Page 30 of Bleeding Heart

Out of sight, out of mind.

And that’s what I thought happened when Jake’s car pulled away from the curb after he brought me home last night.

That Gavin’s sister’s tirade didn’t affect him. It only affected me.

I mean, Jake can buy a new white button-down. I have,had,one favorite dress that’s ruined. The red wine stains haven’t come out of the delicate lace no matter how long it has soaked or how gentle I scrub.

Overnight I laid in my bed, awake for hours and angry. I hadn’t stood up for myself and told Jake I wouldn’t go to the restaurant Gavin chose to celebrate our engagement. Although Gavin’s sister’s lack of maturity aggravated me, and I was perturbed Jake hadn’t defended me.

I’m supposed to be acting like Jake’s girlfriend. Even doting fake boyfriends defend their girlfriends, right?

All eyes on us—including the aghast looks from the mill girls—Jake merely escorted me in my sopping dress out of Royce’s, telling Trig they’d square up the bill later. The whole sordid scene seemed to prove Sloan’s theory wrong.

This man doesn’t hold any affection for me.

He has feelings of self-preservation, which includes avoiding unnecessary attention, for himself.

Staring at the dashboard when he dropped me off, Jake didn’t even lean in and force a kiss. For show or not, it’s rare he doesn’t kiss me anymore. I hate that I’ve come to rely on how reassuring his touch is. I got out of the car, muttering a simple, “goodbye”. It hardly felt like we’d spent the past months becoming acquainted to enable us to pass off our relationship as real. The rideshare driver on Valentine’s Day was friendlier.

And now Jake is standing on my doorstep with soft petaled peach roses that have deeper coral tips, appearing contrite. I’m stunned he went out of his way to try to find my favorite. His thoughtfulness adds to my cluelessness over what to think about the past twenty-four hours. My neighbors were curious why skinny Thor was pacing outside. Coming up with a response has me embarrassed all over again.

How long am I supposed to continue this charade? The one that makes me not only look like a cheater to the entire town of Brighton, but a woman who can’t hold down any relationship. Rumors spread like wildfire. It seems anyone who was in the boutique yesterday or peeking out their windows this morning believes that Jake and I are in the middle of a fight. A big one at that.

Thank you, social media, for once again headlining my personal life on my business’s page.

“Don’t cry.” Jake uses the tone Gavin had when my ex did something heinous. It has a crackling edge that denotes, “It’s my fault”. This makes me wonder if Jake knows how bad things are for me and how genuine his concern is.

My fake boyfriend steps into my space, cupping my cheek. I sigh into his touch, wanting something, though I’m not sure what it is. I allow him to tilt my brown eyes to his icy blue ones. They are softer today, more like the sky. I swallow and the action sends tears tumbling over his thumb.

I huff at my weakness and inability to follow his order, sliding a foot behind me, inside of the threshold. Jake wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me to his chest. My fist gets trapped between us and the roses. The cellophane crinkles.

“You’re going to crush the flowers if you aren’t careful,” I protest, feeling guilty that his hug absorbs my anguish.

“If they wither, I’ll buy you a dozen more.” His fingers thread behind my ear, into my hair. Jake kisses the crown of my head the way he did the night I ran to him.

I mean, the night I ran away from Gavin.

He scoops me up with one arm under my bottom. Moving us into the house, he kicks the door shut and walks us to the couch. Jake settles me onto his lap. I tuck my head under his chin. He pecks my forehead.

“I suck at this, Pais.”

The funny thing is, if Jake is trying to make me feel better, he’s pulling out all the stops. Little broken pieces of my heart fuse back together, thinking he’s acting like a real boyfriend. Just to shatter again when I remember this is all for show.

I laugh at my stupidity. Yet, I can’t help snuggling closer. Which proves not only are my signals crossed with my hot as sin rebound guy, I’ve also contracted an acute case of Stockholm Syndrome.

“I would have changed the reservation,corazón. Found a different restaurant to eat at. Why didn’t you tell me that Royce’s was where you had your engagement party, or that Gavin’s sister was your maid of honor? Nothing like our first official sighting looking like the runaway bride was thumbing her nose at the good doctor.” He sighs.

I sit up and cock my chin. “You don’t want to hear my explanation.”

“Sure I did.”

“No, Jake. You didn’t and you still don’t. You want everything your way…” He also enjoys when we argue. Because at some point he wins. “And what difference would it make if I gave you specifics, like telling you the names of every one of my bridesmaids? You don’t care about the life I was leading with Gavin and—” I pause.

“And what? Do you think I’m going to use what you have to say against you?”

“Whatever, use it… My bridesmaids don’t talk to me. It’s not as if I have friends the way you do to worry about what they think of me.” Nor with them living out of state was it as if we were in each other’s back pockets. However, all of our interactions since I called off the wedding have been ugly text messages and uglier voicemails. They are angry they spent a lot of money to travel and on formal attire for nothing.

“Plus, the rock through the boutique’s front window solidifies my place in the court of public opinion.”

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