Page 20 of On the Brink of Passion

It’s not real.This is the message my rational brain tries to send to the rest of me, but the other part of my brain, the part that’s orchestrating this delightful panic attack, is far more compelling. My pounding heart? Doesn’t listen. My constricted lungs? Do not give a shit. My vision, which is convincing me there are in fact black spots dancing in front of my eyes because of a dangerous lack of oxygen? This is fucking performance art.

Even though I know better—because the thing is, Iknow—I can’t help it. I need to get up, I need to get out of here, I need to not have Beckett’s lovely curl-covered head and his charmingly protective arm suffocating me. Since I’m on the wall-side of the bed, I can’t just sneak out. So I do what any freaking-the-fuck-out girl would do in my position.

I push him off the bed.

He lands with a muffled thud, and before he can say or do anything, I bound over him and into the bathroom where I can have my meltdown in peace.

Back against the door, I slide down until my butt hits the floor, and bury my face in my hands. The good news is that I don’t feel quite so much like I’m in the clutches of a boa constrictor anymore. That’s definitely better. Breathing is good. Not feeling like I’m going to die is a definite improvement.

Except it’s not all that long before there’s a knock at the door.

“Jubilee?”

Right. Beckett, the man who just gave me the best orgasm I’ve had in years, who made me feel—ugh, fucker. Making me feel, period, is bad enough. He’s standing outside the bathroom door, probably wondering if I’ve lost my goddamn mind, because his voice is soft and gentle and cautious, like he’s talking to a scared baby animal.

“Yeah?” Sure, because responding in a chipper tone to the man you literally just shoved out of bed and onto the floor is totally going to lay all of his concerns to rest.

There’s a pause, and I almost giggle. Like one of those really unflattering things, where you kind of snort at the end? Poor Beck. Even though I can’t see him, I can imagine the expression on his face. Puzzled, with that little line forming between his blond brows, and the center of his mouth mushed up so his chin wrinkles.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep. Fine. I just . . .”Think, Jubilee, come on. Think of a reason you would have pushed a guy out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom that’s better than “I think I might actually like you and that’s not okay, because my last partner that I fell in love with keeled over dead in practice from a brain aneurysm. We’d been in the middle of a death spiral, so when he fell, I slid across the ice and into the boards. So not only did I get a few cracked ribs and a busted-up shoulder, I had my soul ripped out in the process.”Definitely need something more reasonable than that. “I needed to pee. You know, how you’re supposed to pee after sex so you don’t get a UTI? I didn’t want to get a UTI. I’ve had one before, and let me tell you, they are unpleasant. So, I, yeah, needed to . . . pee.”

Killing. It.

I mash the heels of my hands into my eye sockets because that was way worse than I could’ve even imagined. It’s a good thing I’m not required to lie in my job, because I would be a failure. A big, huge failure. How many times can one person say pee and UTI in one breath? Beckett is so never sleeping with me again, because I am the unsexist woman on the planet.

Which is probably fine. Better, really, because apparently fucking someone I actually like and respect leads to feelings, and I’m better off without that ball of nonsense.

“Um, okay.”

Something hitches around my solar plexus, but it’s not panic this time. No, it’s the regret I’d warned Beckett about. Regret for sleeping with him, regret for treading so far down this path knowing I can’t go all the way to the end. Regret for making my happy-go-lucky workhorse of a partner confused and eventually hurt.

I’m sorry, Beckett. I can’t. If I could, I would with you. But I can’t, especially not with you. It would cost me far, far too much, and I’m already bankrupt.

I regret being so broken I can’t even tell him these things, but I can see that movie playing out in my mind: he’d convince me that I can, in fact, have him, that we could be happy together. And because he’s Beckett, with his earnestness and persistence, his goddamn cheerful steadfastness, eventually I’d believe him. Perhaps we’d have some time together, enough for his roots to grow into the soil of my heart. He’d take hold and make me whole, keep me together against the erosion of time and sadness from what I already lost, and then . . . maybe four years from now, maybe fourteen, maybe forty. The point is that it would be over and he would leave me. For another skating partner, for another bed partner, or maybe because he just fucking up and died. Bottom line, he’d be gone and I’d fall apart again. So, no thank you.

“I’ll be right out. You can get back in bed. It’s chilly out here.”

Silence on the other side, and then a shuffling. Like he’s walked away but come back again.

“Okay. As long as you’re sure you’re all right. That you don’t need me.”

Now the choking sensation is coming from the lump in my throat, but I clear it, and looking at the ceiling, blinking as fast as I can so traitorous tears don’t roll down my cheeks, I put on my best chipper voice. “I’m good. I’ll be out in a few.”

“Okay,” he mutters, not seeming convinced. But the thing is, he leaves. Yes, he’s left because I’ve told him to, but the reality is, he’s still left me alone. Which is why I can’t even try for this. Have to extinguish any ember of hope.

I lever off the floor, scrub my hands over my eyes, and then go actually use the toilet.

Beckett

It’s like fifteen minutes before Jubilee comes out of the bathroom. I’m not sure what she’s been doing in there, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my twenty-six years, it is not to ask women what the hell took them so long.

After doing my best to make sure she was actually okay—not believing her rambling excuse about UTIs and pee, but not knowing what else to do, because if Jubilee really doesn’t want to do something you’re not going to get the woman to do it—I did what she said and went back to bed. I’d stood there for a good while though, trying to decide which bed to get back into. I chose mine, but I’m still not sure it’s the right call.

When the door finally cracks open, and Jubilee comes out in her fluffy robe with the flamingos on it, I’m still not sure, because an expression flits over her face so quickly I can’t read it.

She doesn’t climb into my bed, which I would be totally fine with, but into her own, still wearing her robe. If she thinks that’s going to make me forget what she looks like naked, she is sadly mistaken.

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