Chapter 89

Jace shows me through his house, starting at the cameras he'd set up at the front and back doors, as well as in the living room, and while he does, I try to push aside the memories of how I felt the last time I was here. He'd told me he wished I'd never moved here, and sure it hurt, but it's in the past. Besides, I'd said things to hurt him too. In fact, I hurt him first.

Jace tells me he'll have access to the cameras and that he'll set it up on my phone too, and then he assures me he's not spying because he doesn't trust me. He simply wants that peace of mind. Who wouldn't?

There are other things he plans to do, like stick little memory cards on the walls or furniture to remind his grandpa to do certain everyday tasks—brush his teeth, wash his hands, those sorts of things. Jace suggests we do that together with his grandpa, and I agree. Then he shows me through the rest of his house. The living room, kitchen, everything else downstairs. The more he shows me, the quieter he gets, and I can't tell if it's shame or uncertainty that has him feeling a certain way. Our houses are similar, but the content within them is not. The furniture and appliances are old and well used, and there's not a lot of personal touches around, but it's still a home. His home. And I hope he sees it that way.

Jace leads me upstairs and to the room opposite his and says, "This will be your dad's. It's not much now, but I plan to work on it over the summer."

The room is sparse, like the rest of the house, with nothing besides a bed pushed up against a corner. "My dad sleeps in a truck most of the time. A bed is a luxury for him. This is perfect."

Without making eye contact, Jace nods, then takes me to his room. The first thing I notice is the mountain of bags on his bed. "I went to Odessa this morning to visit my grandpa, and I got you some stuff." He leans against his desk, his arms crossed, head bowed between his shoulders.

I place Penelope's travel tank on Jace's nightstand and peer into the nearest bag. There are bedsheets in there like the ones currently on my bed.

"The lady at the store said they were high count," he murmurs, still refusing to look at me. "I don't know what that means, but it can't be bad, right?"

I sit on the edge of the bed, opposite his desk, and look up at him. "What's going on?"

"You don't like the bedsheets?"

"I love them. But they're not necessary. I'm just happy to be doing this for you. But you seem… I don't know. Whatever it is, though, you should talk to me about it."

He doesn't respond right away, and my pulse quickens the longer he's quiet.

I sigh, my shoulders dropping with the force. "Please don't tell me you changed your mind."

Jace sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. "I'm worried, is all."

"About what specifically?"

"Everything." He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "I think I got caught up in the moment last night, and the pressure?—"

"I didn't mean to pressure you."

"—and I don't know if I made the right decision."

I search his eyes, trying to come up with a way to make him believe in the plan as much as I do.

Before I can speak, he says, his voice so broken it almost kills me, "What if he hurts you, Harlow?"

"He won't," I assure.

"I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"He won't," I repeat. It's not as if I'm na?ve enough to completely disregard the possibility. It was the first thing on my con list when the idea came to me. "You said it yourself. He only ever saw your father when he was hurting you. He won't see that in me. And hopefully, once we know more about his specific disease, then we can find the right treatment, and sure, it won't cure him, but it will help. That's what all this is about, right?"

His eyes catch mine, watching me for a long, long moment. "You've been researching?"

I crack a smile, grateful for the switch. "A little."

"If it becomes too much, promise you'll tell me."

"I promise." And now that that's out of the way, I look back at all the bags on the bed, then face him again. "All of this is really sweet, Jace, but I don't need any of it. Please don't feel like you owe my anything or that this is my way of getting you back?—"

"So, you don't want to get back together?"

"I—" Obviously, I do, but I don't want to add more pressure than he's already under. "Do you?"

Dropping his arms to his side, he stands taller, then focuses on something behind me. After a beat, he clears his throat, says, "So… I was looking more into Texas Tech."

"Oh, yeah?"

"They have a team psychologist. Maybe they can help me with the whole autism thing. I'll make appointments as soon as school starts…" His gaze drops, so does his voice. "So that I can be better for you."

My heart fails to beat… right before it falls to my stomach. I can barely speak through the sudden knot in my throat. "I don't want you to be better for me," I choke out. "You're perfect as you are, Jace."

"But all those things you said when you broke up with me…"

I blink back my tears, caused by nothing but my own remorse. How long has he been holding on to this? Holding on to the pain my words have caused him. "I was hurting," I admit. "I wanted to burn down the world around me, and you… you were the closest thing. I should've just communicated how I felt about the bet money from the very beginning, instead of letting it eat away at me and ending things between us."

"Yeah, you should've," he deadpans, and I can't blame him for feeling this way.

"I can't begin to tell you how much I regret the things I said when I broke up with you, and I'm so sorry those words ever came out of my mouth. Those things are what makes you who you are, and the reason I fell in love?—"

"I need you to show me your scars," he interrupts.

My breath halts, every muscle inside me tensing at his words. And even though I know what he wants, still I ask, "Like, my emotional scars?"

"No."

My shoulders drop, causing my chest to cave in, and I shake my head, stare down at the floor now. "Jace…"

"I know," he says, dropping to his knees in front of me. "And I'm sorry to ask, but I need to see them, Harlow. I can't get it out of my fucking head—the image of you in your bathroom, doing what you were doing… I just—I'm traumatized by it, and I hate to put that on you, but I can't keep going like this."

A sob slips from my lips, and I hate that it does, because this isn't about me or my healing. It's about his.

"I can't go ahead with this, unsure if that's still a coping mechanism for you," he says. "I don't want to add more stress on your shoulders than what's already there. You understand, right?"

I do, but I wish I didn't. My therapist would scold me for the thought I'm currently drowning in—that I hate myself for the things I've put Jace through. But I can't go back in time, and I can't change the past. The only thing I can do is give him what he's asking. What he deserves.

I wipe at my tears, my breaths shaky as I nod, then stand. "I haven't done it since the day you saw me," I whisper as Jace falls back on his haunches, his head tilted, eyes right on mine while I unfasten the button on my shorts, then slowly unzip. I turn slightly, just enough so my scars are facing him, and lower the waistband.

His gasp is soft, but loud enough that it reverberates in my ears. My mind. My heart.

The marks are mostly faded now, the lines slightly lighter than the untouched flesh around it. Jace reaches up, running the pad of his thumb over the scars, his face only inches away. I release a shaky breath and shut my eyes, letting the tears build up behind my closed lids. A quiet cry falls from my lips when I feel the warmth of his mouth against the evidence of my pain.

"Is it just one side?" he asks, and I cry harder as I shake my head. "Show me?"

I keep my eyes closed, unwilling to look at him when I turn, revealing my other hip to him. He repeats the process, his lips gentle as he kisses away my self-destruction. When he's done, he rests his head against my stomach, and I hold him to me.

Time slows as we ride out our emotions, reveal them to each other with every beat of our hearts. With every touch we share. With every kiss he offers against my skin as he stands to full height, taking me in his arms, before finally kissing me.

He feels like home.Like coming up for air after days of drowning. And I feel at peace in his arms—a sense of forever in his embrace. He pulls away from the kiss, but still holds me close. "You were going to say something before… about how all the things that make me me are the reason you…" he trails off.

I smile against his chest. "The reason I fell in love with you?"

"You still feel that way?"

"Always."

Releasing me, he turns swiftly, and I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold without his touch. He reaches for the blinds and closes them, shrouding us in semi-darkness before stating, "I really don't want your dad to see the things I'm about to do to you."