Page 35 of What We Broke

My limbs feel heavy at the thought of answering his question. At the thought of trying to make it all make sense to him.

“I went to see Lola,” I confess.

“You drink at her grave,” he accuses.

“No, I don’t fucking drink at her grave,” I snap back, my hackles rising. “But I visit her. A lot.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen you there a few times.”

“You have? You’ve never said anything.”

He scoffs. “It didn’t seem like something you wanted to talk about.”

I feel the dig. I deserve it.

I notice we’re pulling into our driveway, and like the coward I am, I steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Is Raine asleep?”

“She’s not here tonight,” he says.

“But it’s Wednesday.”

“I know what day it is.” He turns off the ignition and opens his door. “She had an orthodontist appointment and decided to stay with Zara tonight instead.”

As much as I hate being home, I hate the thought of Jesse being alone in that house even more. Knowing Raine is there three out of the seven nights, sometimes maybe more, thins out my guilt just a little.

I climb out of the car and purposefully walk into the house slower than Jesse. This is the part of every night I hate the most. The reason I run to sit with Lola, almost every day. The reason I prefer to sit in a bar with strangers at night.

By the time I walk inside, I notice the house is still cloaked in darkness. I turn on the living room light just in time to see our bedroom door close; the wall both literally and figuratively being resurrected once again between us.

Unsure of what I’m going to say or even if I would say anything at all, I kick off my shoes and walk to our bedroom and place my hand in the middle of the door.

I imagine this is what Jesse looks like every morning, standing outside the guest room, warring with himself, wondering if that will be the day I would answer when he knocks.

But I don’t knock. I don’t know if it’s the remaining alcohol in my system or maybe there is a full moon out, turning everything on its axis. But I barge into our bedroom, catching Jesse as he’s undressing, with his shirt off and jeans undone, sitting low on his hips.

Words catch in my throat as I just stare at him. It’s been so long since I’ve been this close to him, and the complete disarray my body is feeling is proof of that.

My hands want to reach for him. I want to feel his skin against mine as I run my fingers over the contours and grooves of his chest.

I want his arms around me to comfort and hold me.

I want to be loved and cherished in a way only he knows how to do.

God, I miss him, and when I finally manage to tear my eyes away from his body, I see the need and turmoil in his eyes mirror my own.

“Is everything okay?” he manages to ask, his voice hoarse and tired.

“I…” My mouth opens and closes, my words stuck.

Swallowing hard, I try again.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I say softly.

I see the way my words hit him unexpectedly, the shift in his expression, the straightening of his spine. He walks toward me, and I feel myself retreating at his imposing proximity; a complete contradiction to the closeness I wanted to feel only seconds ago.

My heart beats in a rapid, almost painful, succession. Faster and faster the closer he gets.

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