Page 12 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“Micke—“

“Mikayla,” she corrects.

I’m not here to be corrected by her.

“I’m here for business.”

“Then you can wait right here, and I’ll get you who you need to do business with.”

“Business as important as this shouldn’t be spoken about on the front porch,” I argue.

“Aww, really? Well, last time I checked, you’re not a spy, FBI, CIA, or any type of secret agent, so I don’t think anyone gives a shit about what you have to say on the front porch,” she voices in a matter-of-fact tone.

I huff and cross my arms over my broad chest.

This convo isn’t going anywhere, and it pisses me off.

I’m reliving one of the many reasons why we broke up.

Our communication skills suck balls.

She just put the blame on me for ninety percent of our arguments.

“This place is those joined houses and shit. Your neighbors can hear everything through the thin cheap walls. Imagine outside. They’re probably gonna open their damn windows to hear what I have to say,” I ramble and look back and mentally curse.

Fuck.

My girl can’t hide her emotions. They just flow to the surface like a tidal wave begging to be worshipped by onlookers.

Or ridden by surfers yearning for a thrilling moment.

“Fuck, Mickey. My…bad,” I force myself to apologize. I’m not good at it. It’s never been something I’m good at. Something I got from my father.

No wonder why Mom left him.

“I’ll get Coach Cyrus for you.”

Yup, I said too much.

She’s shutting me out. That’s what my girl does when I’ve hit a nerve that reaches the depths of her fragile heart. She closes up like a caterpillar ready to cocoon itself away from the world.

Fix it, Jayce. You have to fix it.

Before she turns away, I have my hand around her wrist. It forces her to glare my way, forcing me to see how I’ve wounded her with my stupid words. My heart stills because I don’t know what to do, what to say to fix it. I’m never good with my words. They always got me in trouble. The moment they leave my mouth, they convert into something else.

It gets people riled up and gets me into far too many fights.

I’m misunderstood before I can get my real point across, but I’ve struggled to fix it, to correct this shitty quality that broke up far too many friendships.

I’m putting in the work to remain a Heartbreaker…

“Mikayla,” my voice is the softest I’ve spoken since getting here, and I’m sure my eyes show her a glimpse of the tornado of emotions rushing through me. Despite our chaotic relationship, there was a part of my girl that always understood me.

Maybe better than I understood myself.

I just wanted her to understand me now, in this moment, before I lose the chance to speak to her again.

Five years, Jayce, and you’re fucking this all up.

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