Now I am lying in my dark bedroom, and I’d only come up with one real, honest thought throughout the day.
I loved Jesse.
That part, at least, was the truth.
Everything else was a jumbled mess of complications and betrayal and lies and confusion and apprehension and pain that I couldn’t sort through. I drifted off to sleep finally, but it wasn’t sound, it wasn’t sweet. It was a topsy-turvy roller-coaster of sad dreams that were so terrifying I forgot them as soon as I opened my eyes.
But this time… Something was wrong.
My ears registered the sounds coming from the other room my body sprang into motion, diving through the darkness to get to Maddy as fast as possible.
33
JESSE
Nerves. What the hell? I was never nervous. I hadn’t been nervous during the play-offs, I hadn’t been nervous during the three Superbowls I’d won, hell, I hadn’t even been nervous when I was a kid in high school.
But Maisey had me filled with anxiety. I paced the room waiting for her to show up the next day. She’d ignored my calls all night. She hadn’t replied to any of my texts. I didn’t have a chance to properly apologize to her, unless you count some rambling stream of consciousness voice mail I’d left her.
And that probably made me look like an even bigger idiot.
Drama.
This is why I didn’t do relationships, I reminded myself for the hundredth time. No matter what, relationships between two people were full of pitfalls. Everything could be going along just great - just like it was going with us - and then bam! Like a bomb going off, suddenly everything was derailed and you were left floundering like a fool with your balls hanging in the wind.
That was me. Or, at least that’s what I felt like. A floundering fool, only it wasn’t my balls that were exposed, it was my stupid heart that had suddenly decided to start feeling things for people after a lifelong hiatus.
Fuck you, I silently cursed my heart as it continued to beat in my chest like an innocent toddler caught with its hand in the cookie jar. I was simultaneously anxious for Maisey’s arrival and completely pissed that I had feelings for her.
It made no sense.
But nothing had made sense since she’d shown back up in my life.
I almost jumped out of my skin when the doorbell rang. Breathless, with anxiety gripping my heart, I slowly opened the door with a smile. I’d rehearsed everything I’d say when she showed up - fuck, I’d even written it down and practiced it in the mirror. I was ready. I was nervous as a racehorse waiting to hit the tracks, but I was ready.
What I wasn’t ready for was the face staring back at me when I opened the door.
It wasn’t Maisey. No, whatever it was was the complete opposite of my lovely Maisey.
“Hello, can I help you?” I asked. The woman standing in front of me was the burliest woman I’d ever seen in my life. Her salt and pepper hair was cut close to her huge square head that rested on a pair of shoulders that could have given a linebacker a run for his money.
“I’m Helga. From Steadman Hawkins,” she replied, her accent thick, her words coming out in a clipped, robotic tone.
“Where’s Maisey?” I asked. The woman brushed past me, walking into my penthouse with authority. I stared bewildered at her back as she began pulling things out of a bag she’d brought in. I looked down at the pile she was making on my table and my heart sped up. She lined up black leather straps and pointy silver rounded tools that looked like old fashioned torture instruments.
“Ms. Jayne is unable to treat you today due to a personal issue. I’m here for your therapy.”
“Oh,” my heart fell in disappointment. “I see. Well, listen, that’s okay, I can just do things on my own today, you don’t need to be here.”
“Nonsense. Ms. Jayne may be out longer than just today,” she insisted. “We must continue your therapy, Mr. Collins.”
“Jesse,” I muttered, my eyes trailing down to her growing collection of medieval torture devices.
“You can call me Helga, Jesse,” she growled. “Now lay down. I’ve been using the same methods for over forty years and I can assure you, I get results.”
I groaned and lay down on the mat she’d laid out, keeping one eye on her and one on the door. Grady had better be close by, because I was sure I was going to be calling him for help pretty fucking soon. As she clamped some kind of heavy boot around one of my feet I was having flashbacks of a Stephen King novel.
A personal issue? What kind of goddamned excuse was that? Was she really willing to go to these kinds of lengths to avoid me?
What did I expect, really? I had no right to expect her to do anything else, not after the way I’d talked to her.