FIFTEEN
EMMA
Having a friend is always great—a friend to talk to, laugh with, and share your worries with. But if the person who is determined to be your friend and nothing more is the person you have a silly little crush on, things become complicated. Even more so when you’re carrying someone else’s baby.
For the past week, I have done my best to accept Jack’s offer of friendship. We met almost every day. We talked, we laughed, and he listened to my worries, but we didn’t touch. Jack still hasn’t shared his story with me, so all I can do is be patient—and not touch him, which is getting harder and harder.
And now I’m here, at his sister’s house, and see this. When Paul and I step out onto the terrace, I spot Jack talking to this gorgeous woman. A blonde bob frames her beautiful face, and the short dress she wears displays her slim figure and ample cleavage.
And then, it happens. She plants a peck on his cheek and hugs him. Hugs him! And he hugs her back! And what’s worse, she’s running her fingers through his hair like I imagined doing it more than once.
Why the fuck can she touch him?
I can’t stop gaping at them, and weird feelings rise within me—something I can only describe as a mixture of anger and jealousy. “Paul?” I croak, my eyes still fixed on them.
“Hm? ”
“Who is that over there with Jack?”
“Oh,” Paul says after spotting the pair that is making my blood boil. “That’s Kate. His, um … ex.”
“His ex?” My voice is way too shrill. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Emma.” Paul places his hand on my arm. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
I snort. “I have a different impression.” When Jack looks over and his eyes widen, I cross my arms over my chest. So he knows I saw everything. He hurries over with a deep frown etched on his forehead and his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. Doesn’t mean anything, my ass!
“Emma,” he says once he stands in front of me. “I—I don’t—” He sighs. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I hold up my hand. “Jack, it’s fine.”
Fuck no, it’s not! But I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him I’m jealous of some girl who hugged him and fucking ran her stupid fingers through his hair. Because he’s just a friend. Nothing more.
“No, it’s not,” Jack says. “I owe you an explanation. Not here, though. Come on, let’s go.”
Before I can protest or react, we say goodbye and get into Jack’s car. He’s taking me home, he says, where he’ll explain everything. He doesn’t say a single word on the drive to my place. I repeatedly glance at him, but he fixes his gaze on the road, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. Whatever this is, it’s stressing him out.
He still doesn’t talk when we walk into my apartment. I close the door behind us, the soft click of the lock the only sound disrupting the uncomfortable silence, and follow him into my living room. “Do you want a drink?” I ask.
He turns to me and shakes his head while he shoves his fingers through his hair.
“Jack.” I place my hand on his arm, and as usual, he flinches.
“Hug me,” he whispers.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Hug me,” he repeats. His face shows no emotion, and I can read nothing from his expression. I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what’s gotten into him.
“Dammit, Emma, hug me,” he says more forcefully as he grasps my arm and pulls me into him.
I gasp but wrap my arms around his middle and rest my head on his shoulder. Jack reaches behind him and takes my hand, pulling it in front and placing it on his chest. His heart already beats faster than normal.
I want to enjoy this, want to relish the closeness I’ve been craving. But I can sense his unease, and I wonder what he’s doing. “Jack,” I whisper.
He tightens his grip on me, pulling me even closer. “Can you feel it?” He squeezes my hand, which I press against his chest. I nod. Yes, I feel his heartbeat accelerate just as his breathing becomes more erratic. He inhales deeply, again and again, to a point where I fear he’s close to hyperventilating. His heart pounds, and he trembles. “Fuck, Jack! What—”
“This happens when people touch me,” Jack says when he lets go of me. He turns away from me and bends over at the waist, resting his hands on his thighs, taking in one deep breath after the other. After a few moments, he straightens up and meets my gaze. “That’s why I always pull back: to avoid an anxiety attack.”
I blink at him, desperately trying to understand. “But why?”
He runs his hand over his face and strides to my couch, dropping down with a deep sigh. He tilts his head back and squeezes his eyes shut before gesturing for me to sit next to him.
“A little over ten years ago, there was this girl,” he murmurs without looking at me. “Her name was Audrey.”
An icy shiver runs down my spine. “Was?”
“Yes, was. She was my girlfriend.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, kneading his hands. “I was still living in Boston,” he continues at a very slow pace, waiting a few seconds after every sentence to start the next. “It was the summer after we finished high school … We had only been seeing each other for a few months … Before her, I had been dating lots of different girls … All meaningless flings … But she was … different … I was madly in love with her and could already see us spending the rest of our lives together.”
He takes another deep breath before turning to look at me. I frown at the heartbroken tone of his voice and his sad expression, and I have this spontaneous urge to touch him, but I hold back for obvious reasons.
“One night,” he says, “I was out of town to visit family. Audrey attended a party with friends.” He lowers his gaze and whispers, “She never returned home from that party.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, and my eyes fill with tears at the anguish on Jack’s face .
“She wanted to leave early and refused anyone who offered to accompany her.” He laughs humorlessly. “A couple of weeks later, they found her body. The police said she had been raped and strangled. And all I could think of was how some bastard touched her, ultimately causing her death with his bare hands.” He jumps up from the couch and paces up and down, running his hand over his face with a groan.
“Everyone was devastated, of course,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Everyone was trying to assuage the other’s pain and grief. And almost everyone does that with a well-meant hug or touch. And while people’s touch meant to comfort,” he explains as he stops and looks at me, “at some point, it did the opposite to me.”
Seeing him like this breaks my heart. I feel the pain he still carries around with him. I have no words. Honestly, there are no words, so I just let him continue.
“It started rather harmlessly,” he says, “with an uneasy feeling when someone hugged me.” He flicks his gaze to the ceiling and shudders. “It gradually worsened, though, up to the day I had my first panic attack. I couldn’t endure it any longer. I didn’t want to be touched, and it took on a life of its own.”
He still stands in front of me with an expression of utter despair. I rise from the couch and stand just inches from him, blinking away the tears in my eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, lifting my hand, but I cover my mouth with my fingers instead of touching him like I desperately want to.
A deep frown forms on his forehead. “See? This is what most people’s reaction is. They want to hug me, comfort me with physical closeness. Be it an embrace or just a hand placed on my shoulder, just a small sign telling me: I’m here for you . But this is what makes me lose my shit. I can’t help it. It’s a physical reaction I have no control over. At some point, my mom was so worried that I agreed to see a therapist, but he couldn’t help me. It changed nothing. He told me it was useless until I wanted to get over it.”
While he talks, we’re still facing each other, him with his hands in his pockets and me grabbing my shirt with both hands so I don’t reach out to him. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?” I ask.
“Because whenever I tell people, they look at me differently. They pity me, and they want to comfort me.” He lowers his gaze before whispering, “And I liked how you looked at me. I didn’t want to lose that.”
“Oh, Jack. I’m sorry you had to go through something like this. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like. You’re right: I want to touch you to comfort you.” I’m lost for words. Damn, that was intense. I drop on the couch, tuck my knees up, and wrap my arms around my legs.
Jack sits down next to me with a sigh. “I hate this part.”
I nod. I understand his reluctance now. “Thanks for sharing with me.” I turn my head to look at him. “Can you tell me who Kate is?”
He lets out a long breath through his lips and averts his gaze when he says, “Kate was my fake girlfriend.”
“Your what?”
He still doesn’t look at me but rests his elbows on his knees and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “She lived next door, and we became friends. I told her my story and how my mom was freaking out, worried sick about my behavior. So Kate offered her help. She would pretend to be my girlfriend. She accompanied me to family events so my mother could be at ease again. And at some point, I introduced her to my friends. Only she and Paul know the truth.”
“How long were you together?”
Finally, he meets my gaze. “Close to a year. We ended it because she was transferred to Atlanta.”
I jump up from the couch and pace up and down. Now I can’t stand to look at him. “But how—” I can’t even finish the question I’m dying to ask.
“How can I touch her?” he asks for me.
I stop in my tracks. My body shudders when I meet his gaze, and I’m not sure why.
“I forced myself. At first, there was no PDA at all. I wouldn’t touch her, and she wouldn’t touch me when we met with my family and friends. But my mom got suspicious, so we practiced. I had many anxiety attacks, but in the end, I forced myself and it worked. At some point, I didn’t freak out anymore. But it still only works with her. No one else can touch me. Neither my parents nor my siblings. Anyone who doesn’t know or respect my wish for distance—well, I endure their touch, but it takes me considerable effort.” He scratches his chin. “I was surprised that Kate could hug me today. I haven’t seen her for almost two years. But it puts me in a hopeful mood that maybe one day, I will get over this.”
While I sit back down on the couch next to him, I let his words sink in. This is a lot to process, and I still have so many questions, which I’m sure he knows. I meet his gaze, and a fluttery sensation spreads in my chest and belly at his expression. It’s no longer closed-off, leaving me optimistic that he’s willing to answer all those questions .
And there’s one question I need to ask first. “Jack?”
“Hm?” His lips lift in a gentle smile as if he could hear at least some parts of my rambling inner monologue.
“What is this?” I point to him and then to me.
He lowers his gaze. “I don’t know. I only know that I have to work on my issues and that you should concentrate on your baby. I don’t know where this might lead one day, but I’d love to be your friend for now. Can we agree on that?”
I nod, even though I’d love to disagree. But he’s right. Acting on my feelings for him—and the ones he may have for me—isn’t the smartest thing to do in our current situation.
I can’t help but wonder: if he ever decides to be more to me than a friend, would he have to force himself too?