Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

It’s interesting how we measure time. We all have our own signposts on the journey that we refer to as we go along.

Mine has always been the fire.

Pre-scars and post-scars.

I figured that was how it was going to stay.

After all, how many truly cataclysmic events does a person get in one lifetime?

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t one.

But for now, I measure my days in pre-Sutton and post-Sutton.

“Rise and shine!”

I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut when a flash of sunlight hits me square in the eyeball before I drag the covers over my head. For good measure, I pat the other side of my bed until I find the second pillow and plop that over my face, too.

“Nope,” Jordan says cheerfully, grabbing the end of the comforter and yanking it off me.

I push my hair out of my face and glare at him.

“What the fuck, Jordan?” I snap when I push myself to a sitting position and rub the heels of my palms over my eyes.

He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a long, slow look.

“You look lovely,” he says. “Exquisite. I’m surprised poets aren’t lining up outside your window to ask you to be their muse.”

I drop onto my back on the bed, let out a huff of aggravation, and cover my eyes with my arms.

“Why are you in my room?”

“It’s past noon,” he says.

“So?”

“We figured you’d died in here, and I drew the shortest toothpick, so I had to come and check.”

“Well, I’m alive. Close the door behind you.” I hide my face in the pillow again.

“Aww. You think you get to keep hiding. That’s cute.”

First, I raise my middle finger in the approximate direction of his voice.

“I’m not hiding,” I mutter into the pillow.

“He says without a single sign that he detects the irony of that statement.”

I pull the pillow off my face and glare at him.

“Please go away.”

The request obviously gets lost in translation, because he sits down on the edge of my bed instead.

“It’s time to stop moping.”

“I’m not moping,” I mutter. “I’m sleeping.”

The mattress tilts when he gets back up again. I let out a sigh of relief.

That is until my ankle is caught in Jordan’s iron grip, and he starts jerking me toward the edge of the bed.

“What the hell?” I snap, scrabbling to get a hold of something. Anything will do.

He ignores me.

I grab the edge of the headboard. Jordan continues to tug. The bed groans ominously.

“Will you just fucking stop?” I try to kick him, but it’s no use.

“Not a chance.”

“Why are you so freakishly strong?” I pant as my grip on the headboard loosens, slowly but surely.

“I work out,” Jordan says.

“It was a rhetorical question.” My fingers lose the battle, and I find myself unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

I push my hair out of my face and send Jordan a look filled with loathing.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

Instead of replying, he leans closer to me and sniffs pointedly before he straightens up.

“Oh. It is you. I was starting to suspect there was a dead raccoon in the vents.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “Just leave me alone. I’m tired, and I want to go back to bed.”

“I’d say a shower should be your first priority.”

I glare at him some more, but he seems totally unfazed.

I’d argue, but it’s Jordan. He’s not going to give up until he’s gotten his way, so I either do this now or spend the next hour battling it out with him. I stand up.

“I hope you step on a Lego,” I say with a scowl. I’m tempted to stomp my foot.

“That’s just mean.” Jordan grins before he grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and starts marching me toward the bathroom.

“I can walk!” I say, trying to wriggle out of his hold, but that only makes him grip my shoulders tighter and push me even more firmly.

“Quit it!” I snap. “Oh my God! Are those fingers or pliers? Let go of me!”

Jordan plants his foot on the bathroom door and pushes it open before he gives me a firm shove, and I stumble inside.

He flicks on the lights and goes and turns the water on.

I cross my arms over my chest.

“Are you going to undress me, too?”

“A, I don’t swing that way. B, I have a son with your sister, so you and me getting it on would be skirting a bit too close to incest for my comfort. And C, you smell. And I have standards. That was D.”

I point at the door. “Out.”

“I’ll get you some clean clothes and strip your bed,” he says as he walks out of the bathroom.

My eyes accidentally wander over to the mirror, and I make a face at the reflection. I look exhausted. Dark circles, puffy eyes, the whole deal. And since I’m already on the path to making myself feel worse, I lift my arm and sniff.

It’s not as bad as Jordan made it out to be, but it’s nowhere near good. I sigh and take my clothes off. I’m not sure if it’s just in my head, but my scars seem extra stark today. Whenever I move, it feels like somebody’s pulling at my skin.

I give up and get under the water. It’s a bit too hot, but I don’t have the energy to fix that right now. Instead, I lean my hands against the tile walls, lower my head, and let the hot water beat against my neck and my back.

It’s been ten days since that whole mess with Sutton. Ten pathetic, lonely days. Turns out I do not deal with heartbreak well at all. The only thing I’ve managed to accomplish is dragging myself to work every day, but otherwise, I’ve been crawling into my bed every chance I get and hiding from the rest of the world.

On good days, I fall asleep, eventually. On all the other ones, I stare at the ceiling or the wall or the window, willing myself to sleep, but in reality just reliving those moments in Sutton’s apartment and outside the pool, where everything fell apart and Sutton walked away from me.

I feel like a zombie.

The ache in my chest has been there for so many weeks now that I’m beginning to think it’s my new normal. That it will just never stop or fully go away. That it’s a part of me now. Maybe that’s how it works. All the aches and pains life doles out just settle, and you become used to them. You adapt.

Maybe heartbreak is literal. Maybe my heart cracked and shattered inside my chest and now the shards and fragments are stabbing me on the inside whenever I move, and that’s why it hurts so badly. Because it does. It hurts so goddamn badly that I don’t know how to handle it. At least when the pain is physical you can point out where it hurts, so it’s more manageable just because it’s contained to a physical part of you. But what do you do when your soul hurts? And the only person who could fix you is somewhere out there, but also impossibly out of reach?

Because… I’ve called him. I’ve texted. I’ve shown up at his apartment. I’m a step away from a crazed stalker, but he doesn’t pick up, reply, or answer the door. And what would even be the point if he heard me out? What would I even say?

Oh hey, Sutton. Get over your lifelong trauma ’cause I love you?

I sigh before I push off the wall, grab the soap, and wash myself. I get out of the shower and brush my teeth.

“Here.” Jordan hands me some clothes the moment I step into my room.

“Nope.” I bypass him, my sights set on the bed again.

Jordan grabs my arm and pulls me back.

“Get dressed,” he says firmly.

“Jesus Christ,” I groan. “Just leave me alone, dude. Read the room. I’m not in the mood for anything.”

“Not even for a fatherly lecture and some sage life advice?”

“Especially not those.”

“You’ll get them anyway.” He slaps the clothes against my chest. “You’ve got two minutes. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“Why are you so annoying?” I call after him.

“Because I love you,” he shouts back.

Goddamnit!

I stare at the clothes sourly before I give up and pull the shorts and the T-shirt on. And then I stomp down the stairs.

Theo and two of his friends are in the living room, yelling at the TV and wielding controllers.

I stop in front of Jordan, who’s standing by of the front door, scrolling on his phone.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” I say. “So you better make it quick.”

“ You’ll give me ten minutes.” He chuckles, opens the door, and shoves me outside. “Cute. From time to time, you do crack me up, Wren.”

It’s fucking bright outside. And warm. Summer is in full swing, the sun is shining, and the leaves are painting cheerful shadows on the sidewalk. This is way too nice for my current mood.

For a moment, I contemplate running. I’ll trick him into following me and then circle back home. And this time, I’ll lock the door.

Only, who am I kidding? I can never outrun Jordan. Guy’s a machine.

“Come on,” he says. He grips the back of my neck and starts walking.

“Where are we going?”

“I guess we’ll see where we end up.” He shrugs.

We walk, and he keeps up a steady stream of small talk about his job and Theo’s summer camp plans and their trip to San Francisco where Theo is going to stay with Kira until school starts back up again. He fills me in on everything I’ve missed while I’ve been battling the jagged shards of my heartbreak.

Wouldn’t it be nice if this walk could be the cure? If I could just listen to Jordan talk and breathing would get easier, and I’d notice how bright and cheerful this day is and then come to the conclusion that there’s still hope for me?

Yeah, that would be just swell.

Instead, I’m counting the minutes until I can crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

I think I might be a lost cause.

“It’s not working,” I finally say when we’re way too far away from home already.

Jordan turns to face me. “What’s not working?”

I gesture around us with my hand. “This. I don’t feel better. In fact, I might be feeling worse. It still hurts, okay? Everything… everything sucks. And it hurts. And nothing’s ever going to be better because Sutton’s gone, and I’m just… I hurt! Okay?” My shoulders slump once I’m done with my outburst. “I hurt,” I repeat.

Jordan lets out a breath and looks at me with nothing but sympathy.

“I know it sucks,” he says. “Believe me. I know.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just throws his arm over my shoulder and steers me into a bakery one street over. I watch him buy a big box of donuts and flirt with the girl behind the counter. She laughs, and her eyes wander up and down Jordan.

I wonder if he still misses Kira sometimes.

I wonder how long it took him not to miss her every second of every day.

I wonder if I should ask.

I wonder if knowing would help at all.

Once Jordan has his donuts, he steers me out of the bakery and down the street until we reach Prospect Park. He moves through the masses of people enjoying their weekends and finds us a spot on the grass. He plops down and looks at me expectantly until I follow suit.

I shake my head when he holds the box of donuts out toward me. I don’t think I can force anything past the lump in my throat. The thing’s been lodged in there pretty firmly for a solid week now.

Jordan shrugs and pulls the box away. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

We sit in silence for a long time after that until Jordan aims his gaze my way.

“Do you want to talk about him?” he asks.

I open my mouth to say no. No. That I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.

Instead, words start to come out. One after another. Halting at first, then the whole story.

It would be nice if talking helped.

If it set me free and on the road to recovery.

It doesn’t.

Honestly, I think I feel even worse. Talking just makes everything feel fresh and raw again.

Jordan hasn’t said a word until now. I kind of expected some fatherly advice. Big brotherly knowledge, at least.

“Do you remember when I went skydiving for my twenty-fourth birthday?” he asks instead.

That’s a sudden jump from my personal crisis, but I nod anyway.

“It was right after Kira started dating that idiot, Brock,” he says.

“Yeah?” I say slowly.

“And she brought him to visit and to introduce him to Theo,” he says. “And they showed up with a shitload of gifts, and then for that year they were dating, they took Theo to do all this exciting shit, like ride on a hot air balloon and see F1 Grand Prix on Brock’s private jet, and so on. And Theo was so impressed, and he was going on and on about how cool Brock was, pretty much foaming at the mouth about how great he was, and he went on and on about all those super cool things he does. And I was the one who sent him to bed on time and made him do homework, and the only exciting thing I did was choose fries instead of vegetables for dinner on Saturdays.”

“Brock was a douche, though.”

He waves me off. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“I was so incredibly jealous,” he says. “And then I went skydiving.”

“Well. I mean,” I say, “you went up there and got food poisoning, so calling it skydiving is a bit of a stretch.”

“I didn’t get food poisoning,” he says. “I lied.”

I stare at him.

“That’s a super weird thing to lie about. I mean, if your goal was to look cool in front of Theo, food poisoning was definitely not the way to go.”

“I was in the plane,” he says pointedly. “Jumpsuit on. Helmet on. Ready to go. The instructor opens the door and…”

“And?” I prompt.

“And I realize it’s really fucking high. And I have a son. And I’m not an adrenaline junkie. And I want to fucking live and not risk becoming a pancake.”

“Okay,” I say, still confused. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because Theo was all pumped up about how cool his dad was and telling all of his friends, so I had a bunch of excited nine-year-olds in my living room asking me questions about flying and jumping out of airplanes and so on, so I couldn’t just go and be all, ‘Guys, I chickened out.’ I mean, yeah, a great life lesson and an excellent teaching moment. Whatever. Brock was jumping off cliffs on a motorcycle.”

“But food poisoning?” I say. “Really?”

“You’re not getting the point.”

“I’m really, truly not.”

“I panicked,” he says. “I felt like I was losing Theo. That maybe Kira would marry Brock and I’d be suddenly pitted against the two of them, and Theo would choose them and not me, and I completely lost my shit. It’s not like I planned to jump out of a fucking airplane. Theo was packing his stuff for his school break with Kira and prattled something or other about Brock and dirt bikes, and I spat out the first thought that jumped into my head to somehow show him I was cool, too, and then it was out there, and I just went with it, and since I was still in the middle of losing my shit even while I was on that plane, but somehow also vaguely aware I didn’t want to risk dying, I… uh… I rammed my fingers down my throat when nobody was looking, threw up on my instructor’s boots, and blamed the whole thing on salmonella.”

I blink, digesting that information.

“Wow,” I say. “So you were really committed.”

“No. Just filled to the brim with fear. Head to toe.”

He sends me an expectant look before he sighs and shakes his head.

“Do you see where I’m going with this?” he says.

“Am I supposed to?”

“He’s panicking,” Jordan says. “Sutton’s panicking. He’s afraid, and he’s panicking. You told him you were in love with him, and he panicked. It scared the shit out of him. I’m not saying it’s an excuse, but people behave in truly irrational ways when they’re scared out of their mind.”

I stare at him. His words move through my brain. He says those things, and I know them. I’ve seen that panic he’s talking about. But when he says it out loud like this… it becomes real in a whole different way. More concrete. Not just a hunch I’m having.

I look down and clutch the back of my neck.

“I don’t know if it makes a difference,” I admit softly.

I can feel his eyes on me.

“Does he love you?” he asks.

“I don’t?—”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

I look up, gaze roving over all the people around me.

“Yes,” I say.

He does love me. I know it. I’ve told Sutton he loves me, so why it hits me so hard right now is anybody’s guess.

But it does.

He loves me.

We’re quiet after that.

Jordan holds the donuts out for me once again, and almost out of reflex, I take one. And since I already have it, I eat it.

And all the while, little scraps of this conversation keep circling in my head. They start in my brain and travel down my spine, spreading out inside me.

He loves me.

They collect the jagged shards and pieces of me and tape them back together, carefully and patiently.

He loves me.

The lump that’s been lodged in my throat goes down alongside the pieces of strawberry donut.

He loves me.

But.

You can’t fix people. I can’t fix him. I can’t make Sutton better. I can’t make him forget.

I’d say I wish I could go back. To that moment before I told him I loved him. But that’s not really true either. Not anymore.

Having him for now would never be enough. Not when I want everything and for real .

It’s a conviction.

A knowing.

It settles in my bones and bloodstream.

I have to stand my ground.

And weather the storm.