“It was an open relationship.” The retort slipped out, without her having to grab for it. The excuse that kept her by Danny’s side for years, even after they closed things up.
“That you didn’t want to be open. And who goes from let’s date the rest of the world at the same time to I love you. Marry me? And who does that when they’re eighteen?”
Dating more than one person or getting married? She wasn’t sure she wanted his answer. “At least he told me how he felt.” Fuck this. She wasn’t staying calm. The hurt spilling into her words wouldn’t let her. “He might have been deranged and screwed up and not had any idea what the words meant, but he had the balls to say something.”
Jonathan glared at her and drew his lips into a straight line. “I would have done anything to stop you from making that mistake. I don’t do regrets, yet I’d go back in a heartbeat and take you away from that. I did everything I could think of at the time. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Tell me you loved me.”
JONATHAN DID HIS BEST not to get pissed off about the conversation, at the same time wondering how they went from sweet to snippy in a blink.
Her last words, as simple as they were, pushed him past his limits. “I wasn’t going to tell you that.” He couldn’t keep the irritation hidden anymore. “I mean, I was ready to, before I found out about Danny. But I wasn’t willing to manipulate you like that. No. Don’t marry him. I love you. It had to be your own decision.” He hadn’t meant to put the confession out there. Did she notice?
“It’s not manipulative if it’s true, and that logic didn’t stop you from sticking your tongue down my throat.”
“That kiss went both ways. You fucking kissed me back. Do you really believe Danny ever thought he was lying to you? Each time he warped your mind with misdirection and cruel fucking lies—” He snapped the words off when her expression twisted from a scowl to a grimace. He crossed the room. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
“Why not? You made your point.” She crossed her arms.
He was tired of wondering what transgression or misstep he’d commit next, to destroy the peace and fun they discovered. “Is that why you didn’t want to see me again? You blame me for what happened? It’s my fault you got married?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Chapter Twelve
Was Bailey blaming Jonathan? She absolutely was, but admitting it out loud made it sound even pettier than in her head. He’d meant to say he loved her, way back when? That had her reeling. So many mistakes. So many wasted years.
It didn’t matter? He still would have left for college, and everything else would be the same..?
“Bailey?” His irritation was almost tangible.
She didn’t like that. “Yes.”
“Yes... what? You’re sure you’re not blaming me?”
“No. I am. And maybe I shouldn’t be—because you’re right; it was my decision—but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like you had something to do with it. You were right there. You only had to say one thing, and you wanted to say it.” Her frustration was turning to tears, and she didn’t want that.
“You could have asked. I didn’t know what you wanted. Guess what? Not a fucking mind reader. You can’t put this on me, because I’m not the only one who kept their mouth shut.”
“But you saw things I didn’t.” This was ridiculous and childish, and that didn’t stop her from feeling that way. Now was her chance to get it all out.
“And I tried to point them out to you.” His voice rose in volume, and he winced. “Fine. Let’s do this your way. Let’s dive back into the past and pretend things went different, though we can’t fucking change anything. I said, No, Bailey. Don’t marry him. I love you more. And you said, Oh, really? Me too.”
The words she would have given anything for then sounded harsh and cold now. She wanted him to take it back. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what? Face reality? I just want one more minute. Then we’re done. How does it go from there? I leave for college; that was the plan. I’d ask if you wanted to be my girlfriend. We’d date long distance. But it didn’t have to play out that way. You could join me. Go to UC Berkeley. Except it’s not that easy. You’d have to wait a year to start, because you hadn’t applied yet, and you might as stay here and save up. That’s what you tell me. Email makes it easy to stay in touch, but I’m so far away.
“And then the next asshole comes along, and I haven’t said I love you nearly enough, because I’m on the other side of the fucking country and college is hard. So one day, your message to me says, It’s over. I’m marrying Billy Bob. Which still brings us back to where we are, and it’s still not my fucking fault you exercised poor judgment.”
She didn’t know if the fake past made her more hurt or furious. “Now I know how you really feel about my ability to think for myself.”
“That’s not me. That’s you. If it’s my fault you made shitty decisions, that never changes. I’m sorry life sucked with Danny. No one deserves that, and I’d give anything for you to not have gone through it, but I can’t change the decisions I made. I thought I was doing the right thing. The same way you did.”
“No one’s to blame, then. Fantastic.” She stood and brushed past him. “Conversation’s over. Life goes on.”
He grabbed her arm. “It’s not over, because you’re still pissed off, and nothing’s been resolved.”
“Sometimes things don’t get fixed.” She forced herself to meet his gaze and wrenched herself free from his grip. “But I’ve got a solution. We get back to work. As soon as the roads open, you go home and we never speak again. That’s how this plays out, right? Because I’m so bad at making up my mind, and you sure as hell don’t want to be here. So we pretend to gloss this over, according to your magical powers of perception, and it still aches inside and we never really forgive or forget. I’ll still be fickle, and you’ll still be a callous asshole who loves numbers more than people.”
None of the words sounded right in her head, but she was too hurt and angry to take them back. Now the things she tried to convince herself she didn’t mean were on the table. When it came down to it, she did mean them.
He didn’t adopt that stupid blank mask of his. One thing to be grateful for. Instead, hurt and fury reflected back at her from his dark eyes. “Sounds perfect. How about that? We agree after all.” Hard lines creased his forehead, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll be in my room, throwing things out. You do... whatever it is you do.”
She had to clench her jaw, to keep from saying anything else when he stepped around her. She couldn’t spit out an apology, because everything was too raw for her to mean it. If she opened her mouth, more half-thought-out notions would slip out. Things that weren’t true, but parts of her held onto with ferocity. She no longer had to worry about it aching when they parted ways. The pain could start now, and be a numb throb in a few days.
JONATHAN STRUGGLED to find reason through the haze of anger clouding his thoughts. This was worse than being drunk. It was also a fantastic reminder of why he let work take priority over personal relationships. He made his way into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of trash bags. When Bailey’s soft, gasping sob landed against his back, he refused to look.
That entire conversation was a mistake. He got sucked in, he said things he didn’t mean, and he let it cut deep. Worse, he watched the words devour her and didn’t take any of it back.
He strode up the stairs without looking in her direction, and cut a line for his old room.
Gray light peeked around the edges of his windows, but between the shutters, the storm, and the lingering smoke, it was hard to see. He didn’t care. Most of this was junk. He’d scrape it into bags, and set it out with the rest of the garbage.
The plastic dinosaurs went first, followed by the army of green soldiers guarding a model car. He grabbed the car to sweep it into the bag, and hesitated. The toys were almost all gifts from his p
arents and friends of the family. Things they insisted little boys needed, growing up. He had to be the weird kid and ask for a scientific calculator when he was nine. He got the model car kit instead.
The memory added another layer of pain to what simmered inside. He’d sat up here, whining about how much he hated the stupid thing. Bailey argued it was awesome and pulled the parts from their box. The cheap pieces didn’t fit together the way she wanted. She was ready to give up on it too, until he pointed out where they had to sand and what parts needed a touch of heat to warp them and make it all click.
The red paint glopped in places and left plastic exposed on others, but back then they were so proud of it.
This was why he didn’t want to come back here. He set the model in its home, to be dealt with later, and turned his attention to the closet. Nothing hung from the bar. His clothes had come and gone with him each year. As he grew older, he got snobby. Refused to wear anything that wasn’t trendy. The memories of teenage-him would make him laugh if they didn’t carry so much else.
He used his phone as a flashlight. The battery would be dead by the end of the day, unless the power came back on, but without a signal, it didn’t matter.
Boxes were stacked high. He grabbed the first one and grunted when he realized how heavy it was. A peek inside showed books about mathematical theories, patterns, and code breaking. This was all his stuff. He set it aside. They were old and so out of date they weren’t useful anymore, but they could be donated.
The remainder of the boxes were the same. Sorting through them didn’t take as long as he hoped, and all he did was shift the stack from the closet to the edge of the room. He might have to go back to the toys on the shelf sooner than he expected.
A twinge of pain shot through his right hand, and he dropped his phone out of reflex. “Fuck.” He wiggled his fingers, to get rid of the ache, and knelt to retrieve the device. Don’t let it be cracked. It was fine, as far as he could tell. Maybe scratched but still usable. The light cast along the back wall, reflecting a shine.
“What the...?” He tried to angle himself better, to get another look, but couldn’t find whatever caught his eye. He was about to give up, when he caught the glint again. He crawled into the closet and ran his fingers along the wooden paneling, until he hit a bump. A latch? No. Couldn’t be. It didn’t matter how many stories Nana told, or if they had a toe in reality; she didn’t have hidden compartments around her house.
The logic didn’t stop him from fiddling with the metal clasp. Did it twist? Push? Flip up?
He heard a soft click, and a musty smell wafted into the room, to blend with the lingering smoke. Sure enough, an entire panel of the wall was offset from the rest now. Curiosity blanketed his bleak thoughts. He scooted back to pull the door open, and found a safe inside.
The digital keypad indicated it hadn’t been there for centuries or even decades. It had to be fairly new.
He pocketed his phone, tugged the small box from its hidden spot, and carried it to the bed, where the light was better. How was he supposed to open it? He drummed his fingers on his leg, cycling through a list of possible number combinations. He could start with something simple, like a series of six 1’s and work his way up the list, but that would take ages. So what numbers mattered to her? He tried combinations of her social security number, the address here, his dad’s birthday... He racked his brain for stories she’d told him and any significant numbers therein.
Something nudged the back of his thoughts, and he couldn’t quite grasp it. The idea was simple, but he didn’t know why Nana would go with it. It wouldn’t work, but maybe trying it would knock another idea loose. He typed in 1-6-6-9-8-6. January 6 and June 9, 1986. His and Bailey’s birthdays.
A soft series of beeps flitted through the room, and the safe clicked open. Damn that woman. The thought only held fondness. A cardboard box in plastic sat inside. He extracted it and unwrapped it carefully, anticipation growing.
Photos sat inside. Not like those in the album downstairs. These were yellowed and faded with age, and Nana was in them, a much younger woman than Jonathan ever knew. Probably in her late teens or early twenties. In some of the pictures she was with an older man. A grandfather? That wasn’t right. Nana loved her photos, and Jonathan had seen dozens of his family dating back several generations. The man was familiar, but not family. Jonathan couldn’t place where he’d seen him before.
He sifted through more of the shots. When he reached one of his grandmother lying across a fainting couch in practically nothing, he coughed in shock and dropped the stack. He moved it aside to reveal the next, with her wearing even less.
“Jesus.” He didn’t know if he was more disturbed or amused. He’d stumbled on naughty photos of Nana. Either way, he wasn’t interested in looking at more.
At the bottom of the box sat a film reel. Interesting. She had a projector upstairs. A nagging voice asked if he really wanted to see the movie, given what was else was in the box. Maybe later. He gathered it all up and was about to set it back in the safe, when something else caught his eye. An envelope with his name on it, in Nana’s flowing scrawl.
A loud crash shook the house. It wasn’t the storm; it came from beneath him. Louder than boxes falling. “Bailey?” he shouted.
A whisper of concern snaked through him when she didn’t answer. It might be like the other day, and she was fine. Had she always been so accident prone? He couldn’t shake the worry. He sprinted down two flights of stairs, not slowing until he hit the ankle-deep water in the basement.
Light shone at the far end of the room, illuminating the concrete wall but not much else between him and it. “Bailey?” As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out dark shadows that looked like fallen shelves. The water was only a couple inches deep. He picked his way across the room, trying to avoid stepping on anything. He should have worn shoes. He didn’t see any movement in the room besides his own shadow. He reached the fallen shelves, and his heart dropped into his stomach when he found a warm body pinned underneath. A cinderblock sat on one of Bailey’s arms, and a dark gash glared across her forehead.
Fear pushed aside any of his anger from earlier. Her chest rose and fell. That was a good sign. He shifted everything off her. Her arm sat at an awkward angle. “Fuck.” He pressed a hand to her forehead and pulled it away. Dark, sticky blood covered his skin. He didn’t dare move her without knowing the extent of her injuries, and he was terrified to leave her alone while she was unconscious.
He could take her to a doctor. If the clinic was open. If it wasn’t, he had no idea where the current practitioner lived. “Come on, Ale.” He brushed the hair off her face. “Please?”
Chapter Thirteen
Bailey’s head hurt more than she ever remembered it hurting. She couldn’t remember much, though. Her arm ached too. Why? She was fighting with Jonathan. Was this some kind of psychological reaction? It was dark. The power was still out. No, her eyes were closed. She struggled to force them open, and her skull protested.
The fighting wasn’t the last thing she did. She’d been downstairs. Pissed because the basement flooded. Angry at Jonathan, for choosing now of all times to show emotion. Yanking stuff down in a frustrated rage. And then—
She reached for the what next, and her head screamed no.
A soft and warm sensation scuttled over her cheek. Bugs? The thought made her skin crawl. Lucifer? No. A hand.
“Wake up?” That was Jonathan. He didn’t sound mad.
She tried again to open her eyes, and this time they responded. Dark shadows stood out amid lighter ones, and a silhouette hovered over her.
“Thank God.” Jonathan sighed.
Something dabbed against her forehead, and she tried to reach up, to see what it was. When she lifted her arm, a whole new world of hurt greeted her, and she cried out.
“Careful.” He helped her lower the arm back to the ground. “It’s broken. And your head is bleeding.”
A washcloth. That’s what t
he sensation was. He held pressure against her skin. “You weren’t out for long.” He sounded worried. “Only a couple of minutes, but that’s still not good.” Did they make up?
Was that what she couldn’t remember? “I’m okay.” Why did she say that? Every inch of her protested when she tried to move. “No. I’m not.”
“Can you tell if anything else is broken?” Even in the dim light, he looked concerned.
She shouldn’t like that, but she did. She shifted, squirming on the floor, and forced herself to sit, favoring her arm the entire time. “I think the rest is okay.”
“Good. You need a doctor. Odds the clinic is open?”
“Zero to less than none.” She wanted to be valiant and argue she didn’t need a doctor. To insist she’d be fine. The almost-useless appendage dangling by her side screamed loudly enough to convince her otherwise.
He helped her stand, and her world spun. “Slowly.” He draped her good arm around his shoulders and steadied her, circling her waist and resting a hand on her hip. “Where does the doctor live?”
“Same place as always.”
His chuckle was strained. “You’re serious? He’s got to be ninety now.”
“It’s only been a few years. He’s in his sixties. But we can’t go out in this weather.” Whether or not she was in pain, some things were a bad idea. Now she wasn’t lying in water, the chill of being soaked set in. She clenched her teeth, to keep them from chattering.
“Options. Stay here and ride out the storm. You’ve broken something and probably have a mild concussion, so that’s not viable. With the gusting wind, walking is a stupid idea. Phones are down, so we can’t call the guy, and even then, he’d have to get here. So you’re getting in the car with me. We’re risking the weather, to drive the one or two miles to his house, and we’ll apologize profusely for imposing at his house, but he’ll understand.”
The Second Chance and The Auctioneer (The Love Equation, #3) Page 9