The only question remaining is: do we have the ability to fuel the flames?
A loud knock sounds from the door, and I’m on my feet rushing to the source before I’ve told my mind to do so. Yanking the door open, I come face to face with a freshly showered Jacoby, hair damp and curling along the edges. He smells woodsy with an underlying hint of sweetness, and it makes my mouth water.
I drop my eyes lower taking in the fitted button down navy striped shirt with cuffs rolled to his elbows, to his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his faded dark blue jeans. He looks better than I remembered, but something feels off.
Trailing my eyes back up, I notice the tense line of his shoulders, the subtle tick in his jaw. His eyes are slightly narrowed, a light crinkling of lines near the corners that belie the seemingly casualness of his posture.
Adrenaline spikes through my gut. In all the scenarios I played through my head this morning, I never imagined Jacoby would be pissed. Frustrated, sure. Disappointed, most likely.
But he’s standing in the doorway looking as if he steps inside, he’ll snap. And I’m directly in the firing range.
Swallowing the thick sticky feeling in my throat, I square my shoulders and take the reins before we’re stuck staring at each other all day.
“You came,” I state, thankful my voice doesn’t sound all breathy and relieved, as though I didn’t actually believe he’d come. Truthfully, a part of me didn’t.
Jacoby nods. “You said you needed me.” He doesn’t continue, leaving me to confirm or continue the line of conversation without his help. Stepping back, I pull the door further open, and Jacoby takes the silent hint, entering the room. As I quietly close the door, I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my move. I need him, not the other way around, so it’s time to convince him.
“I’m ready to talk.”
“You’re ready to talk,” he replies in a voice vacant of emotion. The sound is stiff and rough, with maybe a teensy, tiny thread of disbelief, but I can’t be sure. My mind is probably imagining the modicum of feeling I’m hoping to hear.
“Yes. I-I needed a few days to think,” I stammer. As much as I hate confrontation, I hate carrying a conversation even more. I desperately wish he’d take the lead, yell at me, interrogate me, something, so I don’t have to try to fill the silence on my own. Instead he remains silent, his arms crossed tightly over his muscular chest. That same chest I had naked and pressed against me three days ago. This conversation would be so much easier if he didn’t look downright delectable.
“I’m scared of you,” I whisper, the sound riding my exhale. Jacoby’s body visibly jolts at my words, and his brows snap down over his deep brown eyes.
“What?”
“You know so much about me. Hell, everything about me,” I begin. My fingers run through my hair, grasping the silky dark strands at the crown of my head. “Every day we’re together, you learn more. And each time it’s something deeper, something darker and you…I…” I was trying to hold eye contact, but I can’t do it anymore. The questions and uncertainty in his gaze is too much. My feelings for him keep growing stronger, but I don’t know if he reciprocates, and it’s too much.
My eyes move to focus on my reflection in the mirror just behind his left shoulder. My lungs expand and contract with the need to suck in more oxygen. “You saw things. More than once. You saw things you were never supposed to see. And then we were together, and it was like those things didn’t even matter. But I know they do! How can they not? How can you even look at me when you know that I’m not okay?”
“Sweetheart—ˮ
I cut him off, lowering my voice in an attempt to hold my tears inside. “I’m broken. You scare me, because I know you see it, too. Nobody wants broken.”
One second I’m standing by the door, the next I’m plastered against Jacoby’s warm, solid chest. His arms snake tightly around my waist, securing my body in his hold. A burning sensation rises in the back of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to extinguish it.
“Is that why you’ve been hiding? You think I might find something out and not want you anymore?
“You want me?”
He looks to the ceiling and seconds tick past. Just as I’m about to call his name he looks back down to me.
“You have to question that?”
“Well…yeah. Isn’t that what all this has been about? You didn’t want me. You said it yourself, this is wrong. I’ve just been giving you more reasons to believe it.”
His arms around my waist give me a squeeze. “And what would those be?”
My hands curl into fists as I struggle against his hold, but he’s too strong. His feigning ignorance pisses me off. Pushing against his chest, I reply harshly, “You saw me almost get raped. You know about my situation with my mom. You’ve seen these!” I scream at him, yanking forcefully out of his hold as I jerk the sleeves of my shirt up my forearms. The tears I tried so hard to contain spill down my cheeks in a rapid stream.
“Sweetheart—ˮ
“I saw the look on your face. You’re disgusted with me. Now, I’m just so fucking angry because I went home and tried to erase your disgust from my memory, and I can’t do it anymore! It’s wrong. I’m wrong.” My body shakes from tremors running through my limbs. Maybe if I wasn’t paying so much attention to myself, always myself and my problems, I would have registered the shift in the room.
The air becomes tense, and Jacoby’s body stands as taut as a bowstring pulled to let an arrow fly.
“You wanna back that up a second and explain?” he asks, his voice coming out clipped and angry. His tone takes me by surprise, and I find myself taking a step back towards the bed.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice trembling. Jacoby looks downright furious. Furious like I’ve never seen him before. This isn’t the kind of anger I can jump into his arms and kiss him senseless to erase. This fury is borderline violent, and it terrifies me.
He takes a slow, restrained step forward, his long legs placing him smack dab in my space.
“Maybe you should explain the part where you went home. After you left my fucking bed. After you let me fuck you in my bed. And you went home to fucking mutilate yourself? Because of me?”
Oh, God. Shit. That’s exactly how I made it sound. I fled from his house without waking him, and the first thing I did when I got home was hop into the shower and try to vent in the only way I know how. But it wasn’t because of him. He has the wrong idea. An idea I put there, but unintentionally.
“Jacoby, no. You have it wrong.”
“Damn fucking right. I do have it wrong. What I have wrong is that I ever thought you’d be worth everything.”
He walks to the door in three steps, yanking it open so hard it bangs against the wall with a loud crash.
“Please wait—ˮ
Jacoby turns around and pins me with his furious gaze. I’m frozen to the spot. When it comes to fight or flight, apparently I can’t do either.
“No. Listen up, and listen fucking good. The other night, I wanted to talk. I saw what you did to yourself, and my only thought was how I could help you. I spent three goddamned days trying to get you to talk to me so I could help you. I made arrangements as soon as I got your text and practically ran here so I could be here for you.” I remain frozen as he lifts his hand extending his pointer and pinky finger in my direction, all while keeping his eyes pinned to mine. “But you will not. fucking. pin. that shit on me. I’m done. You need resources to get yourself help, I got ‘em. But I will not waste my time with you so you can blame me while you cut yourself. Fuck!”
With his curse word still hanging in the air, Jacoby runs his hands through his hair before he storms out the door.