Page 67 of Avenged

ALL TO MYSELF

“I’m jealous of the blue jeans you’re wearing,

And the way they’re holdin’ you so tight.”

Performed by Dan + Shay

Written by Smyers / Mooney / Allen Gaylor / Reynolds

When I’d read the letter from Jersey’s dad and realized she was going to go see him, my body had flooded with a range of emotions. Anger at the man who’d clearly inflicted more than physical damage on this incredible woman. Fear that she’d be hurt again. And a tiny piece of hope that he could actually redeem himself and be the person she and Violet deserved for him to be.

Then, I realized what I felt didn’t matter. The important thing was being there for her like no one had really ever been before. I felt disloyal to Mandy and Leena even thinking it, but they had let her live behind an invisible wall, vanishing from the world. They’d waited for her to eventually come out from behind it on her own, but she wasn’t going to do that without a huge push.

In many ways, it was the opposite of what I was doing with Dawson. With Dawson, I was like Mandy and Leena with Jersey. I was waiting for him to come to his senses. To realize what had happened in his life was so much less life-and-death than what Jersey and Violet had gone through. After our talk outside the Comic Con, I was fairly sure he was getting the message. It had been standing right in front of him, after all.

It allowed me to feel a shade less guilt about the time, energy, and focus I was spending on Jersey. I wasn’t sure I could help myself, anyway. From the moment I’d walked into Leena’s place and found her standing in the kitchen, I’d felt a shift, a change in my world. I hadn’t recognized it for what it was. Souls calling to souls.

When she’d agreed to let me go with her to see her dad, it had terrified me a little because it meant I couldn’t screw it up. She’d had too many people?too many men?mess up, turn their backs, abandon her right when she needed them most.

Neither of us said anything about the letter from her dad to any of the people in our lives. Me because she’d requested me not to, and I wouldn’t break the tiny bit of trust she’d given me, and Jersey because she was protecting Violet. I understood and respected that role more than anyone else might have. She told me she’d written back to her dad and the prison, requesting I be added to his visitor’s list in order for me to go with her. From there, we just had to wait and see what happened.

After spending almost seventy-two hours together, our life almost returned to what it had been before. Jersey, Dawson, and I were working long hours; Violet was studying and doing more than her share around the house. But there were two changes that stood out enough to make an impression on me?to tug my heart in different directions.

The first thing was that Dawson was at the house less than before, if that was possible. I called him on it one night as he was heading out, and I was coming in.

“You’ve been working a lot of hours,” I said, wanting him to know I still noticed what was going on with him even amidst the women who’d dropped into our world.

He shifted slightly, shoving a hand into his pocket. “Yeah. It’s busy with the tourists at the marina and the bar.” He heard Vi’s voice coming from inside the house, and I saw a wave of emotions cross his face before he turned back to me. “Besides, being here at the moment is enough for me to lose my sanity.”

“I’m sorry having them here makes you feel like you can’t be home. This is your home. I like that we’re here together,” I told him honestly.

“Nah. Don’t be sorry. We both know it was the right thing to do.”

He’d said something similar before, but I was still having a hard time reconciling it. We stared at each other for a long moment, and I wondered if he’d ever feel like he could completely open up to me again after all the time that had passed without him doing it. So many years of me being caught up in my own life and forgetting he was trying to struggle through his.

Just as I went to say something close to all of that, he surprised me by slapping me on the back of the head. “Get over it, big brother.” Then, he turned and walked down the path toward the street. “I’m off to crack the heads of any dipshits who drink too much and start talking smack. Wish me luck.”

The wish me luck was like a punch to my solar plexus. I’d been waiting for it for so long. Those three little words gave me more damn hope than anything else he could have said, and he knew it. He’d used it on purpose.

“Luck!” I finally croaked out. He didn’t turn back, but he waved a hand.

I watched him disappear down the street, with a range of emotions still going through me, before turning back to the house with a sense of anticipation filling me instead of guilt. Because the second notable difference came in the form of Jersey’s and my interaction.

A lot of nights, when I came back to the cottage, I found her in the corner of the couch, drawing in a sketchpad. I tried to sneak peeks at it like I’d tried to see the book she’d clutched to her chest at the Comic Con. But Jersey wasn’t ready to share it with me. It hurt, and it didn’t. I understood she wasn’t used to sharing her inner self, and I was pretty sure her drawings and her words were just that. The inner Jersey.

If she wasn’t on the couch, I knew I’d find her in the backyard, shaping the garden into an oasis that would make Mandy proud. Mandy loved gardens, especially fairy-like gardens, and Jersey was turning the rented yard into just that. If I tried to help, she scolded and shooed me away, saying it was the only way she was keeping her mind off things and that she didn’t want me to mess it up.

So, instead of helping, I’d bring her iced tea and pretend to read while sitting on the swing. What I was really doing was just watching her as she moved. She often worked in a tank top and shorts which showed more skin than I could almost take. It was like torture and a peep show all at the same time. I was sure she knew I was watching her more than reading, but she didn’t seem to object. She wasn’t floating away to the bedroom like the apparition she’d been.

In fact, when I joined her on the couch and sat barely a cushion away, she seemed to have accepted it as if we’d always been doing just that—spending time together. She didn’t talk much; then again, neither did I. But if I brushed a finger along her hand, she’d let me without pulling away. Sometimes, our pinkies would find themselves inexplicably tangled together, and they would stay that way for minutes, if not hours.

I hadn’t tried to kiss her again. She’d asked me not to the same day we’d shared our first kiss, but I was hoping that, eventually, she’d see our skin needed to be next to each other. That it was something meant to be. I truly wanted more than just a kiss; I wanted her tiny frame pressed up against my large one. I wanted my wife for real.

On the first day of July, Violet found me in my normal spot on the back porch swing, pretending to read. She sank down on the swing with me, and we swayed for a while as we both watched Jersey in the corner of the tiny yard, pulling weeds from around the flowers she’d planted.

Vi finally spoke, drawing me from my perusal of her sister and back to her. “Jersey’s birthday is Saturday.”

“What?” I said, surprise filtering through me.

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