Chapter 16
Nora
Somehow, after leaving Jordan in the bedroom, I drag my exhausted body to the living room and fall face first onto the couch. I can’t bring myself to lie on the corner mattress—to be surrounded by his scent and the memories of how happy we were there.
I’ve never felt that content before. This morning, I would have been happy to snuggle in his arms for the rest of the day and forget about the responsibilities waiting for us both.
It didn’t use to be that way between us. Even when we officially dated last year, I couldn’t turn off the fears and doubts. He never held all of me. Only the parts I knew I could control.
Our relationship started because of sex—both of us craving a release. That night, I would have accepted it from anyone who could turn me on. But he surprised me and ruined my chance of enjoying sex with anyone else. No one makes me writhe like he does, and after a while, I stopped trying to replace him. He became my beautiful release, and in the beginning, he seemed to enjoy being my chosen fix.
That utopia ended the first time he brought up commitment and feelings and God-forbid marriage. I panicked, tossed him out like he meant nothing to me. But he stayed in touch. After that, he gave me enough to keep the withdrawals at bay, and before long, the cycle repeated itself.
Holy shit. I’d acted like my mother.
And isn’t it fitting and annoyingly ironic that I should finally come to my senses when he comes to his? When I acknowledge what I’ve been fighting all these years, he decides he can’t stomach fighting for me any longer. I’d laugh at the absurdity if every ounce of me didn’t ache from missing him already.
My phone lights the dark room with an incoming call, but I ignore it. It’s either Sydney checking on me or Josie doing the same about Jordan. Poor Josie. She’s oblivious to the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn the day has taken. She deserves to be warned, but I’m not sure it’s my place to tell her. Although Jordan doesn’t need the added stress of explaining it all to her, either. Not that he’s interested in talking to her any more than he is to me, I’d imagine.
I grab the phone and check the Caller ID. It’s Josie. Since she’d be concerned if no one responded, causing more questions, I wait for the phone to stop ringing and send her a text. I don’t want Jordan to overhear me recount the mess our arrangement has become. And I don’t want to hear the hurt and frustration in my voice because of it.
Me:Jordan’s sleeping. This is quieter.
Josie:It’s early. Everything OK?
Me:He’s fine. I think. But you should know, he remembers.
A long pause. She’s freaking out on the other end.
Josie:Guess that means he also knows what we’ve done.
Me:Yes.
Josie:Is he upset?
Me:More like pissed.
Josie:Fair. I knew he would be, but I did what I thought was best. How are you holding up?
Me:Not good.
Josie:I’m sorry I roped you into this. Truly.
Me:You didn’t force me to do it.
Josie:No. Just guilt tripped you.
I don’t have a response that wouldn’t make her feel worse, so I type nothing.
Josie:I doubt he wants to be with either of us right now. But are you still able to help until I get back?
Me:Correct. Yes, I can stay.
Josie:Thank you. I’ll come home ASAP.
Me:The show is this weekend, right?
Josie:Yes. Three more days, and it will all be over. There will be no enjoying it now.
Me:He needs time to cool off. He’ll be better by the time you return…hopefully. It’s good you have somewhere else to be.
Josie:I hate dumping this on you. I assumed he’d remember everything well after I got back, allowing me to take the brunt of it.
Me:Me too. But it’s fine. Customer service with a smile is where I excel.
I want to laugh, but that comment also shines a spotlight on all the things I’m terrible at handling. Unfortunately, most of those things involve a man who’s as perfect as they come. If he hadn’t been so damned set on waiting for me, he’d probably already be married to a deserving woman with enough babies to fill a basketball team.
For the first time, imagining Jordan with someone else cuts to the core. It’s a wound I’ll have to bear after what I’ve done. I don’t blame him for giving up on us. Hell, I would have given up on me long ago. But he’s loyal.
From what I can tell, he hasn’t strayed since we met. Although, I can’t account for the months between our breaking up and coming back together. Maybe he sowed a few oats, dipping his toes into the sea of beautiful women who would love and appreciate a thoughtful, kind, and sexy man.
My stomach churns at my loss.
Josie:I’ll try to reach out to him tomorrow. See if he’ll answer.
Me: Good luck.
Josie:You, too. And thanks. You’re more selfless and caring than I gave you credit for.
Me:No. You were right all along.
Tears sting and threaten to pool and spill, and I don’t wait for her response. Shutting off the phone, I toss it onto the mattress beyond and let the sorrow I’ve been harboring over the last twenty years wreak havoc on my system.
For hours, I sob into the warm cushion. Although my body is heavy with fatigue, sleep doesn’t come easily. The few moments my thoughts silence long enough to drift off, they’re dreamless—just dark nothingness. And perhaps that is exactly what I need.
Opening my eyes to the sun, streaming in through the curtainless windows, I go to toss my arm over my head to find that blissful state of numbness. But I still when I see Jordan leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, watching me. There’s nothing in his stare to help me discern what he’s thinking or feeling. His expression is blank, almost as if he’s resolved to feel nothing for me.
“Hi,” I say, sitting up without breaking eye contact. “Can I get you anything? Some breakfast?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
I shoot up in a surge of nerves when he takes an awkward step toward the kitchen, then another.
“Jordan, you don’t have to do this. I want to help.”
“I’m fully capable of making my own fucking breakfast.” His voice is hoarse, like he spent the night screaming, and I wish he had. At least then we’d be talking through what’s happened between us. “I’m sorry,” he says with a long exhale.
“Don’t apologize. I deserve it.”
“Yes, you do, but that’s not how I handle things. I’m just…hurting.”
“I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Do you think we could talk for a few minutes this morning?”
He looks down the short corridor between him and the kitchen as if to consider which would be worse, hobbling down the hall or listening to me. “All right.”
“Please let me bring you something to eat.” I motion for him to sit. “And coffee.”
Without answering, he limps to the living room and drops onto the couch in obvious discomfort, overwhelmed by the effort it takes to walk.
“Thank you,” I say and hurry to the kitchen.
Busying myself with making coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon, I try not to think myself into a panic before we even start.
With two eggs and three slices of microwavable bacon plated, I grab the steaming pot of coffee and fill two mugs. After adding three sugars and a dash of creamer to each, I deliver the hot meal, grateful for the opportunity to get a few things off my chest, yet terrified what I have to say won’t matter.
“You’re not eating?” he asks, accepting the plate.
“I’m not hungry.”
Seemingly unconcerned, he lifts the fork and stabs at the eggs. “What did you want to say?” he says without looking up.
It’s probably better that way. Seeing the pain and bitter disconnect in his eyes won’t help me get through this. Folding my legs under me, I grasp the warm mug for comfort and begin.
“I’m not sure, actually.” I swallow down the nerves creeping in and remind myself that I asked for this conversation. “I guess I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“For which part?” He doesn’t stop eating to grace me with a glance.
“The parts that hurt you.”
“Which ones? Because there seem to be many.”
“All of them.”
His hand pauses over the plate as he considers the implications of my answer. “What does that mean?” His eyes cut to me for a moment before returning to the plate on his lap.
Years of flimsy excuses and regrets flood my thoughts, making my explanation spill out faster than I can process it. “It means I regret the way I’ve put your needs behind my own. I hate that it took almost losing you to recognize what I had. I’m sorry for lying to you. Although I was convinced it would help you recover, it was wrong. But I’d do it again if it is necessary to learn what I now know. You fell in love with someone who doesn’t deserve you.” Emotion fills the void in my chest, and I inhale sharply. “It took me longer than it should to realize how truly special you are.”
The tension is so thick in the air I can almost taste it. I want to reach out, but the rigid shape of his shoulders and the tick in his jaw keep me planted in fear. Maybe it’s too late for an apology or too soon. Either way, the words would have eaten me alive if I didn’t say them. Now, at least, he knows how I feel.
He moves the plate from his lap to the table and rubs the back of his neck. “I need a moment.”
“Of course.” I rise on unsteady knees and retreat to the kitchen to give him space.
My hands tremble as I wash dishes and keep a watchful eye over him. The last thing he needs is more stress. I’m the person assigned to his care with the sole responsibility of making his life easier. And what have I done? Shackle his recovery with pain, anger, and an agonizing reminder of what could have been and how I destroyed it.