Page 69 of The Love Bandits

I almost object that I didn’t ask for it this time, or last.But I did.He’s putting the ball in my court, giving me the power. He knows I need it, and he cares about what I need.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t respond other than to incline his head. Then he pulls out the rest of the splinters as he launches into a story about his brother bleaching his hair while he was asleep. Afterward, he cleans my hand with hydrogen peroxide and bandages the worst scrapes.

It should be time to say goodnight. It’s late, and I know I have to report to Smith House in the morning, but I’m not ready. I still feel as raw and splintered as my hand did.

Jake must be able to tell, because he lifts my hand and kisses the back—a gesture that sends yet another wave of emotion slamming into me. “What do you say we do the responsible thing and stay up way too late watching TV?”

“I could be persuaded,” I say, grappling with the feeling of my heart being lodged somewhere in my throat.

“But noMatchmaking Small Town America.”

“You don’t like watching men make idiots of themselves?”

His mouth lifts up at the corner. “You’d probably just tell me to look in the mirror.”

“No,” I say, swallowing. “Not you.” And anyway, I need comfort right now. It hits me, and I ask, “Do you likeX-Men: The Animated Series?”

“You mean the show my brother and I have watched from start to finish about a dozen times?”

So that’s exactly what we do, snuggled up on the couch together like we’ve known each other for months. Because in a way it feels like we have. We talk over most of it, but after a while I start nodding off against his shoulder.

I wake with a start, my head nestled into his neck, breathing him in, and I feel a new wave of emotion—something softer and more disarming—so I sit up abruptly. He smooths a hand over my hand, his touch gentle, and I remember him wielding thatumbrella next to me, living in my moment of chaos with me. I’m never going to forget that, not if I live to be a hundred and five.

“It’s time for bed,” I say, my voice a little hoarse.

I half expect him to make a quip, but instead he softly kisses the top of my head and walks me upstairs, lingering at my door like he thinks I might climb out of my window.

“Goodnight, Lainey,” he finally says. But he’s back five minutes later, cracking my door open, and a gasp escapes me when he brings Professor X inside and sets her down on my bed. It’s like he knew I still needed someone but wasn’t ready to invite him into my bed.

It was another thoughtful gesture, but I didn’t sleep for hours. I kept going over what had happened again and again. Asking myself why I hadn’t let myself have what I’d wanted out there, amidst the ruin I’d created.

The answer came to me in the early hours of the morning.

Releasing my rage was part of healing…but I’m not all the way there yet. I’m not ready to make myself fully vulnerable. Especially since Jake’s no longer a stranger whose opinion I don’t care about, but a man I’m starting to have feelings for.

“Aren’tyou going to ask what happened to my car?” I ask Mrs. Rosings after I get out of my car on Monday morning. She’s out on the porch of Smith House sipping tea. Sometimes I park outside to avoid having to be buzzed in, but I was too tired for much of a walk this morning.

“I assumed it always looked like that,” she says, but the slightest of smiles peeks out at me. She’s messing with me and enjoying it.

Maybe that would amuse me more if I hadn’t gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Claire wakes up unreasonably early to go to the bakery, and this morning she came outside with her coffee to find my car caved in in places. Jake and I had cleaned up the bat, which I’d saved, and the umbrella, which we’d thrown away.

She beat on our front door with her fist until I came down, my shoulders and back so sore it felt like I’d spent all night moving cinderblocks. I told her about my rage room moment, but I didn’t tell her the rest, even though she was the one who’d encouraged me to have fun with Jake. I’m not quite sure why.

Maybe because I was embarrassed that I’d held back, again.

Maybe because it would feel too intimate—almost like a betrayal—to tell anyone what Jake did to and for me.

I lower into the patio chair next to Mrs. Rosings, who gives me a long look. “You haven’t been sleeping. Is it Anthony’stherapistfriend who’s been keeping you awake?”

It takes my tired brain a beat to catch up. “Uh. Yeah,” I say. “We’re definitely dating.” My mind conjures the moment last night when he lifted me and twirled me around, my feet flying. I felt like everything was as it should be, and everything wasokay. I felt invincible. I clear my throat. “He really swept me off my feet.”

She makes a sound that could either be pleased or displeased—it’s anyone’s guess with her. Judging from her general contempt for marriage after trying it three times, I’m guessing displeased.

“Anthony has twisted my arm into agreeing to attend a tea at his house with your young man. I suppose you’ll be there?”

I nod, surprised that she actually wants me to come. “Yup.” I pause for a moment and then ask, “Did Emma ever show up the other night?”

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