Chapter 28 – Jensen
“It was a good ride,” Dawson says cautiously, his mouth set in a flat line as he looks at me.
I uncuff my gloves and toss them into the dirt just outside the gate at the Seattle stadium. I don’t bother looking up at the scoreboard. It's not like I'd get the score right anyway and I don’t need to.
Tonight, I’ll lie awake in a too-clean hotel bed with cold sheets where Catalina should be and obsessively listen to the score on the app she downloaded on my phone back in Denver.
I'll rewind, pause, and memorize the judges’ comments until my stomach turns and the only thing I can think about is how badly I miss the woman who cared so much about me that she wanted me to be safe so she found a whole app that'll tell me how my ride went and give me performance tips.
She saw a need and found a way to help without humiliating me. It's that attention to detail and care for connection that has this whole thing hurting even more.
I give Dawson a nod. He’s still careful around me.
I can’t blame him. Last time we talked, I fired him and told him to fuck off in the same breath even if we both knew I hadn’t meant it.
He still doesn’t know why I said it. No one knows why I blew up on him after San Jose.
No one knows why I’ve been riding pissed and breathing sharp and snapping at everyone who gets too close instead of cracking jokes and looking at the bright side of things like I have in the past.
Or maybe they all do, and they’re just respecting my privacy.
Because the topic of Doctor Alba being absent tonight—off doing surgery on some kid, a little girl with a rare heart defect that only she can fix—has been all June, Noa, Craig, and the other guys have talked about since we landed in Seattle yesterday.
And every time I hear about it, I no longer feel anger at Catalina for telling me to fuck off and walking away from me. I'm not mad that she burned everything down before we even got started. I'm just angry at myself.
I’m not mad that she’s not here tonight. God knows that kid needs her more than I do right now. She already put me back together once—stitches and a scar like it was easy. There’s not much left that she could break and wouldn’t know how to fix.
But jealousy isn’t logical.
I’m jealous of anyone who gets her time. Her attention. Her care. She used to call herself cold. I wish she could see herself the way I do—warm and brilliant, full of light. Love in a body, whether she believes it or not.
Dawson must be able to tell that I'm not in the mood for a debrief. He grunts, mumbles something about how much he misses Lo and hopes she can make it to the semis in Charlotte, then walks off to talk to Micah who just finished his ride.
“You coming out with us tonight?” Joel asks, sliding up next to me.
He rode first today—a switch from our usual lineup—and stayed on for the full eight seconds.
I can see the confidence starting to settle into him, the nerves finally smoothing out the further he gets into the series.
He didn’t make it into the semis this time, that's already confirmed, but he had a hell of a run for our team this event, and next time he’ll come back even stronger.
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah, come on,” he says. “I need a wingman. Besides, the ladies love your big, goofy smile.”
That smile’s been gone for a while now. I don’t have anything left to smile about.
Everything that made sense—everything that mattered—is still back in San Jose.
Possibly sliding right back into the life of her loser ex-fiancé after she finishes saving a kid’s life with her steady hands, impossible precision, and beautiful heart.
I guarantee that asshole doesn't appreciate her the way that I do.
Doesn't worship between her legs the way I have, because I saw the shocked expression on her face the first few times she came against my tongue.
Whoever he was, he'd never done it quite right.
Never pressed on the places she likes touched the most like I have.
I could go out tonight. I could be petty.
Do what I would’ve done when I was younger—find some woman who doesn’t know me, doesn’t matter, and won't last, just to sleep with her and forget Kitty's pretty face. I could try to prove something stupid. Spite her threats. But I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man who fucked up and lost his Pulse.
And all I want is Catalina. Even if I screwed it all to hell.
Even if I still think she’s wrong for pushing me away over something that was out of my control.
Even if I think the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.
I’m holding onto hope.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
He mumbles something about it being my loss and I couldn't disagree more.
My loss is Catalina.
***
Later that night, when the noise dies down and I’m alone in my hotel room, I pull out the phone I barely use and scroll through the few pictures I have of her from our trip to Tennessee.
Her holding up a fish she caught on the lake, proud and laughing. Her face tipped toward the sun, eyes squeezed shut against the light, red nail polish flashing like a warning sign.
I glance down at my own hand. The polish she painted on there is already starting to chip off and completely missing on my thumb from the wear of the rope. Irrational panic floods my system. Like if the color disappears, she will too.
I wonder if she took hers off before surgery on the kid. I wonder if she took it off the second I walked away from her because she couldn't bear to look at her favorite color and the messy paint job that I gave her any longer.
I swallow hard and dial Raf's number without another thought.
“Hey,” he answers. "What's up?"
“You didn’t go out with Joel and Micah tonight?”
“The twins who keep getting arrested? Fuck, no.”
I chuckle. “Do you have June’s phone number?”
He pauses. “What the fuck?”
“Chill, angry cowboy. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I hear him let out an almost imperceptible sigh through the line. “You're a dumb ass. She wouldn't go for you either."
"Yeah, we both know that's a lie. I'm everyone's type."
He scoffs. "She’s not your type. Why do you want it?”
“Just text me her damn number, asshole.”
He grumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘fine fucker.’ I hang up before he can change his mind. A few seconds later, the number comes through. I don’t hesitate. I text it immediately.
Jensen: Hey June, it’s Jensen. Gotta question for you.
June: What’s up?
Jensen: Do you happen to have red nail polish?
June: Um, what now?
Jensen: Yes or no? Don’t make me hunt down your room.
June: Um, yes.
June: Oh my God. I freaking knew it!
Jensen: Say nothing to anyone or I'm going to start posting photos on social media and tag you so that people think you took the shitty ones I've taken and question your credentials.
June: Geez, that's a bit low even for you.
Jensen: I'm serious. She's already pissed off at me. If you start talking about it, she'll be even angrier.
June: Come get it from my room and I’ll paint it for you. Be warned. Noa’s in here.
I’m on my feet before the screen goes dark—sweatpants yanked on, T-shirt pulled over my head, bare feet padding down the hotel hallway like I’m afraid she's going to chuck the bottle of polish out the window if I don’t get there soon enough.
When I knock, June throws the door open, her grin bright enough to hurt.
“Come in. Have a seat." Her voice pitches higher. "Welcome to June and Noa’s Nail Salon.”
I roll my eyes but step inside anyway.
“Hi Jensen!” Noa chirps, waving a pizza slice in the air from where she’s seated on the bed, her gaze fixated on the TV in the corner that appears to be playing Real Housewives reruns.
I drop into the chair by the window, the small table between June and me is lit by the last streaks of Seattle daylight bleeding through the curtains. The skyline looks soft out there. Distant. It's nothing like the gorgeous sunsets we had in California during our short stay.
I wonder if Catalina's looking at a different view this evening. That makes me want to spend every sunrise and sunset with her even more. So that we never have to miss another one again.
I place my right palm flat on the table.
June settles across from me, suddenly quieter, deliberately avoiding my gaze as she twists the cap off the bottle of polish.
The color isn’t the exact shade of red that Catalina used—but it’s close enough.
It'll do the job of making me feel closer to her, even if for only a moment.
I know I sound like a sappy, lovesick fuck and, well... I am right now.
“You look miserable,” Noa says, as if that’s helpful. She was raised by Dawson, Micah, and Joel, so I can’t blame her for the insensitivity.
“I am.”
June doesn’t say anything across from me. She dips the brush, studies the chips and cracks on my nails, then shrugs before smoothing the new color over top them.
“Whatever you did,” she says casually as she reaches my middle finger and dips again, “I don’t think she’s going to forgive you. I've only known her for a little while, and I get the sense she holds grudges tightly to her chest for the men who've wronged her.”
I clear my throat, staring at my hand instead of the way her words tear a new hole in my heart. Yes, I knew this about Catalina. But I've apologized.
“She’ll forgive me.” I have to believe that she will. I’m not giving up on her. I’m not giving up on us.
June nods and keeps painting carefully. By the time she finishes, my whole hand is covered again shiny and red and important.
It doesn’t fix the damage I caused. It doesn’t undo the way I broke something delicate between Catalina and me.
But as I stare down at the fresh polish, I know one thing for certain—I’m going to keep trying anyway.
Noa hops off the bed and looks down at my hand. “You should send her a picture of it.”
June nods. “Definitely.”
I glance down at my hand then back at them then down again. "Yeah. Let’s do it."
June positions my hand on the table. It feels awkward. Then she takes a few snaps with her phone before staring at the screen and nodding.
"Okay. Looks good. I sent them to her."
I don't know what I was expecting from it, but even if she won't talk to me, at least she knows I'm thinking about her.
June's phone vibrates instantly on the tabletop.
I don't hide the way I'm trying to get a glance.
She shields the screen from my view and then spins it around to show me and Noa as she bites down on the tip of her thumb.
"Sorry, Jensen..."
Catalina's response is a picture of her own hand. Red nail polish scrubbed clean. Bare. There are no words with the photo.
Fuck.
"I'm sure it's because of her surgery...," June adds, her voice soft and reassuring.
Noa nods. “Totally.”
Yeah, I'm sure that's what it is. And not because she's trying to remove my memory from her body.
June's phone vibrates again. She glances down at the screen, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"What?" I demand.
She hesitates. "I don't know if you want to see this. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't feel good."
"Show me."
She slowly turns the phone toward me. It’s another photo. A bottle of lotion. No words.
A grin spreads across my face. June and Noa stare at me like I've finally lost my mind.
She’s thinking about our time together in Tennessee. She's telling me to put lotion on my hands. She's reminding me to take care of myself. She still fucking cares, even if she refuses to admit it.
"He's losing it," Noa mutters before flopping back onto the bed.
Even if Catalina quits the series. Even if she takes my advice and moves back to San Jose permanently...
I’m not done fighting for her. I’m not done fighting for us.