Page 93 of The Making of Marnie Jones

“Like it did for you.”

The sarcastic quip hit a little too close to home.

“I'm sorry.” He waved his hand. “That wasn't fair.”

“No, it wasn't. Jake, you were a stranger, and you terrified me. My day-to-day life is fairly staid. I have a job, a few friends, and a stable home. I can get Olivia registered in a high school equivalency program and get her set up in the community. There are plenty of things for a teenager to do, but they're in a tight, contained space. I can give her enough freedom so she's not suffocated, and yet make sure she doesn't fall in with a bad crowd.”Slow and steady.“I am, in some ways, immature, but that's the beauty of it. We can help each other—grow together. I can find her a great counselor, but I can also be there during the thunderstorms.”

He exhaled, which emboldened her to continue. “It's not perfect, but it's workable. Plus, it's what Olivia wants.”

“Olivia is an immature child who can’t comprehend what's best for her.”

At one time his snapping tone might’ve cowed her, but no longer. She didn’t fear him—only her reaction to him. “I won’t argue with that, but what are the alternatives? Your work is not conducive to the kind of supervision she needs, and my father's home will quickly feel like a prison. I lived there for a year in exile, by my own choice, and I nearly went out of my mind.”

This time she stopped, forcing him to turn back from where he’d walked ahead. “I’d suggest a trial run, but I don't want Olivia to feel the Sword of Damocles is hanging over her head—ready to fall at the first sign of trouble. If things don't work, though, we know she's got options. If she comes to me, she has to commit to the process. She can't be under the illusion she can run home to Uncle Jake every time the going gets tough.”There. Coherent and articulate.The actual test was yet to come. “What are you thinking?”

“You would make a hell of a lawyer.” His grin was quick, but more measured than usual. “What about you? What about your own recovery?”

Saw that coming.Where was she on her path to recovery? Was true recovery even possible?

“I've done some soul-searching of my own. Your entrance into my life has prompted me to re-evaluate my own mental health. I'm going to go for counseling because I ought to have been doing that all along. I'll insist Olivia get ongoing and intensive therapy as well, then I'll find someone who has experience in similar situations.”Success.She’d expressed what she needed to say.

“That's good. I mean, that's great.” He looked up, as if searching for some divine intervention. “I'm still not convinced this is a good idea.”

Progress. At least he wasn't swearing anymore. “Why don’t you talk to Olivia?”

“Why don'twetalk to her? You need to be in on this conversation since the outcome affects all of us.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”Too easy.And yet draining. Emotions threatened to overwhelm her, and fatigue set in. “Can we turn back?”

“Of course.” Affable and easygoing Jake had returned. “I will consider your arguments if you do something for me.”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“Hold my hand on the way back.”

Gaping, her jaw went lax, and her heart rate kicked up a notch. She tried to speak, then closed her mouth. She tried again, and this time she squeaked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

It seemed pretty self-evident, but she gave him an answer. “Why do you want to hold my hand?”

“Because it’s what people do when strolling down a lovely street on a beautiful summer's day.” He held out his hand, palm up. “It’s easy. You place your palm against mine. We interlace our fingers, and then we walk back to your father's home.”

Well, when you put it like that...

Simple. And yet so complicated. So rife with danger. So terrifying. “What if I refuse? Will you still consider letting Olivia come home with me?” Her mind whirled. She ought to refuse. She needed to. Yet, she didn't want to.

She extended her hand, trembling only slightly. Put her palm in his. Laced her fingers with his.

Not bad. His hand was warm, and the skin soft.

He pivoted them back toward her father's home, and they embarked on the return journey.

The walk home was slower as she acclimated to the odd gait that accompanied holding hands. In some ways, his intentions were obvious. He wanted her to loosen up. And, surprisingly, she was. But for how long? They were holding hands, and she was barely holding her anxiety in check. What if he asked more from her? Could she do it? Did she want to?

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