62. REEMA

I didn't read his messages.

Instead, I sent him a message of my own two days later, after the paint on the walls had dried and a single, blow-up mattress sat in the middle of my new apartment. On it, I'm alone.

My sister and her husband left for their honeymoon, but only after threatening me with a visit a few weeks from now. I told them it was unfair to subject me to the chaotic moods of a pregnant woman, to which Esha said she did not give a fuck. I told her fine, but also to bring our parents with her. She agreed too quickly.

The buzzer rings.

That's him. He has come.

My message had been simple, almost badly so, when compared to the volume of his efforts. Mine was one line.

I'm at this address.

That was followed by a pin of my location.

Jake hasn't wasted time. Almost as soon as I reached out, he's here. As if he'd been waiting this whole time to be here.

He walks through my door, clenching a bouquet.

"You brought me flowers," I whisper. "But I've got allergies."

Without hesitation, he chucks them to the ground. "Can I come in?"

"You're already inside."

"Closer to you."

"If you want?"

He does, and that's when I notice the universe has listened to one of my forgotten wishes. Jake Coleman is now a troll.

Except, not really.

He's a man who looks to be in a lot of pain.

His face is as if hands have dragged over it many times, and eyes are miserable pools of murky green, covered in shadows. Shaving has been abandoned for almost a week's worth of beard growth, and even his hair seems exhausted as strands wilt over one eye.

The outfit is no better.

His collar is deflated. There's no tie.

He slowly glances around the space. "Are you moving out?"

"Moving in. This is where I'm going to live now."

"It's nice."

"Sort of. I mean, yes."

See, we can be cordial. Vocally I'm not falling apart and I can stay that way, if I stand in this exact spot and don't move around or breathe too deeply, or look at his arms and imagine them around me. No, I can't do that. That's the worst idea. If I do that, a massive amount of agony flares without warning inside me.

"Thank you for letting me come here," says Jake. There's a rustle of movement. I cautiously angle myself to see him pull out a paper from his pocket. He holds it for me to see. It's a check.

"The bonus," he says. "It's yours. It's always been yours."

He places it on my kitchen counter and steps away as if it has nothing to do with him.

My eyebrows pinch down. "But your house? I thought you'd use it for the house."

"My uncle gave us a loan."

"Loan!?" Am I screeching? It sounds as if I'm screeching. "You'll be in his debt, not to mention the interest rate."

Whereas that money he's dropped on my counter is not contingent on anything. It can be deposited in an account straight away. There will be no one hounding him for repayment by phone, email, letters, or in person. No chokehold of a schedule of withdrawals. It's?—

"Don't do that."

I'm not sure I heard him. "Don't do what?"

"Reema, I'm not another worry on your shoulders." He lifts his arms and then drops them. "I won't be slotted into that spot in your life. There's no way I'm going to be a burden on you, worrying you about my finances. You think I need you to take care of me like that? To be your responsibility?"

My lips part. "Okay. You don't want to be slotted into my life—like that. You obviously have doubts and they are valid. I have some as well."

"You have doubts?"

"About me. The point is that I'm—a lot. Have been that way. I over-worry and I over-do. There's obviously been changes made, and now I need practicing in this new phase in my life. I've not lived alone in so long or dated?—"

His jaw clenches. "You want to date?"

"No, but there might be a need for more data points. Like proof. To see how I do with romance again, since it's been so long."

"I love you."

I must have misheard. He can't. A white noise builds in my head, until I shake it away. "What do you mean?"

"I'm begging for the privilege of spoiling you."

"You can't mean that," I argue desperately.

"And whatever you don't want, you're not getting. Hate flowers? I hate flowers, too. Tell me everything you don't want, I'll make it go away. And then—tell me everything you love, and I'll shower you with it."

"That's—that's ridiculous." I'm gawking at him.

"Give me a chance." He shifts to move forward, but then he pulls himself back. Almost forcibly. "One chance. I won't let you down."

I go and pick up the bonus check. My hands are shaking. "How can you not want this? This is what it's all been about, hasn't it? Coming to the wedding. Being the fake-boyfriend. P-pretending you cared. Landing the whale." Distressed, I hold the check in the air higher. "This is what you need."

"I need you."

I bring my other hand up to my chest, pressing it there tightly. I've broken the no-moving rule. There's no numbness left, not that it stood any chance against him. "You want me to believe you… love me?"

"Fuck." He shut his eyes briefly. "If only you could see inside me. Yes, it started with the bonus. Fuck, I wish it didn't, but it did. But then you happened. I got to be around you—the back and forth—caring for you—touching you—being allowed to call you mine. The pretending I was fucking pretending. That it was all a game even though you've stolen it–"

"S-stolen what?"

"Me. Everything of me." Jake is trying to compose himself, but failing poorly at it. His hands are shaking now, too. "Call me the worst. Call me Coleman. Tell me to lose every bonus of every year, and I'll do it. Just don't throw us away. Please."

In my marriage, it got to a point where every sentence out of my mouth was the wrong one. I couldn't say the right things or do the right ones or love properly. Even when I was inflating my ex like he had a straw poking out of him that needed affirmation blown into it every single day, I was doing it wrong.

Jake knows that. He knows there is baggage. That I'm not a hundred percent sure I won't let myself down again like that.

And yet, here he is, asking for the privilege of loving me. Is this going backwards when it feels so different? I'm cradled, even when we're not holding each other.

I stumble closer, my throat tightening. "I've been burned before. Badly. Even by myself."

"I won't lie to you," he promises.

"But you did."

He flinches.

"No." I sigh, stopping to stand in front of him. "You withheld. I can't say you lied."

"It doesn't matter. I'm so sorry." He stops himself from reaching for me again, visibly lurching a raised hand back. "I didn't mean to hurt you. You can't imagine how much it kills me to have hurt you. I'm so sorry, Reema."

My palm closes into a fist. I bring it up to his chest, but Jake doesn't duck or try to stop me. He pushes his chest into my hand, as if willing me to do whatever I want.

As soon as contact is made, my fingers spread out against his shirt. "How could this ever work?" I whisper. "You're Jake Coleman and I'm Reema Patel."

He drops his chin. "We don't like to lose."

"We don't."

"So let's not lose at this," he whispers.

"It could explode."

"Let it. I'd rather die than go through this fucking week without you again."

I sniffle, starting to cry. "You definitely don't look hot right now."

Slowly he brings his hand up and covers mine as if both afraid it's not real that I'm touching him, and needing to give me enough time to pull away. His other hand gently brushes away my tears."You're saying this mess I've become doesn't do it for you?"

"There's been a reduction in attraction."

His hand caresses a line down to my neck. "Tell that to your heart. I feel your pulse racing."

"I'm suffering… from Jake-ism. Call the doctor."

"Call me Sir."

"God."

"Or that."

"You are the worst."

"I'll take it. I'll take anything as long as I'm yours."

I pull back from him. "You love me?" This time my question is suffused with wonder.

"I love you. Desperately. All of you."

The last time he said it, I let the words bounce off hard shields, but those have since lowered. There's room for them to sink in. For them to firework and fill the deep crevasses of my uncertainty with ever-expanding hope and joy.

I take a shaky breath. "Okay. You love me… and I love you."

You would think it would be hard to give him the same words back, that I would hoard them within myself for later or use them to hedge my bets, or maybe that they should live in some cornered part of me that I can section and cut away if need be, but I can't do any of that. With him, I'm not forcing or manufacturing any words but giving them freely.

Jake jerks underneath my touch. "What did you say?"

His eyes have widened, and he's gone very still.

"I love you," I repeat. "And that shocks me. I've worked hard to be independent, and good, and I've gotten so far on my own."

"I'm so fucking proud of you. You're brilliant?—"

"Don't compliment me like that."

He goes very cautious. "Why?"

"It will make me love you harder."

I don't miss how every I love you makes this most intelligent man go dumbstruck until he jerks himself back to his senses.

"It's not fair how capable you are," I tell him. "It's disgusting. Like every day at work, I had to shield myself from all the competency porn you threw at me!"

"Are you kidding? Do you know how many times you've tortured me!? I've got a kink for being lectured by a smart-mouth–only your smart mouth. Like an idiot, I crave debating with you—making you grumble at me—or laugh at my wit—kissing you?—"

"You haven't kissed me today."

He snakes his arm around my waist, pulls me against him, and crushes his mouth to mine.