Page 1 of Anything For This Love

Chapter One

Abby

I’ve hadplenty of time to think about what I want to say, but I’m still at a loss for words as my car idles next to the curb. It’s been a week since Jacob and I finally spoke about the incident with his mother and began to reconcile our relationship. I made it clear I wanted to work things out, to go back to how we were before. He seemed relieved but hesitant, as though he feared I’d change my mind.

We’ve spoken more in the last seven days than we did the previous week, but our conversations don’t flow with the same ease and familiarity they once did. We talk every day, but we don’t exchange “I love you’s” like we did before. I admitted that I missed him the other day and he returned the sentiment, but that’s the only time I’ve felt his yearning for me. He used to make me feel wanted, like he needed me more than his next breath, but lately he’s been holding back.

I know it’s my fault. He’s skittish because of me, afraid of my rejection and abandonment. I have to make this right. He needs to know I’m all in and I won’t run again. I won’t jump ship the moment things get hard or I get scared.

Desperate to get back to some semblance of normal, I packed a bag and hopped in my car so I could see him face to face. I’ve had five solid hours to think about what I want to say to him. The entire drive here, I’ve tried to come up with something more profound than “I’m sorry,” but words suddenly elude me as I open my door and step onto the pavement.

What do you say to the person you walked out on when they needed you most? How do you express how sorry you are for turning your back on them and running the other way at the first sign of trouble? The twenty seconds it takes to stroll across the sidewalk and ascend the four steps to his stoop, I’ve still not come up with anything adequate to express my regret. And now I’m out of time.

Body trembling, I take a deep breath, hoping it will give me strength and instill my soul with bravery. I raise my hand and lift the metal knocker, tapping it three times on the door. As I wait to see if I’ll be granted entrance, my hands begin to shake, but I suspect it’s not from the cooler temperatures. My heart leaps into my throat when I hear footsteps approaching and my pulse quickens. I hold my breath as the lock clicks over and the door slowly opens.

“Abby?” he says uncertainly as though I’m merely an apparition. Tears threaten to form as I take in the confusion and pain flashing in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I-” I squeak out, then clear my throat.How am I going to do this?“I came to talk to you.”

“Oh,” he replies, stunned and a little unsteady, then glances over his shoulder. I gulp past a lump forming in my throat.Is there someone here with him?

“I can come back if this isn’t a good time.” Those barely suppressed tears begin to prick my eyes as I turn from him, prepared to run to my car and drivefive hours back home.

“Wait!” He reaches out and grasps my arm before I can bolt down the stairs. “Don’t go.”

His pleading tone stops me in my tracks and the pressure of his touch sends the sweet ache of familiarity right to my chest. It squeezes, nearly stealing the air from my lungs.

“Please, come in.”

I nod and silently follow him inside, waiting as he closes and locks the door. “Want me to take your jacket?” he asks from right behind me, his warm breath hitting my bare neck.

I shiver and breathe out a soft “Yes,” shrugging out of my jacket. His fingers brush my upper arms as he helps me slide it off and I inhale sharply. He hangs it on a hook by the door and brushes past me, heading toward the kitchen.

“Come on in. I was just making dinner.” A pot on the stove starts to boil and I realize that must’ve been what he was looking at a moment ago when I thought someone was here. My shoulders sag in relief, but guilt settles into my stomach, heavy and sour. Why did I assume he had moved on when we were trying to work through our issues? Fear and insecurity have my head and heart twisted into something unrecognizable.

He pulls out a chair at the island and motions for me to sit. I thank him and slide into the seat as he leans against the counter. Surprised and a little uneasy that he doesn’t take the seat next to me, I shove my hands under the countertop, wringing them nervously.

“Are you hungry? I’m making lasagna.”

My brow pinches and I frown.Is he expecting company? That seems like a big dish to make for just one person.

“I don’t want to intrude. If you’ve got company coming-”

“I don’t,” he declares swiftly, his back straightening. “I, uh,” his hand goes to the back of his neck and squeezes in a familiar show of nerves. “I’m making it for the week ahead. That way I have something already made for dinner.”

“Oh.” I’d been prepared to hop up from my seat and bolt. Running away has quickly become my method of dealing with unpleasant emotions and it needs to stop. I’ve always made assumptions about Jacob and it’s not fair to him. He’s done nothing wrong. He never has. He’s blameless in all this, yet I’ve punished him. Not once, but twice. Regret and shame tighten around my throat, threatening to cut off my air. Jacob turns to check on the boiling pot on the stove and gives a second pot a stir with a spoon. It comes back out dripping red. If my stomach wasn’t knotted so tightly, I might enjoy the aroma of his homemade sauce.

“What do you say? Would you like to stay for dinner?” I gulp past the lump in my throat but can’t manage to form words. “Or do you need to get back soon?” he asks when he notices my hesitation.

I shake my head. “I can stay for dinner.”

“Okay.” An awkward silence falls over us and he turns from me, busying himself by pulling items from the fridge and mixing them. When the noodles and sauce are done, he pulls a casserole dish from the cabinet and places it on the island. “Do you want to learn how to make lasagna?”

“Sure.” I sit up and peer over at him across the island. He glances up and sees me trying to watch.

“Come over here and I’ll let you do it. That way you can get a feel for it.”

I slip out of my chair and stand next to him. He shows me what to do by completing the first layer of sauce, noodles, and ricotta, then hands over the reins. I half expect him to come behind me and guide me like the pottery scene in the movie “Ghost,” his big arms framing mine and his body pressing against my back, his lips finding my neck, but he stays planted next to me, several inches separating us. Tamping down my disappointment, I listen intently as he provides instructions. Once I finish layering the ingredients, he reaches for the dish and his sleeve rides up, revealing black Roman numerals inked into the skin inside his wrist.

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