A/N: Hi guys, guess who decided to finish the second chapter lol it was really hard for me because like I’ve said before I struggle a lot when it’s time for me to write all my ideas, so it took me a while to plan and finish this chapter.
Also, as you know -because I’ve already warned lmao- I’m not a good writer and English is not my first language and I tried my best, so I’m sorry for any mistakes and please feel free to make suggestions!
Warnings: None
Word count: 1.938 words
Saturday, May 26th, 2018 – Monaco
After qualifying I leave the V.I.P. section and decide to head to parc fermé, where the cars and drivers are taken after the session. Daniel set the fastest lap, what gave him pole position, being followed by Sebastian Vettel and Lewis, with P2 and P3, respectively.
Daniel is the one to greet me with a hug and a big smile. “Well, it looks like your ‘good luck’ really gave me luck after all.” I can feel my cheeks reddening. “So, you’re welcome?! I’m kidding, you did amazing. Congratulations! I’ve been told you’ve been killing it.” He shrugs with a smile. “You’ve been told right, madame! Nailed all free practices!” I swear this man’s smile could light up the whole principality. He tells me he needs to go weigh himself and take some pictures, so he leaves.
“So let me see if I get things right…” I turn around and see Lewis approaching me “… I invite you and now I see you talking to Daniel and cheering for him?” He mocks me pretending to be mad and I laugh. “I thought people are supposed to cheer for the leading guy… I don’t know a lot about racing but P3 doesn’t seem too bad for me. Or is it?” I can see he’s frustrated. “I mean, it could be worse, but it’s not pole, you know? I’m not even in the front row.” He rolls his eyes. “Well, even though you’re saying I’m rooting for Ricciardo, I do hope you have a great race tomorrow.” I tell him he should go and do whatever he needs to do while I go back to the Mercedes’ garage and wait for him to return.
…
At the garage, I go sit in a chair and start to pay attention to my surroundings, all the computers and TVs, the mechanics bringing the drivers’ cars back so they can fix and arrange everything before tomorrow’s race.
“Barbara, I was thinking… would you be up for dinner tonight? Just some friends having a good time and chatting.” I’m distracted and don’t even notice when Lewis arrives with Angela. “Dude, no need to scare me.” I put my hand on my chest and feel my heart racing after the scare. He laughs and pats my shoulder. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scary you.” I just shrug. “About dinner, yeah, sure. I’m always up for food. Where and when, please? Also, what should I wear?” Hope the place is not too glamourous, it’s not like I brought really expensive and fancy clothes.
“I’ll send you the details later. About the outfit, nothing too much, it’s a pretty chill place.” He says waving me off and heading to his driver’s room to get changed and go give some interviews. I just nod my head with a smile and decide to walk back to my hotel so I can enjoy and get to know my surroundings, as Monaco is simply breathtaking.
…
When I return to my room, I just go straight to the bathroom to have a shower and wash my hair, so I’m not in a hurry to get ready for dinner later. I relax and take a long and nice shower and then I start thinking about what I should wear.
After a while, as I’m doing my hair and makeup, I hear my phone and look at it, seeing that Lewis had just sent me the restaurant’s location.
Makeup and hair done, already dressed, I leave. The place is not far from where I’m staying, so I decide to walk there, just to appreciate the view.
…
Once inside the restaurant, I start looking around and see my friend waving at me from a table with fourteen more people. The reserved place is close to the railing and has a view of the sea, with a direct access to the beach by a small staircase.
“Hi guys, good evening!” Everyone greets me with a smile. “Sorry for being late. The restaurant is not far from my hotel, so I decided to walk here. Just fell in love with this place!” I say with a grin and sit between Lewis and Angela before we start ordering.
…
After a dinner full of conversations that lasted about three hours, everyone decides to call it a night and go back to their hotels to rest up for race day.
“Can I drive you back or will you call a cab?” Lewis turns to me. “Oh, no need, thank you! I want to take advantage that the beach is right in front of me and take a walk along the shore, the sky is beautiful tonight and I like the sound of the waves.” I smile gratefully and say goodbye, walking down the stairs towards the sand.
…
Walking on the beach, I feel the wind in my hair and look to where the starry sky meets the sea and silently thank God for the opportunity to be in such a place. I have been to many places and to many countries, and surely Monaco is now one of my favorites.
As I continue my walk, from a distance I see what appears to be a person sitting on the rocks, and as I get closer, I can see that the person is none other than Daniel. He is wearing a white t-shirt and shorts and looks thoughtful, staring at the horizon.
I take the liberty of moving even closer and try to climb the rocks carefully, getting closer to him. When he realizes that he is no longer alone, he turns around and looks surprised to see that it is me. He smiles and moves to the side, giving me room to sit next to him without the risk of slipping and falling into the water.
“May I ask why you are walking alone in the beach late at night?” He asks me, raising his eyebrows. “Well, I could ask you the same… what are you doing sitting alone on the rocks late at night? Shouldn’t you be resting for the race? Oh, and to answer your question, I was at a dinner with Lewis and some people, on the beachfront, so I decided to enjoy it.” I retort and he chuckles. “Yeah, I should be asleep already. But when I laid in bed all I could do was turn from side to side. My head is spinning.” I nod.
“Are you nervous, anxious? I mean, I understand, you’re starting in pole position, that would be pressure for anyone, right?” He agrees. “I think I’m actually nervous because I remember the race 2016’s race.” He notices the doubt on my face. “I was leading the race and the team called me into the pits. When I stopped, guess what?” I encourage him to continue. “The mechanics weren’t ready with the tires.” He laughs at my indignation. “What do you mean they were without the tires?” He nods. “Yes…when I came out, Hamilton went straight through, and I finished the race in second. I’ve never felt so frustrated in my life!” He laughs at my reaction again. “Dude, how could they have called you? Whaat? Look, I don’t know how you controlled yourself, I just know that if it was me in your shoes, I would have yelled at anyone who came in front of me.” He looks at me. “Well, there was no shortage of desire to yell, but it’s not like I could do that. Like, it was the team’s fault, but still. But there was one time, in Austin, that I was so angry I punched the wall.”
“I agree, it’s not a reason. Even if they messed it up. No, I mean, it was a reason, but it’s always good to be polite. I say I wouldn’t control myself because sometimes I have trouble dealing with anger, and I just want to punch something or someone and scream. But really? From what I could tell from knowing you for just one day, you don’t strike me as someone who gets angry and loses control like that. Or you’re really nice and easy to deal with and only get angry when something really gets you out of your mind. Sorry, I talk too much.” He chuckles. “Well, me too!”
“Look, I know this doesn’t always help, but try to relax, stay calm! Trust in your potential and do what is necessary when it’s necessary. I believe in you and so should you. The more you worry, the worse it gets. When I’m nervous I remember when God says in the Bible: be strong and courageous. Sorry, I’m done talking!”
He puts an arm around my shoulder in a kind of hug. “Well, I’ll try… you’re right, the more I think, the worse I get. Thanks for the talk, you really helped calm down. And don’t worry about talking too much, I like to listen to you. I’d stay here all night on these rocks.” He squeezes my arm and I feel my cheeks heating up.
We sit for a while in silence just enjoying the view and listening to the sea and each other’s breathing. “This is good.” He murmurs, making me smile and nod my head in agreement.
I pick up my phone and stare at it with wide eyes when I realize it’s late, past midnight. “Oh my God, Daniel! We didn’t see the time go by, you should be resting… sorry for keeping you up late, really! Shit!” I’m desperate and he turns to me with a smile on his face. “Relax, Barbara, it’s ok, I’m still here because I want to be here, ok? Calm down!” I sigh. “Yes, but still. I think we should go now, I don’t want you driving around tired tomorrow because I don’t close my mouth. Let’s go!” I take his hand and stand up.
I feel my feet touch the sand after almost falling going down the rocks. If Daniel hadn’t held me by the waist, I would have hurt myself badly.
“Well, I’m off, have a good rest and once again, sorry for keeping you awake.” I really feel guilty. “Don’t feel bad, I told you I stayed because I wanted to. Let me walk you back to the hotel as a way of thanking you for our conversation, it really helped me!” He smiles the brightest smile I’ve seen my entire life and feel my cheeks blushing again. Jesus, how this man can make me blush like that?!
“Thank you very much, but no need, you have to sleep, it’s already very late. Also, my hotel isn’t even that far away.” He denies it.” Yes, it is necessary. I wouldn’t feel at ease with you walking around alone so late at night. You can’t trust anyone these days.” He is already taking my arm in the direction of the sidewalk. “Ok, sir. What a gentleman.” I laugh at him bowing and give up.
…
Back in my room I decide to go directly to the shower before finally lying in bed. I hadn't realized how tired I was. As I start to doze off I am startled by a notification showing that a message had arrived, and when I unlock the screen I see that the person who sent it is an unknown number.
Unknown number:
01:57 Thanks for the chat, I'm feeling much better now!
01:57 Hope to see you before the race xx
The biggest smile comes to my face when I realize it’s Daniel… and then I get really confused about how he got my number.
There is supposed to be a sweetness that grows in the absence of great love. They’ve coined a phrase for it, one that never fails to keep your eyes from rolling, one you won’t even waste your breath uttering. People sing about it--all that space someone leaves behind and the way that your heart is supposed to contort and expand with excess affection--and people write poems about it, too.
But it’s been a year and it still hurts; there is no overflow of fondness.
The agony hasn’t dulled yet--and you have found comfort in calling it agony and not pain. It’s something you’ve put great thought into: this is not pain, it is bigger than that. It’s rubbing alcohol on a gash that needs sutures. It’s popping blisters with the heat of the sun. It’s smiling finally and splitting your lip down the middle. It’s jamming grimy fingers into bullet holes. It’s chewing rusty nails. It’s falling one hundred feet from a cliff and into the water on your belly. It’s cracking the hardest part of your skull on the pavement.
Now that it’s been a year, now that you have adjusted to accepting your life in terms of throbbing and aching, you are certain that you would much rather have never loved Jake if it meant losing him.
That’s how your mother tried to comfort you when you told her about the breakup. It was fresh--though it still feels fresh even right now and you assume it will always feel fresh--and you couldn’t talk about it without salt wetting your tongue and your lips growing swollen around the words you chewed out.
“Jake’s gone.” It was all you could manage to say to her.
She was sitting across from you at the little bistro table outside Risotto’s, sipping espresso through a straw so as not to disturb her lipstick. She was glowing that afternoon--wearing a linen sundress with her hair pulled back and her sunglasses big and her disposition sunny.
When you said it, when she finally paused in her chattering about her latest cruise with your step-father, she raised her eyebrows--stunned. She was the last person you were telling--for more reasons than you have fingers--but she was the first person you were telling face-to-face. Meeting her for an early lunch at Risotto’s was the first time you’d left the house in a long while.
“Where did he go?” She asked, tilting her head.
You didn’t feel good. You hadn’t felt good for even one microsecond of one day since the other side of your bed suddenly became so frigid. You knew, also, that you didn’t look good. Unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, mismatched socks, bleary eyes, a permanent flush in your cheeks. But your mother hadn’t asked you what was wrong; she was never good at doing that. Jake was, though. If he had been there, he would’ve asked. He would’ve known the moment he saw you that you were thoroughly heartbroken.
“Back to her,” you said, your voice thin and wavering. Your cheeks were hot and the saliva on your tongue was sitting thick in your mouth. “His wife.”
Your mother watched your lip tremble. You were already pulled into yourself, shoulders drooping and chest hollow. Your hair was dipping over your plate and into your food when you finally let your face fall into your hands to weep. It made your mother ill watching your hair sweep through the pasta sauce.
Someone walking by had given your mother a strange look as you openly sobbed into your palms, those shrill and shrieking things, and she’d grown hot with embarrassment. So, she paid for her cup of espresso and your uneaten pasta and ushered you into the privacy of the bathroom.
It was hot in there, just as hot as it was outside beneath the San Diego sun. It felt like you couldn’t step out of the heat wherever you went--it just followed you, bit into your skin, blistered you.
You leaned against the bathroom counter, arms crossed tightly over your chest. And your mother stood just before you, feeling out of her element and entirely uncomfortable with the amount of snot dripping down your nose.
“What happened?”
What had happened was Jake woke up three Tuesday's ago, looked at your sleeping form, and then decided that he needed to go back to his wife--whom he’d left for you a little bit over two years prior. For all intents and purposes, Felicity was still his wife; there’d been about a dozen delays in the finalization of their divorce, all seemingly minute and at the fault of precisely no one except the courts.
No rhyme or reason. No explanation. He just waited for you to wake up, held your cheek, and told you he was leaving and that he wasn’t coming back. Then he left. Movers came for his things a few days later. He changed his number. He deactivated every social media he had an account for. He vanished, simply put. Just like that. Somewhere between asleep and awake, he was gone. For good.
“Nothing. We were fine,” you told your mom, holding your face in your hands again. Your breath was hot in your palms, aiding the blush in your cheeks and the heat rash climbing up your throat. “We were better than fine. We were fucking great. We were perfect. And then he just left.”
“Well, there had to have been something wrong,” your mother insisted, gathering one-ply toilet paper by the handful and unceremoniously pressing it against your hands. “He wouldn’t leave for no reason.”
“But he did,” you insisted, shaking your head, gripping the toilet paper roughly. “I’ve thought about it good and-and hard. We had dinner that night. I made mashed potatoes, steak, and green beans. We drank half a bottle of red wine. We did the dishes together. We went to a late movie. We came home and took a shower together. We had sex. We went to bed. Jesus Christ, we were laughing all night! Even just before I fell asleep, he told me he loved me and I told him that I loved him. Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Nothing was wrong.”
Your mother listened intently, picking at her long nails. With her eyes narrowed in thought, she tutted.
“Did you overcook his steak?”
“No,” you told her, flopping your hands at your sides and letting your face angle towards the polished tiles below your untied tennis shoes. “He likes it medium rare and I cook it medium rare.”
“Was the movie bad?”
“No,” you answered again. “It was a Martin Scorcese film.”
She hummed. She kept thinking, kept pursing her lips and squinting at you as you dabbed under your nose.
“Maybe he got water in his ear in the shower.”
You sighed.
“This isn’t making it better,” you told her, sniffling.
You leaned against the counter, your shoulders slumped and your face drenched in salt.
“I’m not trying to make it better,” your mother sighed, crossing her arms. “I’m trying to figure out why he left you.”
It stung to hear her say it. Stung so badly that you flinched inadvertently, just a reaction your body had to the words. It was like the doctors checking your knees for reflexes; you had no control over it.
“There’s nothing to figure out,” you assured her flatly, fruitlessly wiping at your cheeks and staring down at the scuff on the toe of your shoes. “He’s gone. It’s over. That’s that.”
“Maybe he’ll come back,” your mother said.
You shook your head.
“No,” you whispered, sniffling again. “Movers came and packed him up.”
“He hasn’t called?”
“Changed his number,” you told her. Your voice was growing thinner and quieter.
“Well. Maybe he’ll change his mind after a while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
A beat of silence followed that. You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t really sure what to do other than cry and cry and cry.
“I don’t think he will,” you said finally.
She sighed, then. She wasn’t sure what to say either. She had never been good at this sort of thing--things that required her to give you that undivided attention you were always so insistent upon.
You weren’t sure why you even bothered telling her. You knew that she would’ve sat through your entire early lunch without commenting on your appearance if you’d let her. She would’ve pretended like everything was fine, would’ve asked about work, would’ve kept talking about the country club.
“Wouldn’t you rather have loved and lost than never loved at all?”
Your throat grew hot.
“Please don’t quote Victorian-era poets to me while I’m upset,” you whispered to her. “And that’s not even the way it goes.”
You two were always like this. She never knew what to say to you and when she tried, you were convinced that her attempt was half-hearted and in poor taste because it usually was. Even when you were a baby, she never knew much about what you wanted or needed. It was no different now that you were a grown woman. Simply put: she was bad at caring and you were good at rejecting.
She at least spared you from bringing up the fact that Jake had put his wife in your very position a couple years back--for you.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” your mother admitted, holding her hands on her hips.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut tight.
“Me neither,” you told her.
It was quiet for another moment.
She glanced at her watch.
“You can go,” you told her.
She played tennis every Saturday afternoon--you knew that’s where she wanted to be.
She swallowed.
“I don’t have to,” she said.
What she really meant was: thank you.
“I know,” you told her. Another beat. “Go.”
And so she’d left and then you were alone.
You’re still alone right now.
Or you were until twenty-seven minutes ago when the doorbell rang.
You’d only gotten around to making dinner fifteen minutes before the intrusion so the air was still thick with the scent of Top Ramen. You were sitting on the couch, poking around your bowl of overcooked noodles, watching another episode of The Price Is Right in your dark living room when the chime rang out in the foyer.
If this had happened a little over a year ago, if Jake was still living with you but maybe gone for the evening, you would’ve been frightened. Some unannounced guest at your front door after ten at night while you’re home alone?
But you’d simply set your bowl on the coffee table and meandered through the dark, your slippers shuffling on the unswept tile. You didn’t even check the peephole--you didn’t care to. You just opened the door.
Then he was there. Just like that, just like he had been for years before and not been for a year, he was there. Standing under the dinky porch light in the silky night air, wearing a pair of old Levi’s and a starchy white shirt.
And when you saw him, him with his eyebrows pinched the way he used to whenever he was thinking hard about something, him with his lips in that serious flat line you used to run your finger along, him with his Adam’s apple bobbing so profusely, him with his hands at his sides and clenching around precisely nothing--a strange peace flooded you. You’d been trying so very hard to press forward, to forget about him, to wash off the life you shared. Even if you knew it was entirely in vain, you did because that’s what you were supposed to do. But seeing him there on your porch, shrouded in shadows and awash with a strange emotion you cannot read--and you’ve been out of commission in the reading Jake’s emotions department for a while, anyway--you thought okay, this is it. I have been so overwhelmed with grief that my brain is atrophying and I am imagining things. This is my yellow wallpaper.
For the first time in a year, you felt good. This was your surrender. You were letting go, giving in, allowing yourself to be swallowed. It was like slipping into a warm bath; all the muscles in your body unfurling, all the breath in your lungs escaping, all the pain in your body dissipating.
But then he spoke.
“What’s that face?”
“What?” You choked.
You didn’t even mean to speak to him. It was just an immediate response.
“That face,” Jake said softly, nodding towards your cheek. “I’ve never seen you make it before.”
“That’s just my face now,” you told him.
It got quiet after that. There were no crickets chirping, no cicadas calling, no cars rumbling down the quiet street, no music playing through a cracked window. The night was just entirely silent.
The next few minutes were a blur. You wandered away from the door, still entirely convinced that this was your undoing and that you were taking up company with the ghost of your lost love. He’d taken it as an invitation and followed behind you. When you sunk back down into the sofa, taking your lukewarm bowl of noodles on your lap, he just watched you from the foyer.
He didn’t really know what he was doing there. He didn’t know why he came back other than to fill the gaping hole in his chest that he’d punctured there. It was selfish, he knew. He kept in touch with a few of your mutual friends and every once in a while, when he could afford it, he’d ask how you were. And the answers were never good. But seeing it, seeing you sit in that pitch-black living room, seeing you sit there with your bowl of shitty ramen, seeing your gaunt cheeks aglow in the artificial blue-light from the television, he understood just how bad things were. Really, he thought he had it bad with the nightmares and the guilt. But this was something different entirely.
When he said your name, you just glanced over at him. Your eyes were very dull.
Then he sat on the loveseat, facing you. And you just resumed watching The Price Is Right.
But now the episode is over and your bowl is empty.
So, you look over at him and his face is angled at the television, too. His eyes are so very glassy that you could watch the television in the reflection. His posture is rigid, which is not how he used to sit on the loveseat. He used to throw his entire body on top of it with a heave, used to sprawl out with his limbs askew. He used to take naps there like that. He used to pull you on top of him, used to keep your head cradled against his chest as it rose and fell with a grace you knew you would never come close to possessing.
This is all very strange. Jake knows this is very strange. You just left the door open behind you and ate your cheap dinner and watched TV while he sat there. But what is even stranger is that he didn’t want to immediately retreat. He didn’t feel that discomfort in his bones he feared he would. He even ended up watching the episode with you.
“Are these reruns?” He asks after a moment as a toothpaste commercial plays over the screen. This is the TV he left here--the unreasonably big one that cost a fortune to get mounted.
“Yeah,” you answer.
“When does the new season start?” He asks.
“September, I think.”
It’s quiet for a moment. You’re still looking at him, wondering how long it is going to be until he evaporates.
And he’s looking around the room now, squinting through the dark, letting his eyes fall over all the familiar terrain. The coffee table is amess with mail and car keys and matchbooks; you used to get onto him about crowding it with paperwork and glasses. The mantle that used to house all those trinkets you picked up everywhere is void of anything at all save a sad pillar candle almost burned to the wick. The throw pillows are strewn about, not at all in the precise order you liked them to be, and none of the throw blankets are folded and sitting in the basket beside the couch. It’s April now, but there are no pastel decorations littering the room. It’s just dark.
“How long will you be here?”
His eyes land on you again. You’ve curled into yourself, knees drawn to your chest, and you’re letting your cheek press against the flat of your knees as you look at him. There is something far-away about the way you’re looking at him, something that just isn’t quite there.
“What do you mean?”
“How long are you staying?”
He sighs, raking a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
You shrug.
“Okay,” you say. “Just lock the door on your way out.”
Somehow, even though he knows the opposite, he feels like the strange one here. He was expecting this to go differently. He thought you would cry and he would cry. He thought that maybe you wouldn’t let him in. He thought maybe you would’ve moved by now. Really, he expected things to go any other way than they are right now.
You’re just blinking at him, fiddling with a loose stitch on the couch.
“Do you want me to go?” He asks.
You shake your head immediately.
“Of course not,” you answer.
His heart is sitting in his throat, pulsing.
A beat passes. There’s a dog food commercial playing now.
“Don’t you want to ask what I’m doing here? Or why?”
“No,” you answer again.
He nods.
“Why not?”
You breathe softly, shrugging. This is the most strange conversation to be having with someone who is just not here.
“Why would I?” You return finally.
He rakes his hands through his hair again, softening into the sofa. He’s missed this sofa very much--he used to take long, open-mouthed naps here with your weight atop him.
“I don’t know,” he answers and he’s telling the truth. “I guess I would want to know if I were you.”
“You’re not me,” you answer even though you do think, in a convoluted way, he must be you since you’re the one imagining him here.
“Yeah,” he sighs, nodding.
“What should we do?” You ask.
He blinks.
“About?”
“Not about,” you answer, sighing. “What should we do now? Go to bed?”
“Are you tired?” Jake asks.
“I’m always tired,” you say.
That hurts. It’s a quick pain that radiates across his chest.
“You want to go to bed with me?” He asks.
You just nod. Of course you do. It’s all you’ve wanted for the past year. Just to lie beside him again, just to fall asleep with his foot nudging yours. That’s it. It’s simple.
You’ve missed him the most there--which is a given. Entirely a given.
He doesn’t know if he should. Things are still strange with Felicity. He doesn’t know where they stand, especially after tonight. Honestly, he doesn’t know where they’ve been standing for the past year besides the edge of a cliff and a stuffy therapist’s office.
“Okay,” he says softly. He nods. “We can go to bed.”
You don’t turn any lights on in the house as you navigate through it. You are good at navigating in the dark; it’s how you’ve been living for the past year. Jake stumbles a few times, feeling around for a doorknob or railing. You don’t reach for his hand and he doesn’t reach for the curve of your waist.
Even when you get into the bedroom, you don’t turn the light on. You don’t wash your face or brush your teeth. You just slip out of your socks, leave them in the heap that sits at the end of your bed, and climb under the unmade sheets.
Jake stands in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He can make out your silhouette beneath the linens, so much smaller than he remembers you being. Maybe you are--especially if you’ve been eating ramen at ten at night for the past year. He can’t make out much else besides the hunky shadows of furniture and he doesn’t try. He slips out of his jeans and his t-shirt, which feels strangely and achingly normal to be doing in this room at your bedside, and then pulls the covers down.
The two of you lie side by side without touching each other.
You can’t believe the peace that has found you so suddenly. This is a peace you have scoured for for twelve grueling months--yoga, acupuncture, retreats, massages, therapy, antidepressants, girl’s nights, blind dates--and never even came close to finding. But here it is now, laying in bed beside you, blinking up at the ceiling. He’s not even touching you, but he doesn’t have to: just knowing that you could reach over and press the flat of your foot against the curve of his calf is enough to untie a knot that’s been sitting in your throat.
Jake, for some reason, feels the same. He’s been having trouble sleeping for a year--an entire year. Felicity doesn’t snore. In fact, Felicity is entirely soundless when she sleeps. And he hates that. Often, he’s thought about the way you mumble throughout the night and the lonesome snores you sometimes let out. Felicity likes to be held, but you liked to hold him. He’s missed it--missed your arms around his waist, your hips against his. And now that he’s in bed with you, now that all this strangeness is becoming normal in the dark room around the two of you, he can feel himself growing tired. Sleep is starting to tug on his eyelids.
“Are you sleepy?” You ask softly.
You used to ask him this a lot. Usually it was accompanied with your fingers in his hair, tugging softly as he laid in your lap as you tried to finish another chapter of a book you’d been reading for too long. Sometimes it was when he was teetering between asleep and awake, when you knew just by looking at his slack face and parted lips that he was sleepy. It used to make the two of you laugh, a sound only the wrinkles in the sheets could hear.
“Yes,” Jake answers.
You swallow. There are suddenly tears in your eyes.
“Okay,” you just say.
“Are you?” He asks.
“You already asked me that,” you say softly.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay,” you answer.
This is starting to feel real. It is beginning to dawn on you that this is not a figment of your imagination, you have not been subdued by anguish. This is real, he is here, you watched an episode of The Price Is Right together, and now you’re in bed together. It’s almost too much for you--it’s making your chest tight, making your knuckles white. You thought that being around him again would make grief explode out of your chest like something akin to Alien. But here you are--intact somehow.
You want to ask him how long he’ll be there. You want to ask if he’ll be there when you wake up tomorrow morning. You want to ask him what he saw in your sleeping face that made him leave. But you don’t. You’re afraid of breathing too hard, afraid of moving wrong.
“Are you still awake?” He asks.
You nod and he feels it.
“What’s happening?” He asks.
This wasn’t his intention when he came here tonight. Fuck, he doesn’t even really know what his intention was, but he knows that it isn’t this.
“I don’t know,” you answer.
He can tell that you’re choked up.
“Ask me why I’m here,” he demands in a hushed tone.
You sniffle, shaking your head.
“I don’t want to,” you say. “Please don’t make me.”
He bites his lip hard. His throat is thickening with tears, too, just hearing how utterly broken your tone is. Just to know that he is the one that fractured it, just to know that he is the one that’s hurt you--it makes his chest tight.
“Ask me anything. Please.” He’s begging.
“You’re being selfish,” you whisper. There are tears rolling off your cheeks now. You take a deep breath. “It’s not fair that you’re making me ask. You know that I can’t say no to you. You know that.”
He does know that. It’s how the two of you started anyway.
Jake and Felicity were on the rocks, like they always were, when he met you at the beach three years ago. It was late and the two of you were the only cars parked in that sandy parking lot, each of you staring out over the dark water.
Jake knew better than to approach a young woman alone at night--so he did his best to not send creeper-vibes in your general direction, barely even glancing at you. But then he made the mistake of crumpling a piece of straw wrapper between his fingers and tossing it out his window.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when you suddenly laid on your horn after witnessing the entire ordeal.
He looked at you, bewildered, and you were wildly gesturing for him to roll his window down. So he did, his throat entirely dry, and you ripped into him.
“Did you just fucking litter? Right in front of me?”
He didn’t know what to say. He just stared at you, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry?” He managed to stutter out.
“If you’ll litter right there in front of me, then what will you do when I’m not here?” You raved at him, throwing your arms up. “That’s the scummiest shit I’ve seen all day and I work at City Hall!”
He was admiring you without even meaning to. Your eyes were alight with fire, your face glowing in the white light of the moon. The breeze was pressing into your hair, pushing it over your bitten lips. You were beautiful--even when you were yelling at him.
“City Hall?” He asked. “You the mayor or something?”
You blinked at him, dumbfounded.
“Do I look like the mayor?” You asked, furrowing your brows at him.
He made a show of looking over your bare shoulders and the necklace sitting on your throat and the red in your cheeks. And suddenly, your heart was racing. This perfect stranger who just littered in front of you, the one you ripped into, was suddenly undeniably handsome and absolutely checking you out.
“No,” he answered finally. “Aren’t mayors usually bald men?”
You wanted to smile.
“That’s a bit regressive, don’t you think?”
He grinned. It made your heart stutter.
“What’s your name?”
You bit your lip.
“I don’t give my name out to strangers that litter.”
So Jake had gotten out of his car, raised his brows at you, retrieved the tiny piece of trash you were so upset about, and walked it all the way over to the garbage can. Then he’d gotten back in his car with a grin.
“Now I’m just a stranger,” he said. “Do you tell just strangers your name?”
There was a grin tugging at your lips.
“If they tell me theirs first,” you insisted.
“Jake,” he said without hesitation. “Seresin. C’mon, your turn, City Hall.”
You nodded. Jake Seresin.
You told him your name and he smiled. It made your toes curl.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, nodding.
“Okay,” you said back, shoulders straight.
The two of you ended up fucking hard and fast against the hood of his truck after the first hour. The breeze was warm and salty, your body was soft and supple, and the waves were crashing in the distance. His windows were rolled down so the two of you could hear Fruits of My Labor by Lucinda Williams playing softly from his radio. For some reason, it was the best sex he ever had.
There was a strange pull between the two of you, one that neither of you were willing to reject. He told you that he was married just after that and it strangely did not deter you. You had never been the kind of girl that went after married men, but Jake made you dizzy. You were powerless to interrupt whatever was happening between the two of you.
He left Felicity for you just a month later.
And now he’s lying beside you and he can feel every shuddering breath that you breathe and he feels like his body is going to turn itself inside out.
“Why’d you leave?” You whisper.
He’s guilty. He feels like he’s asked you to do something impossible.
“I keep not doing the right thing,” he says. He practiced this on the way over, practiced everything he’s wanted to tell you for the past year. But none of it is coming to him now that he’s beside you. “Like I left Felicity for you and then I left you for her and I just thought that if I righted things with Felicity, then I would feel better about myself. Because I don’t. Feel good about myself, that is.”
“Fuck you,” you whisper dryly. It isn’t with malice. It’s just an expression, one that you’ve used frequently enough that he doesn’t flinch. “You don’t feel good?”
He’s quiet now.
“I feel guilty.”
You sniffle again. You’re not angry.
“I bet you do,” you say. “I would feel guilty if I made someone feel the way I have for the past year.”
He’s quiet.
“I left because I felt like I had to do the right thing,” he says, quieter now.
He’s telling the truth. He hardly thought twice before he left Felicity and fell right into your life together. You were living together right away and things were good. They were seamless and easy. He kept waiting for something to happen, something that would make him feel guilty about leaving Felicity and moving on with you so quickly, but it never came. His friends loved you. You cooked his steak just right. His mom adored you. You were thinking about getting a dog together. You never argued. He couldn’t get enough of you ever. And you returned that love tenfold.
So that Tuesday morning, after a perfect night for a fucking Monday, he woke up and looked at you. You were sleeping with your face buried deeply in the pillows, your eyes fluttered shut, your face awash with peace. And he cupped your cheek, pressed hair behind your ears.
And then he thought I want to marry you. It was the first time he thought it; his last marriage, which wasn’t even officially over yet, had scarred him to the point of swearing off legal unions entirely. You’d been all for it, insisting that whatever he would give you was enough. And the thing about it was that you were telling the truth and he knew it. Seamless.
Then he got scared--the kind of fear that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention--and he thought of you looking at him the same way Felicity had when he handed her his ring. That pain--it was hideous to witness, hideous to inflict. He couldn’t do that to you.
Guilt found him for the first time, too. Guilt that he loved you more in this one precise moment than he loved Felicity in the years they were together. Maybe loving someone as much as he loved you wasn’t natural--maybe that wasn’t the way the world was meant to work.
So he decided. He was going to leave.
Then he’d left. To preserve you and your feelings. To preserve whatever goodness you two had that was surely fleeting anyhow, even if it hadn’t shown it yet. Felicity, for some reason, had welcomed him back even if they both understood that there was precisely nothing left between them. No amount of therapy could bring back what they had--and even if it could, it would be remarkably dim in contrast to what he had with you.
“And was it?” You ask. “The right thing?”
He pauses. He truly doesn’t know. The ache in his chest says no, absolutely not. But the ring sitting heavy on his fourth finger says yes, it absolutely was. Even if Felicity is so rigid still.
“I don’t know,” Jake answers. “I’ve been wondering about that the past year.”
What you wouldn’t give to have been wondering anything other than your loneliness for the past year.
“Why are you here?”
You’re afraid of the answer. Your fingers are numb with grief.
“I missed you,” he answers instinctively.
That’s when your first sob punctures the quiet bedroom. Every fiber in his being is screaming for him to reach out and hold you, for him to collect you in his arms and hold you tight against him, to comfort you. But he doesn’t move.
“Jake,” you cry, holding your face in your hands. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
His teeth sink into his lower lip.
“Me neither,” he answers.
“I didn’t even think you were real,” you tell him, mercilessly sobbing into your palms. “I thought I’d finally lost my fucking mind. I thought you were a ghost. I genuinely thought I’d gone insane with grief, Jake. Do you know how fucked that is?”
He reaches out, a strange lack of hesitance sitting in his belly. Then he lets his hand rest on your belly. It’s a gesture that’s marked your relationship together. He used to call you Fido because you loved for him to rub your belly; he learned that it was because of the lack of physical touch you’d received from your frivolous mother as a child and he was always, always happy to appease you.
Your breathing steadies, just for a moment. His hand is warm and heavy with familiarity. God, you’ve missed this hand so much that you could stay here and not move for the rest of your life and be content. You could die just like this and it would be okay. It would be good, even.
“I’m real,” Jake says because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“I wish you weren’t,” you admit. “It would be a lot easier for me when you go.”
There’s that pain in his chest again. It’s worse than the airframe on his F-18 getting bent as he pulls 9G’s. It’s worse than punching out into the cornflower sky. It’s worse than anything, he thinks, to hear you say this to him.
But he can’t get himself to say that he’ll stay because he doesn’t know if he can.
“Don’t say that,” he just says softly.
“I mean it, though,” you weep. “I wish you weren’t real.”
His eyes flutter shut. This hurts. But it’s a pain that almost feels good--it’s a punishment. He’s punished himself, sure, and his friends have said some things here and there. But it feels good for you to be punishing him now. This is what he deserves. He deserves for you to tear into his flesh. He deserves to bleed for what he’s done to you--ripping you apart until you’re an empty-eyed bag of bones.
He strokes the imprint of your ribs beneath his fingers and lets you continue.
“I wish we never met and-and I wish I just was alone this whole time and I wish we weren’t ever happy together! I wish you just fucking littered and I just fucking let you!”
He takes it. A glutton for punishment.
You don’t move his hand away. You’re angry, but you’re not even exactly angry at him. You’re just angry that it is humanly possible to house all this grief. You’re angry that you have the capacity to love someone this much and be hurt by someone this much. It seems unnatural.
“I don’t,” Jake finally whispers. “You made me feel so happy. So content.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“I never said it wasn’t enough,” he whispers.
“You never said anything about any of this,” you tell him.
You’re still crying.
He’s still thumbing your bones through your skin, refamiliarizing himself with the terrain. Touching your skin feels like being wrapped in the very first blanket he was wrapped in as a newborn, very warm and soft. It makes him want to be naked and wrapped around you.
“What if we just sleep and then we talk tomorrow? In the morning? As early or late as you want.”
You’ve never been able to say no to him.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move his hand.
“Jake,” you say because you can’t help it. You almost can’t believe how easy his name rolls off your tongue. You’ve tried so hard not to utter it but here it is, smooth as the inside of a seashell in your mouth. “Please don’t leave before I wake up.”
He shakes his head.
“I’m not going to leave before you wake up,” he promises.
He means it. He owes it to you. He owes it to the pain sitting heavily on his chest.
And even though he doesn’t deserve it and the both of you know that, you turn in the bed. He’s confused at first, alarmed at the sudden movement. But then you’re doing it, clicking yourself into place. You are holding him. Your lips are pressed to his bicep and your leg is threaded through his and he can feel your tears and your breathing and oh my God he has missed this so much that he’s choked up.
This is what you do. You love Jake the way he needs to be loved without him uttering a word to you about it. You just know him, you just understand him, you just fucking love him. Felicity has never been able to understand what he’s thinking, has never been able to give him what he wants without him asking for it. He doesn’t blame her--he doesn’t know what she wants either. But he knows that you want him to press his back against your front, so he does. It’s the least he can do for you.
You’re overwhelmed at the sheer closeness of this encounter. You were so worried he was going to fade into the sheets as soon as you touched him, but he didn't. He’s totally solid beneath your touch. He’s just right there, pressed up against you. He still uses the same aftershave and you’re worried you’re going to get drunk on it--you’ve been limiting yourself to whiffs of his pillow every now and then, always calculating the time wisely. But now it’s just permeating the sheets, sitting heavily in your nostrils.
And his skin--it’s so warm and soft. It just feels right to hold him. It’s not unfamiliar at all.
“Goodnight,” he whispers to you.
“Stay,” you just whisper back.
You’re desperate.
So he nods, lets his face press into that pillow that still smells like his aftershave.
“I am,” he whispers.
“Don’t hurt me,” you beg quietly.
You press a tentative kiss on the bare skin of his back. His eyes water.
“I’m trying not to,” he tells you quietly.
The two of you get your first full night of rest in twelve months in the bed that you used to share. It’s blissful, really. So blissful that when you wake up and he’s not in bed, you think about checking yourself into some sort of institution. Because it had felt so fucking real--so real that you genuinely slept. Like really, thoroughly, actually slept.
You walk down the stairs in tears already, feeling like you’re back at square one even though you never really got past it in the first place. The house is quiet and you aren’t even sure what day it is and there’s dishes to do and sobs to heave--
But when you walk into the kitchen, he’s still here. He’s sitting at the kitchen table that the two of you thrifted your first year together with a steaming mug in his hand and another one sitting across from him--the coffee is the exact shade you like it to be.
When he sees you, you in your pajamas with your messy hair and the tear tracks on your cheeks, he wilts. He thought he was doing the right thing letting you sleep in--because he knows you and he knows you haven’t been sleeping very well at all--and getting coffee started. It doesn’t even dawn on him that you probably thought he’d left again until he sees the way your pupils dilate when they land on him.
“Oh,” you whisper, halting suddenly at the threshold of the kitchen. You sniffle, frowning, swiping your tears away hastily. “I thought you…”
He shakes his head, sinking his teeth into his lower lip.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself and settling into the kitchen chair across from him.
“It’s fine,” you tell him.
It’s quiet for a moment. At the very least, there are birds singing in the gray morning light, hopping from one branch of a eucalyptus tree to the next. The room is washed white and you can see every speck of dust and grime you’ve let build up in the kitchen. The house is just messy--you’ve let it get that way. Without Jake living here, you’ve given up trying to keep the coffee table clear and the shoes on the rack by the front door. It doesn’t matter--well, it didn’t matter.
“I missed this coffee,” he tells you, bringing the mug to his lips again. “Felicity likes Folgers.”
You smile softly. You were the one that turned Jake onto good coffee. He fashions himself as some sort of coffee snob now, one that usually gets his coffee imported. But not with Felicity, you suppose.
You wipe your eyes again. You would’ve liked to have this conversation after a shower--Hell, even just after brushing your teeth. But you’re too afraid to let him out of your sight again. So you settle in against the wood, closing your eyes as it groans beneath your weight.
“How is she?” You ask. It just seems like the right thing to say.
Jake winces. He knows he shouldn’t be talking about his wife right now. He knows that. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to be talking about, but certainly it shouldn’t be Felicity.
But maybe this is a good place to start. Maybe this is the first time he can be honest with someone about the way things are between them--he usually keeps his responses vague with others. People don’t really want to know, especially his friends that were friends with you--the ones that preferred you.
Oh, we’re fine. We’re working on our marriage. Therapy is helping.
With you, though--he can just say it.
“She hates me,” he says, laughing dryly. He’s fiddling with the little chip on the rim of the mug, watching as your fingers slide into the handle of your mug. It’s your favorite--he knows that. “Like, she actually really hates me.”
He won’t look at you, but you’re looking at him. You’re watching that humorless smile tug at his lips, watching him blink away the tired in his eyes.
“Yeah,” you breathe.
If you were Felicity, you would hate him, too. You would hate you, too.
“Therapy isn’t helping,” he tells you. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud. “Haven’t slept in the same bed for a few months now.”
You nod. If you close your eyes, you can still feel his heaviness in your arms last night.
“So?” You prompt.
There’s a lull as Jake bites his bottom lip pensively. He was really expecting more of a fight here. He was expecting you to be up in arms about him coming back. It’s almost worse that you’re so calm, so welcoming.
He doesn’t know this, but you’re not above begging. If it meant he would stay, you would get on your knees and grovel. But you just wait for him to answer.
“I told her we should refile for divorce,” he tells you, which is true.
Your spine prickles.
“Good for you,” you tell him. “You deserve to be…held.”
He didn’t even have to say it. You know that Felicity doesn’t hold him--he told you that the first time around whenever you held him for the first time in bed. You know that it’s true even now because of the way he went totally slack in your arms.
“I don’t know what I deserve,” Jake admits.
Me, you want to say. Me.
“It’s time for you to tell me,” you whisper.
You take a sip of your coffee and shut your eyes as it warms your chest.
He knows what you mean. He can’t bring himself to look at you yet.
“I woke up and I wanted to marry you,” he tells you.
He hasn’t told a soul this--not even his therapist. He hasn’t uttered it out loud even once.
You furrow your brows but say nothing. Your throat is dry.
“I just…” Jake sighs, blinking at his coffee. “When I met you, things were fine with me and Felicity. We didn’t argue. We were talking about moving houses. But then there was you and everything I thought I knew about love, about my relationship with Felicity, it was just…gone. Shaken up.”
You just nod again.
His heart is racing.
“If I was…if I was a good man, I wouldn’t have had sex with you that first night. Or any of the nights after. If I was a good man, I would’ve stayed with my wife. But I’m not a good man, so I cheated on her and then I left her,” Jake says. He takes another deep breath and sips on his coffee again. “But I just couldn’t help it. I just loved you so immediately.”
“Mmm,” you hum, wiping under your eyes again.
You move to hold your face in his hands as he continues, your face contorting with grief again.
“And then I thought that I could be good for you and I was good for you. We were good. It was all so easy. I felt like I didn’t really deserve it--especially since I just didn’t feel guilty about Felicity. But we agreed to not get married, right? You and me?”
You nod, not moving your face from your hands.
Jake wants to hold you. He knows you’re crying. But he’s going to lose his nerve if he doesn’t continue right now.
“But then I just woke up and we had such a good night--I mean, who has that good of a night on a Monday? I looked at you and I just thought about how badly I wanted to marry you suddenly,” Jake says. His voice is beginning to quiver. “And then I thought about Felicity’s face when I told her I was leaving. I thought about how broken she was. And I-I was so scared that if we got married, I was gonna do the same to you.”
You sigh into your palms.
For an entire year, you’d been racking your brain. You’d been trying to pinpoint the moment he fell out of love with you. You’ve been retracing all your steps carefully, trying to figure out where you went wrong. But you didn’t do anything wrong. All you did was love him the best he’s ever been loved--and he still left you.
“I’m not a good man,” he says.
“Don’t say that,” you snap, looking up at him.
He looks at you finally. Your eyes are rimmed with red and there are fat tears on your bottom lashes.
The two of you just look at each other. You both still want each other so bad that it’s making your bottom lips tremble. You want to make this house his house again, too. You want to hold him every night as he falls asleep. He wants to kiss your throat in the shower and push your hair behind your ears and never litter again.
The both of you feel suddenly how intense things feel right now.
So, Jake changes directions.
“How’s your mom?” He asks.
He’s afraid to talk about anything else. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t ask about that then he will confess his love right here, right now and ruin everything.
“Still a cunt,” you whisper.
He smiles softly.
“How was she? When I left?”
He was worried about you. Of course he was. He knew it was a grand sort of irony, him being the one inflicting all that anguish, but being distraught over the state of your wellbeing. But he knew that you wouldn’t reach out to any of your mutual friends--it would hurt too bad. So that would leave you with your mom, who was never useful when it counted the most.
“Terrible,” you answer him. You’re still crying, but now you’re laughing dryly, too. “Left me alone in the bathroom at Risotto’s to play tennis at the club.”
“You’re kidding,” Jake says, gritting his teeth.
You shrug.
“No,” you answer with a sigh. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m not.”
“She’s a real piece of work,” he mutters. “Was she wearing those ridiculous sunglasses?”
You laugh softly, nodding.
“Knew it,” Jake mumbles, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t missed her.”
It’s quiet again.
“How’s your mom?” You ask.
You’ve missed her, but you haven’t had it in you to answer any of her calls.
“Fine. Pissed at me,” he answers, nodding. “Misses you.”
“Yeah.” You wipe your eyes for the thousandth time that morning. “I miss her, too.”
You finish your coffee. Then you chew on your bottom lip, staring at a stain in the middle of the table that you were never able to buff out.
“Does she know you’re here?”
“My mom?” Jake asks.
You shake your head.
“Felicity,” you answer. You don’t say her name maliciously. You’ve always felt very bad about the way things happened--but now you feel that you’ve had your penance; your year without Jake. You feel like the two of you are even now.
“Yes,” he answers.
Felicity was calm when Jake said he wanted to stop working on things. She agreed. She admitted to having feelings for a coworker, though she hadn’t done anything but kiss him. They had a glass of scotch together. He kissed the top of her head. She asked if he was going to your house. He said yes. And when he left, things were okay. It felt like the first time they’d been honest with each other since he came back.
“And it’s over?”
He nods.
“It’s over,” he confirms. He twists the ring on his finger and then settles it softly on top of the stain you’re staring at. “I mean it.”
You nod.
“I believe you,” you answer. You pause and comb your fingers through your hair. “Does that make me stupid?”
Jake smiles sadly, softly.
“You’re not stupid,” he answers. “You’ve never been stupid.”
You laugh dryly again.
“You don’t have to marry me,” you tell him. You shrug, shaking your head as you look down at the table. “I never expected you to. I don’t care about getting married. I never did.”
Maybe that is what hurts the most--is that all of this could have been avoidable with a single conversation. If he had just gotten on your level. If he had just been honest.
“I want to marry you,” he says. “That’s the issue.”
“Well, if you ask, I’ll just say no,” you tell him.
He smiles gently.
“No you won’t,” he whispers.
You nod.
“I know,” you say. You bite your lip. “I was just saying that.”
“That’s a lot to give up,” he says. “Marriage.”’
“It’s a piece of paper,” you tell him.
He shakes his head.
“It’s a lot more than a piece of paper,” he tells you. “It’s a wedding and it’s taxes and it’s a legal bind. Even metaphorically, it’s more than just paper.”
“It’s frivolous,” you insist.
You mean it, too--you don’t care about getting married.
“But maybe you won’t always feel that way,” he whispers. “Maybe you’ll wake up one day and you’ll want to get married and I will too and I’ll fuck it up again.”
You sigh.
“Yeah, and maybe the moon is going to disappear and maybe the sun is going to explode and maybe all the bees are gonna die,” you tell him. He purses his lips. “It’s all relative.”
He shakes his head again, exhaling.
“What kind of people are we if we both wanna get married but are too scared to do it?”
You grip your mug.
“People that make do,” you say. You sniffle. “People that do what works for them.”
He sighs.
“Will it always work for you? Not being married?”
“Will it always work for you, Jake?”
He pauses. He doesn’t know.
“Maybe,” he answers.
“Before we start talking about all of this again,” you breathe, “I still have to forgive you.”
There’s a lump in his throat.
“I know,” he promises. “I know that.”
“And I am going to take my time doing that,” you insist.
He nods profusely.
“You should,” he says.
A beat passes.
“Jake,” you whisper.
The two of you finally meet each other’s gazes. Jake nods, earnestly letting his eyes rake over the sunken hollows of your cheeks and the darkness staining your undereyes. Your lips are chapped and your nose is bright red.
“Yeah, darlin’?” He returns.
Your skin gooses at the way it falls off his tongue: darlin’.
“Will you stay while I shower?”
He does stay. He sits on the toilet, his hands folded in his lap, and watches the steam fog up the mirror. You feel like you’re washing away an entire year’s worth of filth.
“My towel?” You ask when you turn the faucet off, reaching through the curtain.
He hands it to you swiftly, then settles back down on the toilet.
“You changed the shower curtain,” he says softly, just to say something. It’s one of the only things he’s noticed that’s been replaced. “I like it.”
It’s a mirage of moody painted florals, dark reds and oranges and pinks.
“The other one was too boyish,” you say as you dry yourself off.
Jake laughs quietly.
“Well, I’d say this is the opposite of boyish,” he tells you.
You pull it back, wrapped in the towel, your wet hair sitting limply on your back. He looks at you and you look at him, both of your stomach's in knots. When you bite down on your lip, he watches water droplets roll off your calves and onto the tile.
“What are you looking at?” You ask him.
Beneath his gaze, you feel more three-dimensional than you have in a year. You feel, suddenly, like you can straighten your shoulders and square your jaw. You don’t want to slouch through life when he’s looking at you.
“Your legs,” he says honestly, letting his eyes drag back up to yours. “You.”
You swallow hard.
You feel like you have to say it now.
“You broke my heart,” you tell him.
Now he swallows hard, blinking, but nodding.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know that I did.”
“And it was because you were scared,” you continue. “Really, you could’ve just talked to me. We could’ve worked it out.”
He nods again.
“This has been the worst year of my life, Jake,” you tell him. “And that’s putting it lightly.”
He nods. His eyes are starting to water.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he admits quietly. “And I’m sorry that I did. If I could take it back, darlin’, you know that I would. I would.”
“I believe you,” you whisper.
He exhales shakily. He wasn’t expecting to hear you say that.
“I wanna be with you,” he tells you before he loses his nerve.
You swallow hard and plant your feet on the ground firmly.
“If we’re going to do this,” you say, gesturing between the two of you with your heart racing. “Then you have to be solid. Because if we…if we…and then you leave again, I don’t think I’ll survive. Really, Jake. I don’t.”
“I’m solid,” he says.
It feels like the first time he’s told the truth in a long time.
“You won’t leave?” You confirm. Your voice is quivering.
He nods.
He’s just wearing his t-shirt and his boxers from last night, his hair mussed and his eyes swollen from sleep. He’s glassy-eyed as he gazes at you, his lips flat. You want to run your finger along those lips, want to be close to him. You feel like your bones are beginning to vibrate.
“I won’t leave,” he answers. “I want this. I want you.”
Your breath visibly stutters whenever he says it: I want you. It’s what you’ve been waiting to hear for twelve long months. It’s what you’ve cruelly dreamed of. It’s what you have ached for.
“I forgive you,” you say. So much for taking your time.
Jake watches your cheeks grow pink, watches your hair drip down your shoulders. You’re washed in the low yellow light of the bathroom, your chin trembling.
“Come here,” he whispers to you, his voice thin. “I have to hold you.”
For a moment, you feel like you’re frozen. But then he opens his arms and your feet are moving without you, just propelling you forward and across the rug and into his embrace. Then he’s holding you against him so tightly that your back pops, holding you so tight that you can’t breathe. You’re crying and he’s relishing in the way your body just fits so perfectly there in his arms, the way your fingers feel when they tangle in his hair. He’s missed you so much that he almost feels like this is a fuzzy daydream.
His hair is like velvet between your fingers, his arms like a blanket around you. You’re sobbing, heaving and he’s just hugging you close to him with his head buried in your chest. He’s inhaling the laundry detergent that you buy and the body wash you use and he can feel himself falling into you again.
“I’ve been crying for you, boy,” you whimper to him, hugging him against your body.
He’s kissing you now, his lips dampening from the towel still wrapped around you, but it doesn’t stop him. He won’t stop kissing you. He won’t leave. He will prove to you--to himself--that he is good. He will be good for you.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he promises. He’s beginning to cry now, too. He doesn’t know if its because of the sudden and overwhelming feeling of being close to you or if it’s because he’s missed you so fucking much or if it’s because he hurt you so bad. “I’m gonna make it right, darlin’.”
“I know,” you whimper. “I know you are.”
You stay like that for a long time: wrapped up in each other.
Nevermore closed its doors sooner than usual. After the passing of Principal Weems, the semester had to be cut short, which meant a longer spring break for the students. Most of them were secretly glad of it, and to be fair Xavier was among them. The reason for this elongated holiday was dreadful, but a break from school could do him some good. Standing in the passageway of the first floor above the quad, he gazed at the crowd of students getting ready to go home. He made a mental note to bid Ajax goodbye before his friend left.
“Hello Xavier,” greeted a voice beside him.
He turned his head to the side to be greeted by the sight of a woman cladded in a very sophisticated black outfit, dramatic black hat and sunglasses. She looked intimidating, but he knew better. “Hello Miss Cordelia,” he greeted your aunt. “I didn’t know you were picking up Y/N.”
“I’m not,” she said flatly, “but I wanted to make sure of a few things.”
Approaching the ledge she followed Xavier’s eyes fixated on you, currently hugging Enid goodbye, no doubt promising to text her during the holiday break.
“Does she remember anything?” asked your aunt in a surprising soft tone.
“Of the disease? Most of it. About me, she remembers more and more every day,” said Xavier, not tearing his gaze away from you.
Aunt Cordelia hummed pensively, in appreciation. A long moment of silence followed, before Xavier spoke up again.
“How is that even possible?” he asked your aunt, “I thought removing the flower with a surgical operation would make her forget about me completely.”
Your aunt sighed, indicating how little she knew about this too, “I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to come here, the doc had said that during the surgery, the flowers’ roots were already not clutched around the lungs and heart anymore.”
Xavier frowned, not getting where she was getting at, “Why does it matter?”
“It’s the forceful removal of the roots that triggers the memory loss,” explained the elder witch. “Or we think it’s the source of it. But given that he hadn’t to tear it out…I’m wondering if that’s why she still has some memories of you.”
At her words, Xavier’s eyes widened slightly, “You think she can actually remember everything one day?”
“It’s possible,” shrugged Cornelia, “after all, you said it yourself, her memory is recovering day by day.”
His heart thumped in excitement at the prospect. Xavier had dared to imagine this possibility but…hearing someone else confirming his theory was something else entirely.
Fixing her sunglasses on her nose, your aunt continued, “I’ve spoken to a certain Miss Bianca Barclay, I assume you’re familiar with her?”. At Xavier’s nod she continued, “She told me what she had done for Y/N with her siren’s song; it’s most likely that’s what caused the flowers and their roots to retreat from around her heart.”
“You mean that Bianca might actually have saved Y/N?” said Xavier in surprise.
Aunt Cordelia eyed him from head to toe and let out a small laugh, “Well, her, you, Miss Sinclair and that new roommate of hers. So thank you, Xavier.”
His eyebrows rose up in surprise. For as long as he had known your aunt, Xavier couldn’t remember the last time she had actually thanked someone. Witches’ pride or something like that.
“I must go,” she said sharply before Xavier could add anything. “Take care of my niece Xavier.”
“I will,” he assured.
She offered him a thin smile before rummaging in her hand bag, “Oh one second, here,” she said, handing him a small vial, “as a thanks.”
“What is this?” he frowned.
“It’ll help to get the last petals out,” she explained and let out a small snort at Xavier’s expression painted in surprise. “You must be in the end of the healing process now, according to the petals you cough.”
“How did you…?”
“Oh honey, you’re not half subtle as you think you are,” she said with a sweet voice, before turning serious again, “At least I can content myself at the thought you had a taste of what she went through for you.” Xavier’s wince made her brush away her last bitter comment with a vague gesture of her hand. “But you’re healing; the more she remembers how much she loves you, the more you heal. Knowing her,” she said, casting one last fond look at your figure downstairs, “it won’t be long.”
With that, she disappeared to a nearby corridor. For a few seconds Xavier stood on his spot in astonishment, but then chuckled at your aunt’s antics. Grabbing his backpack he walked down the stairs, where he saw you talking with Wednesday from afar. He couldn’t hear what you were saying but you both seemed cordial to each other. You even handed her a wrapped box, giving her a phone. Wednesday didn’t hug you, but a tiny smile definitely crept on her face before she turned and walked away sharply. Taking this as his cue, Xavier strolled next to you, sliding an arm around your waist and dropping a kiss on your forehead when he came by your side.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you’re good?”
Smiling at him you nodded, “Yep. I think that Wednesday and I needed to bury the war hatchet.”
“Did it work?”
“She did try to kill Crackstone to save us,” you admitted. “And she apologized, the counts are even. And maybe I’ll miss my creepy roommate after all,” you added with a playful nudge on his side.
Xavier let out a laugh, and the two of you made your way to the school’s gates. While you packed your bags in the trunk of the car Xavier’s dad had sent for the two of you, you stopped for an instant and looked back at the school. It had become your house over the years, but more importantly it had brought you a sense of normality even among werewolves, sirens and vampires. It has brought you friends, and so much more.
You felt Xavier’s hand sliding into yours.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Looking up at him, you gazed deeply into his brown eyes. This, this place, this moment, was what made everything click altogether, and all the things that have seemed fuzzy fall into place.
“I love you,” you breathed out.
The grin on Xavier’s face was everything.
“I love you too sweetheart,” he said before kissing you softly.
The annoyed honk from the car made you pull away a few seconds later, giggling like kids and you tugged on Xavier’s hand to the vehicle. In your newfound euphoria, you missed the faint cough coming from him, but it didn’t matter. As the car led the both of you away from the school, the last petal Xavier would ever cough laid on the cobblestone of Nevermore.
A/N: Aaaand there it is! The last part of the fic finally out! :DD
I hope you enjoyed it and that the ending didn’t disappointed you too much!
I really want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you, finishing a fic is always like a sort of sad goodbye and I swear I’m crying a little by writting those words.
I loved writting every parts, but more than that I loved exchanging and talking with you about it, whether for crack thoughts, or theories! You were incredible and the kindest readers I could ever ask for, so thanks a billion time for your support and you kindness! (especially your tolerance for my crappy English, it’s the first time I’m cristing something this long in such a short time, in a language which isn’t my mother tongue!)
Thank you for the laughs, the cry, the crazy demands to be tagged (we have 119 tagged people!! This is insane for me!!), and if you ever want to rant or talk about the fic, or anything in general, I’m always here!
Hope you’re all doing okay, take care of you ♥
-Zoey
Taglist:
(no need to ask at every chapter, you’re added once, and you’re added for the whole fic :D)
Saw a video of Daniel with his family and his mom was crying… during the night I was desolated, crying. He’s not what really made me start watching the sport, but was one of the first that just made me fall in love even harder with it.
Ando also there’s Seb last race. I am so sad right now, tears already started rolling down my face.
A shame I didn’t start watching F1 earlier so I could enjoy them for longer.
