red hand blinking at me, and my heart starts pounding harder.
This isn’t the type of boyfriend I imagined I’d be. What if … what if this is just the start of me being a shitty boyfriend and it’s going to snowball into something bigger?
Isabelle deserves stability. She deserves someone reliable. Someone who has his life figured out, has a five-year plan and executes it flawlessly. Not someone who rage quits and then gets their best friend to clean up their mess.
Isabelle’s growing her business, been interviewed by Sparkes Magazine, and her fashion show’s only a few weeks away from now.
I’m supposed to be planning fun dates for her and doing things to make her life easier. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not the other way around. Not … this.
“You’re not good enough for me, Jackson.”
Isabelle’s words from my nightmare last night slam into me out of nowhere, and icy needles prick my body despite the humid weather.
If I keep leaning on Isabelle now while she’s building an empire, what does that make me?
A burden.
I start walking again, slower this time, The Daily Brew only a few blocks away until it’s right in front of me.
I was supposed to tell Isabelle I had a plan after leaving Carter Marketing Solutions. Instead, I’m walking toward her with nothing but chaos.
My heart’s still racing as I swing open the door with shaky hands, spotting Isabelle sitting at one of the tables near the back. She glances up when I enter, a soft smile spreading across her lips.
A heaviness wraps around my body as I walk toward her, grabbing a seat opposite hers.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I breathe. I tug at my tie, like I don’t remember how to exist comfortably in my own body.
Isabelle holds up the latest rom-com book she’s reading. “That’s okay. I assumed you were caught up at work. Just keeping myself company with my fictional characters in the meantime.”
Work. How am I going to tell her?
“It’s not okay. I should’ve—”
Shit. I forgot to pick up the strawberry jam doughnuts from the bakery. It was on the way, but I got so lost in my thoughts.
My stomach tightens. How many times have I dropped the ball now?
“Hey,” Isabelle gently says, leaning forward to place her hand over mine.
I don’t notice my hands are clenched until she lays hers on top. Tranquility overtakes my body at her touch.
“Stop putting so much pressure on yourself,” she adds. “Take a deep breath.”
I do as she says, taking in a shaky breath and giving her a tiny, grateful smile.
A barista—one of Isabelle’s colleagues—arrives at our table, placing a cup of black coffee in front of me before heading off.
“I got you your usual,” Isabelle explains.
I swallow. “Thank you.”
“How’s your first day back at work?”
My heart starts beating faster. “Bella, I actually … uh …”
Concern swirls in her brown eyes. “Did something happen?”
A conflicting feeling stabs my chest, hurting more than any physical pain I’ve experienced before. It’s as if something is slowly suffocating me, pulling out all my air until I’m deprived of all oxygen.
Today, Isabelle’s wearing a white tank top and jeans, her hair tied into a high bun. She looks so beautiful, steady and grounded, like someone who knows where she’s going.
And I’m the opposite of all those things.
I’m a fucking mess right now.
And she deserves someone who isn’t.
Let her go, a loud voice in my head chants.
I implore it to shut up, but it doesn’t go away, like a curse on repeat.
Let her go.
Don’t be selfish.
Let her go.
My knee bounces under the table. My chest is tight again. I can’t tell if I’m hot or freezing.
“Jackson”—worry laces Isabelle’s tone—“what’s wrong?”
Laughter erupts elsewhere in the coffee shop. Baristas shouting orders. The grinding of beans and slamming of a portafilter.
“Bella, I … I don’t think I deserve the boyfriend title for you.” The words scrape on the way out.
Isabelle blinks. “What do you mean? Of course you deserve the boyfriend title.”
The conviction in her voice almost breaks me.
A wave of nausea crashes against my body, leaving an ugly trail in its wake. I want to tell her all my real fears and worries, but it’s as though the words are stuck in my throat, thick and immovable.
“Where is this suddenly coming from?” Isabelle adds, unease in her tone. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not getting rid of me.”
“I …” I run a hand through my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck.”
“Are you saying you want to break up?” she says, her voice small.
Break up.
The dreaded words feel like a blow to my chest.
I swallow. “I … I just don’t want to be a burden on you.”
“You’re not a burden, Jackson,” she firmly says, her eyes starting to water. “This is what I’m here for. To support you through the good and bad, ups and downs, tough times and easy ones. Just like how you’ve always been there for me.”
“I can’t be there for you now like I was.” My voice cracks. “I’m a mess, and I can’t be the man you deserve. Not right now.”
A teardrop trickles down her cheek, followed by another and another, until her eyes are wet and puffy. Sharp needles of pain pierce my heart at the fact that it’s me who’s caused her to cry.
Isabelle’s bottom lip trembles. “You do deserve me, Jackson. I know this is a hard time for you right now, but please don’t push me away.”
My eyes well up with tears, my heart shattering into a million jagged pieces.
“I should walk away because I can’t give you the best.” I feel the words cutting us both open, see the sunken look in her eyes. “Not when I’m jobless. I just … I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“What? Did someone fire you?” I catch a glimpse of the fierceness on Isabelle’s face. “I’ll kick their ass if they did.”
A burning ache forms at the back of my throat. “No. No one fired me. It was my choice to leave.”
Isabelle blinks, a lugubrious blend of hurt and confusion in her eyes.
Coward.
You’re a coward, Jackson.
“Just like how you’re choosing to leave right now,” she quietly says. The softness in her voice hurts more than if she yelled it.
Isabelle’s phone starts ringing, but she doesn’t pick up, only letting it continue to ring until it stops.
A ding echoes from her phone, and she reluctantly checks it.
“Jen’s asking if I’m coming home for lunch,” she says, glancing down at the floor.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I reach for the metaphorical knife once more, twisting it deeper in our hearts. “You should go.” The words come out more brazen than I intended.
Isabelle blinks again, and after a beat, she stands, grabbing her book and tote bag. “Okay. If that’s what you want.” There’s no trace of emotion in her voice. “Take care, Jackson.”
Without awaiting a reply, she heads for the exit.
I jerk my head around. “Isabelle, wait—”
Her name leaves my mouth too late, too weak, lost in the chatter inside the coffee shop.
My mind yells at me to chase after her, but it’s as though my feet are cemented to the floor.
This is what I want, isn’t it? Space?
The bell above the door jingles as Isabelle pushes through it, firm and final.
Her retreating figure is the last thing I see of her before she disappears into the hustle and bustle of the city.
The heartbroken look on her face is one I’ll never forget, the way she tried to be strong and fight for us, even while I tore us apart.
She didn’t think I was hopeless. I did.
Instead of letting her in, letting her ride the storm with me, I pushed her away, and I gave her proof.
That I’m not good enough for her.
My chest grows tight, like a thick rope wrapping tautly around it, as those thoughts—mixed with the images of Isabelle’s face—loop on repeat in my head.
I rub the center of my chest and suck in a few heavy breaths, feeling completely powerless as my world comes crumbling down for the second time this week.