Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

LAINEY

"Do you need a distraction?" Jake asks after he pulls out the first one. From the look of his hooded eyes, he probably means a sexy distraction—and yes, I really want one.

"We can't do that again," I say, even though I want to. Out there, for a brief moment, I felt so deliciously powerful and strong. I felt the pleasure waiting for me, ready to wrap me up in its grasp, but I couldn't give myself over to it—to him—even though I wanted to. Now, I feel lost. Confused. Burned, even though I'm the one who was wielding the flame.

Jake's being good to me—so freaking good to me—and that's even more confusing. Now, I'm sitting on top of the closed toilet in the downstairs bathroom while he kneels in front of me and removes the splinters from my hand with a set of tweezers, the overhead lights beaming down on us.

"You don't have any more cars for us to beat into submission?" He plucks out another splinter while I'm distracted, then adds, "It's like I told you before. I'm not going to touch you unless you ask me for it."

I almost object that I didn't ask for it this time, or last. But I did. He's putting the ball in my court, giving me the power. He knows I need it, and he cares about what I need.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He doesn't respond other than to incline his head. Then he pulls out the rest of the splinters as he launches into a story about his brother bleaching his hair while he was asleep. Afterward, he cleans my hand with hydrogen peroxide and bandages the worst scrapes.

It should be time to say goodnight. It's late, and I know I have to report to Smith House in the morning, but I'm not ready. I still feel as raw and splintered as my hand did.

Jake must be able to tell, because he lifts my hand and kisses the back—a gesture that sends yet another wave of emotion slamming into me. "What do you say we do the responsible thing and stay up way too late watching TV?"

"I could be persuaded," I say, grappling with the feeling of my heart being lodged somewhere in my throat.

"But no Matchmaking Small Town America ."

"You don't like watching men make idiots of themselves?"

His mouth lifts up at the corner. "You'd probably just tell me to look in the mirror."

"No," I say, swallowing. "Not you." And anyway, I need comfort right now. It hits me, and I ask, "Do you like X-Men: The Animated Series ?"

"You mean the show my brother and I have watched from start to finish about a dozen times?"

So that's exactly what we do, snuggled up on the couch together like we've known each other for months. Because in a way it feels like we have. We talk over most of it, but after a while I start nodding off against his shoulder.

I wake with a start, my head nestled into his neck, breathing him in, and I feel a new wave of emotion—something softer and more disarming—so I sit up abruptly. He smooths a hand over my hand, his touch gentle, and I remember him wielding that umbrella next to me, living in my moment of chaos with me. I'm never going to forget that, not if I live to be a hundred and five.

"It's time for bed," I say, my voice a little hoarse.

I half expect him to make a quip, but instead he softly kisses the top of my head and walks me upstairs, lingering at my door like he thinks I might climb out of my window.

"Goodnight, Lainey," he finally says. But he's back five minutes later, cracking my door open, and a gasp escapes me when he brings Professor X inside and sets her down on my bed. It's like he knew I still needed someone but wasn't ready to invite him into my bed.

It was another thoughtful gesture, but I didn't sleep for hours. I kept going over what had happened again and again. Asking myself why I hadn't let myself have what I'd wanted out there, amidst the ruin I'd created.

The answer came to me in the early hours of the morning.

Releasing my rage was part of healing…but I'm not all the way there yet. I'm not ready to make myself fully vulnerable. Especially since Jake's no longer a stranger whose opinion I don't care about, but a man I'm starting to have feelings for.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened to my car?" I ask Mrs. Rosings after I get out of my car on Monday morning. She's out on the porch of Smith House sipping tea. Sometimes I park outside to avoid having to be buzzed in, but I was too tired for much of a walk this morning.

"I assumed it always looked like that," she says, but the slightest of smiles peeks out at me. She's messing with me and enjoying it.

Maybe that would amuse me more if I hadn't gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Claire wakes up unreasonably early to go to the bakery, and this morning she came outside with her coffee to find my car caved in in places. Jake and I had cleaned up the bat, which I'd saved, and the umbrella, which we'd thrown away.

She beat on our front door with her fist until I came down, my shoulders and back so sore it felt like I'd spent all night moving cinderblocks. I told her about my rage room moment, but I didn't tell her the rest, even though she was the one who'd encouraged me to have fun with Jake. I'm not quite sure why.

Maybe because I was embarrassed that I'd held back, again.

Maybe because it would feel too intimate—almost like a betrayal—to tell anyone what Jake did to and for me.

I lower into the patio chair next to Mrs. Rosings, who gives me a long look. "You haven't been sleeping. Is it Anthony's therapist friend who's been keeping you awake?"

It takes my tired brain a beat to catch up. "Uh. Yeah," I say. "We're definitely dating." My mind conjures the moment last night when he lifted me and twirled me around, my feet flying. I felt like everything was as it should be, and everything was okay . I felt invincible. I clear my throat. "He really swept me off my feet."

She makes a sound that could either be pleased or displeased—it's anyone's guess with her. Judging from her general contempt for marriage after trying it three times, I'm guessing displeased.

"Anthony has twisted my arm into agreeing to attend a tea at his house with your young man. I suppose you'll be there?"

I nod, surprised that she actually wants me to come. "Yup." I pause for a moment and then ask, "Did Emma ever show up the other night?"

She shakes her head and lifts her tea for a sip before setting it down with a clatter. "No. She said something came up." A tired sigh rips from her. "Something always comes up when she's asked to spend time with Anthony. I regret that my children aren't closer. If I've done one thing wrong in my life, it's that I've failed at keeping them together."

I think of what Rosie told me, about seeing the dark-haired woman who looks like Mrs. Rosings outside of the mansion.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

Maybe Emma took one look at the party and decided she'd prefer to turn right back around. Who could blame her?

Or maybe she's the one who stole the necklace. I make a mental note to ask Nicole what her plan is about Emma. At this point, Nicole and Damien have just done a cursory search—where she lives: Charlotte. What she does: divorce attorney.

Mrs. Rosings studies me for a moment, her gaze sharp, and then says, "You have Band-Aids on your hand, and your car is even more of a wreck than usual. I hope the therapist had nothing to do with that?"

I straighten in my chair. "Why, Mrs. Rosings, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were concerned for me."

She regards me shrewdly. "I am. There's never any reason to stay with a man who treats you poorly. I learned that the hard way, Elaine, and I don't mind passing along the lesson to any young woman who needs it."

She's talking about Jake, but it's Todd I think of.

Todd, sneering at me.

Todd asking me to get on my knees and beg for his forgiveness. He'd done that multiple times, sometimes for the slightest of grievances. He'd done it because he knew he could. And I still hate myself for having listened. For having wrestled the hellcat inside of me into submission so I could give him what he wanted, because I didn't know who I'd be if I wasn't going to become his wife after all.

Mrs. Rosings's concern wraps around me like an unexpected blanket. My own parents would have built a statue in my ex-fiancé's honor if he'd asked for it. They didn't give a shit about what he did to me, but Mrs. Rosings, who always tries to act so above everything, actually cares about me being treated well. I care about her too, dammit.

Which of her three husbands treated her poorly? Could it be Anthony and Emma's father? I want to ask. I want to kick the offender's gravestone. Mrs. Rosings might be a pill, but she's my pill.

"No," I finally manage in response to her intrusive stare. "No, Jake never touched me like that. I did that to the car myself, and I hurt my hand." Even as I'm saying it, I realize it's exactly what someone might say if they were lying to defend an abuser, so I add, "The bat was my ex-fiancé's prized possession. The car belonged to my parents."

Mrs. Rosings gives me a strained smile, shaking her head slightly, the breeze whipping a couple of strands of her hair from their usual perfection, making her—temporarily—more human. "Oh, Elaine. You haven't learned yet. When you take something from someone who's mistreated you, you'd do better to keep what you've earned and take the benefit of it for yourself."

She is a woman who knows how to make an entrance and an exit, and she's already lifting from her chair, leaving me baffled. Does she know the necklace is gone? Does she think I took it?