Page 65 of Yes No Maybe

“I don’t care about the shirt.” Awkwardly, he yanks it off and tosses it in the pool. A boyish smirk plays at his mouth as he stands there in his plain white t-shirt. “See? And forget what I said that night. You aren’t needy. You’re human. A perfect human. With your perfect smile, your perfect lips, perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect face. You’re perfect, scars and all.”

“No, Jack. I’m not.”

“You are to me.”

It hurts to hear him say these things. He feels sorry for me,that’s all. He’s overcompensating for what he knows isn’t true, just like Renita did. I’m no one’s ‘beautiful, no one’s ‘perfect.’ Jack’s too drunk to see it.

He stumbles slightly, catching my arm.

“You’re perfectly drunk… And bleeding. Here, sit down.”

I ease him into the nearest chair, careful of the glass and glad for the distraction. The sparkling mess around us almost works with the decor—his backyard shimmers with gorgeous twinkling lights. They canopy the deck and circle the pool, reflecting off the gold and black balloons holding up every corner. I spy the empty dance floor with regret.

“I missed a beautiful party, Jack. I love the lights.”

“I knew you would.” He leans closer, lightly twiddling my hair. “Rowan, can’t believe you’re here. You look amazing. Holy shit, that dress.”

“Thanks, I really wanted to be here.”

“I really wanted you here,” he says slowly. “Want to talk about it? Your rough night?”

Part of me does. But I shake my head. “No… just grappling with some old ghosts.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He looks sad but doesn’t elaborate.

“Let’s take a look at your feet, huh?”

“That’s weird, but whatever you say.”

I prop his injured foot into my lap and tug off his sock. The gashes aren’t deep, but I extract two glass shards. Then, I rinse his feet with a nearby water bottle.

“Sorry, I’m a mess,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’m a mess, too.”

But my mess takes a hard backseat to helping him. I’m no longer shaking or nervous, as if all my anxieties left me during our long embrace.

I help him to the expensive sectional in his gorgeous living room. He tells me where to find the first aid kit in the kitchen. He lays on the couch while I dab his wounds with an alcohol swab and wrap them in gauze.

By the time I finish, he’s drifted to sleep.

Outside, I turn off the excess lighting, clean the glass, and get his laptop. I find aspirin in the kitchen and leave it on the coffee table beside him with two water bottles and a small trashcan, just in case. I ease a throw pillow under his head and cover him with a thick blanket I find draped over the plush side chair.

While bringing the blanket up, his tattoos catch my eye. I chuckle, raising the edge of his sleeve higher—the Cheshire Cat.

As my fingers trace its wide, devious grin, Jack wakes and says, “How puzzling all these changes are! I never know what I’m going to be, from one minute to another.”

His Cheshire Cat quote makes me laugh and gratefully hides my embarrassment for touching him like that. “I’m stranger. You’re stranger. Together, we are… strangers.”

“Strangers together. I like that.” His dark eyes lock on mine, lips curving like the cat on his arm.

I smile, too, relieved that he’s a pleasant drunk and grateful I’m here, helping him, just as he’s done for me.I really care about this man.

He lifts his fingers to my face and, cupping my scarred cheek, his thumb softly traces my skin’s uneven texture. And I don’t stop it.

Trent used my scars. Dean avoids them.

Jack’s gentle affection makes me think it’s possible to loveallof me, even the rough parts. And why shouldn’t I be loved completely?

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