by Ann, Jewel
Jake: No key. It’s a code. You can enter from the back of the building.
Jake: 91169#
I giggle.
Me: Emergency 69?
Jake: Get your mind out of the gutter.
I giggle more.
“Daddy to the rescue.”
I turn. “What are you doing home?”
Lautner rolls his eyes as a drenched Asher hugs his leg, saturating his dress pants with pool water.
“My dear daughter messaged me.”
Ocean smirks, beached out on a floating recliner.
“Your mom is not going to be happy that you messaged your dad. I’m here.”
“It’s fine. Family first.” Lautner picks up Asher, not caring that he’s so wet.
“Always Mr. Perfect.”
“You know it.” He grins at me. “Let’s go check on Mommy.” He kisses Asher’s wet head of blond hair.
Me: Need help?
I erase it, having second thoughts. Third thoughts. Four hundred thoughts. I have so many thoughts warring in my head that I can’t make sense of my life at the moment. Jake’s leaving. That’s good. Distance is good. I’ll move on. He’ll move on. We will simply go down in history as a close-but-not-quite relationship.
Me: Need help packing?
Gah! My stupid hands do their own thing. My body has never cooperated with my common sense when it comes to Jake.
Jake: I’m basically packed. Just a few things to throw in my bag at the last minute.
His next text is a facepalm emoji, not something I’d expect from him. It makes me giggle. He’s on his game with me today.
Jake: Yes. Of course I need help packing. Please!
Me: I’ll iron your jeans while you make me dinner?
Jake: Who irons jeans?
“What am I doing?” My teeth dig into my lower lip, suppressing the grin wanting to crawl up my face. He’s leaving. I’m staying. We are toxic together. Nothing good can come from going to his place. Ironing his jeans. Sharing a meal. We can’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other or rip each other’s clothes off.
Jake: I’m here. If you want to iron my jeans … I’m here until Saturday.
* * *
Four hours later, I stare at the backstairs to his loft. He has a motorcycle parked next to his truck. I fidget with the long cuffs to my white boyfriend shirt. Then I tuck in just the front before smoothing my hands over my worn denim capris. Still … all these weeks later, I attempt to run my fingers through my hair running down my shoulders onto my chest, but it stops just below my chin. It’s like I’ve lost a limb, and I’m feeling the weight of phantom hair draped down my chest and back.
My feet wobble in my black heels as I take the stairs in slow motion. Why am I so nervous about seeing a man I spent weeks with in a tent and traveled miles with him in his pickup truck? My shaky fist knocks twice on the metal door.
“Hey!” He opens the door, grinning while attempting to tug on a T-shirt over his wet head.
Freshly showered Jake with a naked chest, ripped jeans, and bare feet. This was a really bad idea.
“Nice shirt.” I roll my eyes.
Jake looks down like he has no idea what it says. There’s a hand flipping a coin.
Heads I get tail. Tails I get head.
“It’s just a shirt, not an agenda.”
I nod once, eyeing him with caution as I step inside and slip off my impractical yet highly stylish heels. He shuts the door.
“Something smells good.” I wring my hands together. Gah! I’m so nervous.
“It’s a curry dish. I think it’s actually the rice cooking that you smell. I love the smell of rice cooking.”
I smile and nod. Bobbing my head is all I can do since my voice wants to shake as much as the rest of my body. We stand nearly toe to toe. I think it’s out of habit. When you spend weeks with someone in such close quarters, the boundaries of personal space get skewed. It also happens when your favorite place to be with that person is as close as your bodies can get, touching at all points.
“Can I get you something to drink before you start ironing?”
I laugh. “Do you even own an iron?”
Jake smirks as his hands work a large knife, chopping red bell peppers. “No. There’s a dry cleaner across the street. If I need something pressed, I let Saul do it.”
“So you lured me here under false pretenses?” My resolve weakens with every second I spend near Jake.
Time is magical. It doesn’t erase things, but it gives a different perspective. There’s a shift in magnification. The negative blurs over time, and the good moments—the important ones—they linger and intensify. They become the drug. You want more of those moments, and the risk that held little worth gains value with each passing day.
Has Jake become worth the risk? Is that why I’m here?
He pauses, glancing up at me as I lean my hip against the adjacent edge to the counter, hands tucked into the back pockets of my denim capris. His gaze slides over me as a slight wrinkle forms along his brow. “Maybe.” The tension in his expression vanishes as he returns his focus to the chopping board. “But I thought you could look around the place and see if you have any questions. In case you decide to take me up on my offer to stay here for a while.”
I glance around at the large space with exposed beams, a bed in the far corner, an open door into the bathroom.
“Clearly you can find everything. But I’ll show you how the remotes work for the lighting, the shades to the windows, and I’ll make sure you understand the security, including the cameras around the building.” He pauses again, this time keeping his chin down. “I’m sure you’ve stayed or lived in places with fancy lighting and security.”
My ego jumps to its feet, fists up. Instead of letting it throw the first punch, I focus on his words and the tone in his voice. He made a simple assumption. The assumption was correct. No underlying tones of accusation or disgust.
“I have, but you should show me anyway. It’s probably a little different than what I’ve encountered.” I give myself a mental high-five. Look at me being a mature adult.
He slides the sliced peppers off the cutting board into a hot sauté pan where they sizzle and crackle.
“Are you taking your time driving back to Milwaukee? Camping along the way?”
Jake stirs vegetables, keeping his back to me. “I’ll camp two nights. I need to get back and start working on the fall menu. Also, I have … friends visiting next Friday. They’re staying with me for a week or so.”
“You have friends?”
He shoots me an evil look over his shoulder.
“Hey, I had to ask.”
He traps his lip between his teeth, eyes narrowed. Gah! I wish I could read his mind.
“Jace and Mo visit this time every year.” He clears his throat. It’s odd. Something feels off.
“Jace was a fighter too. That’s how we met. Mo is his … uh … sister, and she was his agent. Now they recruit MMA talent together. He trains, she does all the rest.”
“Mo? Bethanne said you took Mo on your summer road trip two years ago. Is this the same Mo?”
“Yep.”
“So … you and Mo were a thing?”
He shrugs, dumping coconut milk into the pan along with a ton of different measured out spices. “Jace had surgery on his shoulder that summer, and Mo had a fighter in L.A. she wanted to check out. It was last minute. We just decided to drive out here together.”
I return an easy nod and fake smile when he glances over at me. “That uh … didn’t exactly answer my question.”
“Were we a thing?” He shrugs again.
I officially hate shrugs.
“I guess you’d say friends with benefits when it served a mutual … need.”
I feel nauseous, probably from a bad case of delusion. In spite of one incident after another, I felt pretty damn special on our trip, like I was the first woman Jake had taken on his sacred summer trip. I thought Mo was a g
uy. Stupid, stupid me.
“Maureen?”
He nods. “She hates her name.”
“And Jace is okay with you using his sister for these mutual needs?”
“We’re adults. I’m not jerking her around, making lifetime promises. It’s sex. He’s not exactly a saint either.”
It’s sex. It is sex. Not was sex.
“So … when they come visit … do you uh …”
Jake turns the gas burner to simmer and covers the pan. “Do I what?” He wipes his hands and tosses the dishtowel over his shoulder.
I roll my eyes. Why does he have to be such a dick about this? He knows damn well what I’m implying. “Meet needs, Jake. Does she sleep in your bed and suck your dick?” Pressing the heels of my hands to my forehead, I sigh. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
Letting my hands flop to my sides, I give him a wide-eyed look. “Why? WHY?” Heat burns my cheeks as rage crawls up my chest, constricting my throat. “Because we are terrible together! Because you say terrible things to me. Because you’re leaving. Because I can’t stop thinking about you, but I need to stop thinking about you! Because you can’t figure out the three fucking words that you need to say to me. And because next Friday you’ll be in Milwaukee with Mo in your bed!”
Jake’s head inches back as his eyes widen like saucers.
Son … of a bitch. I have done so well with this. After the “makeup incident” at the rehearsal, I put myself together. Stood up for myself. I slipped a bit when I let him kiss me here last week, but I quickly righted that wrong.
I’ve fallen headfirst off the wagon.
“Why are you here, Ave? It’s not to iron my jeans or help me pack.” He steps closer.
I step back. We cannot be close. Our brains shut down when we get too close.
“Are you here to tell me what I need to say to make things right between us? Are you ready to stop playing this stupid guessing game with me? I love you. I am sorry. What three words? Those are good words. I’m an idiot. How do you like those three words? I need you. I want you. Are those the right words?” He takes another step and grabs my wrist to prevent me from distancing myself from him.
When I try to pull away, he tugs me closer, hugging my arms to his chest. His gaze slips to my hand. “Nice nail polish. Those are three words. Are they the ones you’re looking for?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, you big jerk!” All attempts to tear myself away from his hold are futile. “You’re judging me because I have nail polish on my nails. I bet you were judging me when I walked in here with those five-hundred-dollar shoes. And my handbag that’s made of dead cowhide. And my makeup that’s covering up the bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. You can’t love me unless I’m the person you created in your head.”
“That’s not—”
I bring my other hand to my mouth and my cheeks puff out. Oh god … I’m going to be sick. Sydney will pay for this. She’s always grabbing the wrong water glass off the counter. Could there possibly be worse timing?
“Ave?” Jake loosens his grip on me.
I shake my head and pull away, keeping my mouth covered as I dart in the direction of the bathroom. Before I can shut the door behind me, I drop to my knees and expel the contents of my stomach as sweat beads along my brow.
“Go …” I hold out a flat hand as Jake hands me a cup of water and a wet washcloth. “I don’t want you to see this.”
“Too late.” He presses the washcloth to my forehead and shoves the glass of water into my hands as I sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with a wad of toilet paper.
“Stay back. You don’t want this. Sydney’s sick. It’s contagious. Just …” I take the water, rinse my mouth, and flush the toilet.
He helps me to my feet.
“Yuck.” I frown at the few splatters of vomit on the floor by his toilet. “I’m sorry.”
I swish some water again and spit in the sink.
“I forgive you,” he whispers. Barely even a whisper, but I hear it.
I glance up at his reflection in the mirror. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his colorful arms over his chest.
Coughing on a bit of sarcasm, I shake my head. “Gee, thanks. It’s good to know that vomiting on your floor isn’t unforgivable in your high standards.”
“I don’t give a fuck about my floor.”
I set the glass on the vanity and turn toward him, peeling a few strands of hair from my face. Why does he look so tortured with his lined forehead and downturned mouth?
“I’m saying it for me, and I’m saying it for you. I’m saying it for us. Those are the words, aren’t they? The three words. I. Forgive. You.”
Tears burn my already red eyes. I don’t want his acceptance. I want this. His love feels incomplete without … his forgiveness. All I’ve wanted to hear are those three words. Maybe it’s being raised in a church, or maybe it’s because I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but for whatever reason, forgiveness is the pinnacle of love. It’s unconditional. It’s a baptism of the soul.
“You think love isn’t the answer. You think I can’t truly love you unless I forgive you for Steve, for Megan’s baby, for poisoning me, for absolutely anything and everything about you that can be perceived as an imperfection. You’re so wrong.”
The tears fight their way to my cheeks.
Jake steps toward me.
“I’m sick.” I hold up my hand.
“So what?” He palms the back of my head and brings me into his chest. I nuzzle his neck and let more tears find their way to my cheeks and his shirt.
“Ave, I forgive you because I love you. You think love is not enough, but it’s everything. It’s all encompassing. It’s overpriced shoes and dead animals used to make bags. It’s bright red nail polish and dark eyeshadow. It’s jeans named after women and eyelashes that fall off. It’s dog shit on shoes and untimely cases of head lice.”
I laugh through my tears. “I didn’t have head lice.”
“You did. They ate through your hair extensions.”
“Shut up.” I cringe, pressing my hand to my nauseated stomach.
Thank you, Sydney. Thank you very much.
“Here.” He releases me, riffles through the bottom vanity drawer, and pulls out a new toothbrush.
“Do I want to know why you have a supply of new toothbrushes?” I take the toothbrush after he puts a dab of toothpaste on it.
He nods to the electric toothbrush by the sink. “Because I use that one most of the time, but the dentist gives me a new one every six months. Over time, you get a collection.”
I stare at him in the mirror, using the toothbrush in my mouth to hide my grin. After a quick brush, I shuffle my bare feet toward the kitchen where he’s shutting off the stove.
“Sorry about dinner. I’m not hungry now. I just want to go home.”
“I’ll drive you.” He grabs his keys off the counter.
“No. My car is here. I’m feeling a bit better, you know … that slight reprieve after you vomit?”
He nods once. Of course he knows. I poisoned him.
“But I’d better get going before a new wave hits.”
“I’ll get your car to you tomorrow. So, either you stay here tonight, or I drive you home.”
At the same time I say, “Home,” he says, “Stay.”
“You leave in three days. You don’t need to get sick.”
“I’m leaving in three days. It’s why you should stay.”
I frown. He’s so stubborn.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” I concede.
Jake sets his keys back on the counter. “You’ll sleep in the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll wash my hands and take extra vitamins.”
The frown won’t wipe off my face. It’s no longer his stubbornness, it’s me. I feel like crap. I hate being sick. I’m the worst at being sick. He doesn’t want to see this. At least at home, I have access to a doctor who’s used to whiney patients.
“I’ll get you everything you need.” Jake covers me up with his blankets. I close my eyes and pray for this bug to be quick. I’m a wuss. Wusses can’t stay sick too long. It’s just a law of nature.
“Perfect temperature water. Your phone. A bowl. And some ginger candy.” He lines up everything on the nightstand. “Anything else?” The bed dips as he sits on the edge, stroking my hair and my back.
“Don’t get sick and don’t stay.”
“Where am I going to go?” He chuckles.
I crack open my eyes. “I mean Saturday. You go home. I don’t want you to stay here for me. You’re not an L.A. person. You said it yourself. And I need to get my life back in order before I can be truly … lovable. I need time. I need to go slow.”
This elicits more laughter. “I’m leaving Saturday. I have a business to run and guests coming next week. You’ll have all the time you need to do your thing.”
Guests … this makes me more nauseous.
“But, Ave …” Jake kisses the side of my head. “I’ll return.” He goes into the bathroom.
I grab my phone, cringing with every little move.
Me: You suck. I hope you feel better, but you suck.
Sydney: Where are you? And why do I suck?
Me: I’m visiting a friend and now I’m staying here because I’M VOMITING! Would it kill you to not use my water glass? Ugh! Thanks for sharing your virus.
Sydney: Do you want Lautner to come get you?
Me: No. I don’t want to move. I just want to make you feel bad for getting me sick.
Sydney: Sorry you’re sick. But it’s not my fault.
Me: BS
Sydney: I don’t have a virus. I’m pregnant.
I stare at the screen. She’s pregnant. I’m going to get another little niece or nephew. Not even the painful urge to retch can keep me from smiling.
Me: OMGGGGGGG!!!!!!
Sydney: We’ve told no one. So you know nothing. Got it?
Me: OMGGGGGGG!!!!!!
Sydney: Love you too. Feel better. Call if you need us.