11. Fresh Hair, Don’t Care
Chapter eleven
Fresh Hair, Don’t Care
“You look perfect.”
“Don’t do that.” I rest my head against the window.
A headache is blooming at the back of my skull.
I’m late, and hot, and flustered. And nothing fits right.
The black fitted dress I yanked from the darkest corners of my closet sits strangely on my hips.
The seam feels like it’s itching. I can feel a blister forming under the slingback heels I bought once on a whim and never actually took out of the box until this morning.
I glance down at my wrist before yanking my sleeve down to cover the reddened, scratched skin.
Jonas twists the wheel, and a truck behind us pushes the horn aggressively as he pulls across the lane and I grab the armrest to steady myself. “What are you doing?”
He looks around before easing into a pull-in and undoing his belt. And mine, reaching over and avoiding me trying to fend him off. “Out. Come on.”
“No.” Mutinously, I stay where I am as he rounds the truck and pulls my door open. “This is ridiculous. I’m already late.”
Liam and Carter had to leave while I was still getting ready, Carter needed for an early assessment before getting onto the ice.
The lukewarm coffee that was waiting for me when I eventually crawled out of the shower hovers, waiting to make a reappearance.
Jonas easily hauls me out, pressing me back against the truck.
“I’m going to get my dress dusty,” I mutter. There’s a lump in my throat.
He takes both of my hands in his. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I hate this dress anyway.”
“I wasn’t talking about the dress.”
This might be the worst part. The talking. The lump grows bigger. “You don’t have to come up with things to make this better. It’s not going to get any better. I’m dealing with it.”
He brushes my cheek. I stay where I am as he leans against the truck beside me, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You shouldn’t have to. Deal with it, I mean. That’s why I’m sorry, Ro.”
He presses his arm against mine, and I slowly lean into it. “Guess this must be pretty weird for you.”
Oh, fuck. I’m a masochist. The words crawl up my throat, and I let them out rather than swallow them to sit with everything else. “What does it feel like? The scent match?”
You need help, Rosie.
Jonas inhales. I look up at him. He’s styled his curls differently today, and he’s wearing a cologne I don’t recognize.
I already regret asking before he opens his mouth. He runs his hands over his hair before yanking them away, his palms opening and closing as if he doesn’t know where to put them.
“Like a wall,” he says finally.
I snort despite myself. He nudges me, but he’s smiling.
“You know I’m no good at this stuff. But it was immediate.
Sledgehammer to the chest shit. She walked in, and I took one breath, and I knew.
It was like everything inside me moved around and there she was, right in the middle of my heart.
Like she’d always been there. I felt so full. Content, I guess?”
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Ro?” Jonas pales when he bends to look at my lowered face. “Shit. I’m sorry. You asked.”
And I got exactly what I asked for. “You couldn’t have lied?”
He wraps me up in his arms before I can argue, resting his cheek against my hair and ruining my carefully assembled hairstyle. I can’t find it in me to care all that much. “You’re there too, you know. You’re always gonna be there.”
But not in the middle.
Not anymore. The space beneath my ribs feels strangely hollow.
How ironic. Jonas’s chest is full, but I’ve got room to spare.
I stare at the asphalt until the blur clears. Turning away before I whip out a pad and pen and make him draw an exact location of my current presence inside his chest, I swipe over my face. “We need to talk about your socials plan.”
“Uh.” His eyes light up, even if his brows are still furrowed. “Sure. Right now?”
“Yep.” I smooth down my dress and nudge him out of the way. “You wanted to, right?”
“Yeah…” He stays where he is, looking more suspicious by the second. “But… Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yep.” I climb into my seat and force a smile. “Let’s go. You need at least three posts next week for the Cheetah campaign. We can start with those.”
“Good.” He sprints for the other side, sliding in. “Great.”
He whistles the rest of the drive in between offering feedback on my clipped suggestions.
And I try not to drown.