Chapter 19 Rosalie #2
He turns on his side to meet my gaze. “Rosalie, you are the smartest person I know. You read, all the time. Hell, you love reading so much you made it your job. Whatever you write is going to be incredible, because how could it not be?”
His compliments are so earnest and full of sincerity, I can’t argue with them. In general, I’m uncomfortable being the center of praise, but I push that feeling to the side and do my best not to immediately reject his words.
“Maybe.” I hug a pillow to my chest. “It’ll be a miracle if I ever finish it. I’ve been working on the story for more than a decade.”
“Before you had your son?” His brows rise. “I think it’s understandable you’ve been a little busy, what with raising him and running the library.”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that, I think. The story holds mixed feelings for me. I started it when I was with Edward’s father.”
He nods and waits instead of filling the silence. It’s not the first time he’s left space in a conversation for me to expand. Usually, I don’t take the opportunity to share something personal, but tonight I want to. I want him to understand. I want him to see this part of me—even if it’s messy.
“I was doing my master’s program, and Beckett was one of my professors. A creative writing class I took to fill my schedule for my library science degree.”
“Oh, shit.” Understanding dawns on his face. “I’m sorry, Rosalie.”
“It gets worse. He was married.” I shake my head. “Is married.”
“Does she know? His wife?”
“About me and Edward? No. And she never will because I signed an NDA. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”
“It’s in the vault.”
I’ve held all of this inside for so long, my eyes sting.
Finally confiding in another person makes me feel seen.
It’s also terrifying. I hope I’m not making a colossal mistake by telling him.
I’ve been duped with false promises before.
All it would take is Jackson telling one other person for our entire town to know. My insides go cold at the idea.
“Rosalie, you can trust me.”
Can I?
Fuck, I might be a fool, but I want to.
“Please don’t share any of this with anyone. If you do, it will jeopardize my son’s safety.”
“Are you and Edward in danger?” His jaw clenches.
“Just promise me.”
“You have my word.”
I sigh. “It’s hard for me to trust what people say.”
He brushes my hair back from where it’s fallen in my eyes and tucks it behind my ear.
“That’s understandable.”
I exhale a shaky breath and pick at a loose thread on the pillowcase.
“It’s more than Beckett. I’ve been let down by every person who promised to love me.” My mouth sours at the truthfulness of my words. “I never knew my parents.”
Jackson waits, his silence a gentle prod that encourages me to share even more.
“I don’t know much about them, only that they never got clean long enough for the possibility of reunification.
I was three when I entered the foster care system for the first time, and I was eight when my mother died of an overdose.
I spent my youth in the kindness, and sometimes cruelness, of strangers. ”
“Oh, Rosalie.”
There’s pain in his voice, but no pity. I hate pity. The last thing I want is for Jackson to feel sorry for me. I lift my gaze to search for judgment in his expression but come up short.
“When I became older, I was placed in a group home. By that point, a huge part of me was relieved. No one wanted to adopt a teenager. That was well known, and I was angry—and so tired of playing the part of a perfect child. Being good enough that someone might finally pick me. Being good enough they might not send me away. Being good enough, they wouldn’t hurt me. ”
“They made you feel as if you had to earn love.”
His observation lands like a grenade.
Yes! I want to scream. Instead, I tiptoe around his words and pretend they didn’t just implode the shaky ground around my heart.
“I never wanted to end up like my parents, and I guess I got that part right. Before this week, I never even got high.” I force a laugh, as if my life isn’t a tragic comedy.
“Shit, Rosalie. I’m sorry. If you didn’t want to . . .”
“No, I did,” I assure him. “But you’ll understand when I don’t smoke with you again.”
“Of course.”
“I never craved drugs.” I craved love. I craved belonging.
If I’m honest, I still crave those things now, but I don’t tell him that part.
“My escape is and always has been books. Before the group home, one of the families I stayed with took me to get a library card. That opened my world in countless ways. In that public building I was safe. I could truly escape. I could read whatever I wanted—go wherever I wanted. It expanded my worldview so exquisitely, I was forever changed. It allowed me to dream bigger, and that’s what I did.
“In high school, I used the computers to research schools and apply for scholarships. For the first time, my people pleasing paid off. My perfect grades coupled with my background made me eligible for full rides to several universities.”
He runs his hand down my back. “You’re incredible.”
There’s awe in his words that fills me with a sense of pride. Not that I did anything special.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just did what I had to in order to stay sane. To survive.”
“Most people wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know.”
But I do. I think of all the people I went through the system with—at least, those I’m in contact with through social media—and a lot of them are still struggling to find their place in the world. But it’s not because I’m special. It was chance. It was opportunity. It was desperation.
“I’m grateful, though, because that’s how I ended up pursuing my degrees.
This probably won’t come as a shock, but the majority of my adult life, I’ve kept to myself.
In college, I didn’t want distractions. I never really fit anywhere, and this was no different.
I was the girl who’d rather have her nose in a book than go to a party. ”
“That’s understandable.”
“After my bachelor’s, I worked for several years to save up for graduate school.
That’s where I met Edward’s father and, well, my entire world shifted.
He made me feel so damn wanted. From the moment I stepped into his classroom, he made me feel like what I had to say was something worth listening to.
No one had ever made me feel that way before.
And when he started pulling me aside after class and inviting me to stop by his office hours, I was completely under his spell. ”
“He took advantage of you.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t see it. His predatory behavior was so well practiced, I felt like the only student he’d ever crossed boundaries for.
He lied. A lot. Which I didn’t find out until it was too late.
I knew he was married, but he claimed it was only in the legal sense.
He told me they’d lived separate lives for years and were in the process of getting divorced. ”
“That’s so fucked up.”
“Yeah, and I ignored all the red flags. Maybe because I was young? Or because I was vulnerable? But also, I ignored them because it was easier. I’d been critical of everyone my entire life.
But this man got a pass because he understood me.
He loved me completely, and I loved him back.
It was reckless, but I was tired of playing safe.
I was tired of not living. Everything was perfect until I got pregnant. ”
“What happened then?”
“I was in my final semester at that point. We discussed an abortion. Then adoption. He pretended it was my choice, but I see how he did everything he could to manipulate my decision. Once he realized I wasn’t open to giving up my child, his attitude toward me changed completely.
He distanced himself. Stopped returning my messages.
Stopped inviting me to his office. I worried, obsessively, that he finally saw what everyone had seen before—that I wasn’t worth keeping around. ”
That I wasn’t worthy of love.
All the feelings from that moment come rushing back. I suck in a breath.
“He’s a fucking fool.” Jackson reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I force myself to finish the story, even as my pulse races.
“After a week, he asked me to come to his office after class, and when I got there, he was waiting with lawyers.” Even after all these years, I feel the fresh heat of betrayal.
“They gave me two options. Take his money and sign an NDA . . . or be ruined. He threatened to file a restraining order and make it his personal mission to keep me from finding a job. He could fail me. Keep me from graduating. Wouldn’t give me a dime.
He would discredit everything I worked so hard for.
And what could I do? He was from a family with influence and generational wealth, and I was a poor orphan who no one had ever wanted.
He’d tell everyone I tricked him into getting pregnant. No one would believe my word over his.”
“So you took the money.”
I can’t bear to look at Jackson.
“You can judge me for that.” The laugh that escapes my parted lips is bitter. “I certainly do.”
“Nope. None of that.” He cups my jaw and lifts my gaze. “You did what you had to do. Did what gave Edward the best life.”
“Maybe? But am I any better than my ex? Can I truly justify my own choices when they protect me too? I lie to my own child, Jackson. I tell him that his father died before he was born. That he wanted him. That he loved him. Because I swore I would never let my child feel the way I did. But is lying any better? He thinks the man who comes to visit for one week each summer is his father’s uncle, not his father. ”
“That’s why you’re hiding out this week.” He fits the last pieces together.
I blink so I won’t cry, and nod.
“Oh, honey.”
He yanks the pillow away and pulls me into his arms, hugging me to him as if he will never let me go. I’m so used to holding it together on my own, I have to fight the instinct to pull away.
For once, I want to pretend there’s someone else in my corner. I am tired of taking care of myself. Tired of carrying the weight of my decisions alone.
Tonight, I give up. Tonight, I’m letting Jackson take care of me.
The instant I make this decision, my tears fall. They’re silent at first, but soon I’m heaving sobs and holding on to Jackson as if he’s my lifeline. As embarrassed as I am, I don’t apologize or try to hold in my pain. I need this release. I need him.
If Jackson is alarmed or put off by my crying, he doesn’t show it. He hugs me close and smooths back my hair while whispering things like, “I’ve got you. Let it out. You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here.”
I don’t remember the last time I’ve allowed myself to cry like this, and I’ve never let anyone witness my grief and pain.
It’s unfamiliar, but fuck, it feels good.
I cry until there are no more tears. Until there’s nothing left and I feel hollow and raw, inside and out.
As the moments pass, my chest begins to fall and rise in a steady rhythm that matches Jackson’s.
His hand smooths up and down my back, drawing long lines that I’m sure are meant to be comforting. They are at first, but as the minutes pass and his movements slow along with the beat of his heart, I am hyperaware of the fact he’s about to fall asleep. Next to me. In his bed. Like a couple. Shit.
“This bed is so comfortable,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“Well, it is yours.”
“I forgot how good it feels.”
My heart squeezes at the fact he’s been sleeping anywhere but his own bed. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? I’ll take the couch.” It’s only fair.
His hand tightens around my waist as I begin to pull away. “Only if you stay with me.”
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
He smiles against my stiff body when I don’t answer.
“Worried I’ll take advantage of you?”
More worried we’re crossing boundaries we won’t be able to take back. Worried I’ll actually enjoy sleeping next to a man—more specifically, this man. Worried that next week’s crash back to reality will hurt more than it should.
My desire for closeness battles with the need to protect myself, and I’m caught in a web of indecision.
“Stay. Sleep.” He yawns and nestles his body closer to mine. “I promise to be good. Sleep only.”
Sleep. This is only sleep. It doesn’t have to mean more than that. I’m an adult. I can do this. It doesn’t have to mean anything more. Liar.
“What time do you have to be up?” I ask, still unsure.
“Oh, I’m not working tomorrow.”
“You aren’t calling out for me, are you?” I’m unable to mask the panic from my voice. I don’t want him calling out, because I’m scared of what that means. I’m scared of wanting him more than for this week. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t go there. “Because I don’t want you to do that.”
“What’s the matter, Rosalie? You already sick of me?” he teases, but there’s an edge of vulnerability beneath the question. Almost as if he needs reassurance.
The smart thing would be to shut him down. To put up a boundary so nothing is left for interpretation. But I don’t have it in me to hurt him—not when he’s been so amazing. Not after what I shared.
“I just don’t want anyone to figure out I stayed here. I don’t want your brother to get suspicious.”
His hold on my body loosens. “Nothin’ to worry ’bout there.” His eyes are closed. “Lucky for you, Ryan expects my irresponsible life choices.” He sighs. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I’m safe with him. Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
I should get up. Take my pillow downstairs and sleep on the sofa. Keep lines from being blurred. But instead, I curl into his warmth, letting him wrap his arms around me as I rest my head on his chest.
His heartbeat is steady, his body an anchor holding my retreat at bay. My body relaxes as his goes slack with sleep.
How would it be to have this every night? To crawl into bed with someone and let them hold me? To have someone take care of me? To not go through this life alone? For a moment, I wish I could have this. That I could have him—Jackson. But the thought is quickly replaced with dread.
I like him. Too much.
I want him. Too much.
Tonight, I told him things I don’t tell anyone. I let him get too close. Shit. As he sleeps soundly, I replay every word of our conversations. Not just tonight, but this entire week.
Oh, God. What have I done?
Panic claws away at my remaining peace and my heart races, not in a good way. His arms are too heavy around my body.
I can’t breathe.
I need space.
I need to stop what’s happening between us.
Jackson isn’t part of my plan, and this isn’t some fucking romance novel. I know all too well how the real world works, and people like me don’t get the happily ever after. I thought I could play pretend this week and just go back afterward. But I fucked up. This thing between us is too real.
I have to regain control. I have to protect my heart, at whatever cost, though maybe it’s already too late for that. Fuck.