Oh God. My walls begin to clench around him. “Make me feel it, too,” I pant.
“I plan on it.”
So hot. So beautiful. My body stiffens and begins to shake.
“Fuck, Tatum. Come with me. I’m waiting for you.”
His words, the rough, husky edge of his voice, are all it takes for me to shatter in his arms.
“Yes, baby. Never better. Never.”
We come down slowly together. I’m clutching the desk for fear of crumbling to the ground, and Jacoby has is face buried in my hair just breathing in my scent.
“Meet me at my house in twenty minutes. You leave first and I’ll be right behind you.”
I don’t even have to consider his request. At this point, there’s only one answer that matters. “I’ll see you there.”
Jacoby kisses the side of my head before letting me go. We both right our clothing and exchange shy grins with one another. A swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach. For the first time in a really long time, I feel like I’m going to be okay. I give him one last lingering smile before I slip out the door and head toward his place. I know we have some less-than-happy topics to discuss, but I don’t have the usual feeling of dread. In fact, I feel lighter than I have as far as I can remember.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Jacoby
“Will you tell me about her?”
Tatum and I are curled up in my bed about two hours after our reconnection in my classroom. For the rest of my employment there, I will never be able to walk into that room without a smile teasing at my lips. Just thinking about what we did has me getting aroused all over again.
We’ve been lying here fully clothed since I met her at my house and found her in my room, lying on my bed waiting for me. As much as I wanted to lay her down for round two, I knew we had to talk. Both of us had secrets to get out and the sooner that happened, the sooner we could move on.
Together.
I’d just begun to tell her about my past. That I grew up in a small East coast town, how I didn’t have any of my own family left. How I fell in love with a girl at the tender age of sixteen, and her family adopted me as if I were their own. Moments away from revealing my deepest, darkest secret and the seed of the guilt I’ve harbored for over two years. How I’m the reason for Harper’s death.
“She was…,” God, it never gets easier to relive the past. I clear my throat and start again. “She was so smart. And beautiful. We started out as friends in high school. I grew up in foster care, but that didn’t matter to her. She came from the perfect home. Loving parents and an older brother who’d do anything to protect her.”
“Did you love her?” Tatum quietly draws along my stomach beneath my shirt while we talk. Her touch is soothing, and I don’t sense any trepidation in her questions. She’s openly curious, but not in a disdainful way. It feels as though she’s trying to soak up everything about me.
“I did. We got engaged during our second year of college. She knew I always wanted to be a teacher, so she went to college with me to keep me motivated. She was majoring in psychology. I questioned myself a lot back then. I didn’t know if I could go through with it. I didn’t have the confidence. But I’ve always had this passion for kids. For wanting to make a difference in their lives and help the ones who grew up in broken homes like I did. So she stuck by me and pushed me when I felt like I couldn’t take one more step.”
“What happened?” She asks quietly, sensing we’re coming to the tragic part of the story. And it was tragic. For Harper and for me. Nobody’s life should be cut short so suddenly.
As soon as the question leaves her lips, I’m thrust back in time.
“Jacoby Ryan?”
Her dull hollow voice floated across the silent expanse of the too bright waiting room as the nurse’s eyes flitted from face to face. My breath caught at the lack of emotion in her tired features—graying hair hung limply from a bun, smudged make up beneath her hardened brown eyes, pale mouth with lips turned down in the corners. I bet she was pretty once, with kind eyes and smile lines instead of the wrinkles that now encased that blank stare. I wiped my sweaty palms against my pant legs, taking just enough time to compose myself.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound more together than I felt inside. “Yes. That’s—I’m Jacoby.” It was hard not to miss the way she scanned me from head to toe, surely taking in the ragged tiredness of my jeans, ripped and dirty from the mud, all the way to my bloody shirt. I didn’t give a fuck about the way I looked.
“This way, please.” She turned without making sure I followed. Of course, I followed like a damn eager puppy dog, but her lack of friendliness was starting to bother me. This woman was either leading me to hear the best possible news or the worst fucking news of my life, and she couldn’t seem to get it together enough to show me some compassion.
She led me down the hallway with white tiled floors and green painted walls, overly bright with fluorescent lighting, and smelled that awful, stomach churning smell of bleach and death. No. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—think of death, because she’s not dead. She was alive and someone was going to take me to her. My stomach rolled, and a light sweat coated my forehead, dizziness erupted from somewhere deep within me so suddenly, I clutched the wall for support. My lungs were fighting to expand against the crushing force within my chest, and I fought it down, forcing myself to breathe deeply against the pain. She was going to be okay. She was fine. They fixed her. This became my mantra.
“Mr. Ryan? Are you alright? Please, step in here,” the nurse said, gesturing to the next room on my right. Her mask of indifference finally slipped into one of compassion—wait, was that sympathy? No. I mentally shook myself, no.
“I’m fine,” I replied, as she started reaching for me. Pushing myself off the wall, the only crutch I had, I followed her into the room.
The room was small with space for only a mahogany desk and two padded chairs. The walls were painted an obnoxiously bright shade of yellow, and a framed painting of a colorful meadow adorned the wall above the desk. A row of floor to ceiling windows were behind the seating, but the blinds were closed. Which fucking sucked because I needed something to focus on besides the crappy painting.
“Have a seat Mr. Ryan. The surgeon will be in briefly to speak with you.”
I stood frozen, watching her examine me, probably weighing if she should leave me alone after my episode in the hallway. She must have convinced herself I’d be fine, because she turned towards the door and began walking past me.
“Wait! Please, wait,” I called out abruptly, surprising myself as much as her. She turned slowly to face me, her careful mask was still firmly in place, no sign of the emotion she revealed in the hallway. “Is she,” I started but my throat clogged up. “Is she okay?” I tried again, desperate for something, to not be left alone with my own racing thoughts again. This was it. The clock was ticking down, and I was about to know if my life was going to be okay, or if my life was going to end. And as much as I needed to know the answer, I dreaded the answer. As much as I wanted to know right then, I wanted to stop time and never know. I didn’t want to live this. This was not supposed to be my life. I looked that nurse directly in the eyes, my own eyes implored her to answer me. She shook her head slowly.