42. Blakely
FORTY-TWO
Blakely
I called Jackson to let him know I was on my way over, but he didn’t pick up. And when I went to his place, there was no one there to answer the door. I know I’m a few hours earlier than usual, but there’s been a pit gnawing at the center of my stomach ever since our conversation today, so after my workout, I asked Lennox to drive me.
Glancing at Lennox as he idles in the parking lot of Donahue Motors, I cringe, guilt’s sharp edges prodding along my insides. He’s basically become my chauffeur, taking me to secret rendezvous spots whenever I snap my fingers.
Jackson’s Mustang sits in the parking lot and my heart jumps, unease trickling through me at the fact that he’s still here, which means he’s either buried beneath a car or ignoring my phone calls.
Is he really that mad I didn’t tell him right away?
Fear that he’s going to leave me surges through my chest, thoughts spiraling as I think of having to go back to life before him. Nothing sounds worse than having to learn to live without him; he’s quickly twined himself to my soul, stitching us together until I can’t tell us apart.
I know he wants to go public.
He hasn’t said it, but it’s there, lingering in the silence of everything he does. And I see him. The reason we’re drawn to each other in the first place is our ability to shed the other’s exterior, peeling away layers like an onion and finding the raw truth underneath.
I sigh, turning toward Lennox. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll come back out and let you know whether I need a ride.”
He gives a short nod, pulling out a worn paperback from the center console, ignoring me completely. He’s been gifting me with the silent treatment ever since our talk three weeks ago, and I’ve been trying to work my way back into his good graces ever since, but he’s a tough nut to crack and there aren’t enough hours in the day.
Walking up to the front door, my eyes scan the parking lot, looking to see if anyone else is here, not wanting to explain why I’m back after my sudden last-day departure. But it’s deserted, only Jackson’s lone Mustang in the lot.
The garage doors are closed and the front door is locked, but I enter the code on the keypad and walk inside, heading straight to where I know he’ll be.
And then I stop short, my stomach surging to my throat.
Jackson is leaning against the driver’s side door of a cherry-red sports car, a beautiful grin spread across his face as he talks animatedly with a girl.
A very pretty girl. One who I’ve never seen before. I have no clue why she would be here after hours on a work night with Jackson.
My mind races, the illogical part of my brain jumping to a thousand different conclusions, my lungs squeezing tighter with every breath, and I stumble back a step as my fists clench at my sides.
Deep breath in. One. Two. Three.
It doesn’t help—the spiral has already started, sprung from the anxiety that’s been growing inside of me for days at the unknowns in this situation. My mind races, hoping like hell that whatever is happening is innocent but not wanting to stick around to find out.
My heart feels like it’s being squeezed until the vessels burst as I trip my way out the doors and rush to Lennox’s car. Somehow I make it, my stomach tossing like a ship in a storm, and slide into his front seat, my body shaking and my face hot.
“What’s wrong?” Lennox is suddenly on high alert, sitting up straight, his arms coming out to touch me but then pulling back.
I can’t focus enough to talk, the sharp pain in my chest becoming more acute with every passing second, my eyes watering from the loss of air. Leaning forward, I place my head on my knees, trying to stop the dizziness.
“Blakely, Jesus Christ, do I need to take you to a hospital?”
Lennox’s words strike an even stronger chord, one that vibrates down my insides like nails on a chalkboard, and I muster all of my remaining sanity and strength to dig in my purse, grab a Xanax to swallow dry before rasping out, “Just drive.”
Deep breath in. One. Two. Three. Deep breath out.
My stomach heaves with every bump in the road, visions of honey-blond hair and the perfect smile on Jackson’s face torturing my thoughts, making them spin webs of situations that, if I were in my right mind, I would know better than to believe.
But I can’t focus on any of that.
Right now, all I can focus on is my breathing.
Sweat drips down my forehead as I ramp up the intensity of the treadmill, pushing the incline to seven and letting the lactic acid pour into my muscles. If I focus on the burn, then I won’t focus on the last three hours.
How I’m not where I want to be.
How I’m all alone instead of lying in Jackson’s arms.
My phone has been ringing off the hook, Jackson’s name flowing across the screen every few seconds, and call me petty, call me insecure, but I just can’t find it in me to talk to him right now. Not until I get the giant node that’s tangled in my chest to release its death grip on my lungs.
Once I can breathe again, then I’ll call him back.
I overreacted. I knew it even when I was in the midst of my panic, but there’s nothing I can do about it now other than move forward and try to keep a level head. Make sure I’m in the calmest state possible to talk to him.
And I’m not there yet.
As the miles tick up on the treadmill and the burn of muscles mutates into fatigue, the knot loosens, disappointment settling heavy in its place. He’s never given me a reason not to trust him, and at the first sign of something not going my way, I lose it.
Pathetic, Blakely.
My insides cramp. I never realized that loving someone meant giving up such a huge amount of control. And though Jackson is usually the balm to my wounds, has been the anchor keeping me grounded, tonight he was the catalyst to my destruction. The tornado I let ravage through my system and rip up everything in its path.
It caught me so off guard, there was no time to find shelter.
My legs are numb and lethargy trips them up, so I reluctantly turn off the treadmill, guzzling water before walking back up the stairs, my legs like jelly as I hold on to the wooden railing.
Once I’m back in my bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, preparing to go into my en suite bath to start my nightly routine.
The one that I don’t feel the need to have whenever I stay at Jackson’s.
Anxiety punches my gut as I step into the shower.
And as water beats down on my back, hiding the tears that stream down my face, I realize that for the first time since he came into my life, once again, I feel alone.