How do people live like this?
It’s awful. I hate it.
And the fastest way to not feel like this is to just get it the hell over with. Talk to her. Eat shit and smile as I chew. Which I’m fully prepared to do.
If I could just bring myself to actually knock on the door.
But that’s where the evil anxiety comes into play. It won’t let me knock on the door, because . . . what if she tells me to screw off? What if she doesn’t accept my apology? What if she’s concluded that I’m a violent asshole who’s unfit to be around her and the kids?
Shit.
A low movement catches my eye and I look down—Cousin It is staring coolly up at me. He’s not wagging his tail, and his eyes are mocking. I can almost hear him telepathically calling me a pussy.
“Shut up,” I snarl.
He turns from me in disgust and trots away.
I push my hand through my hair, take a breath, and knock twice. It’s a soft enough not to reach any of the twelve ears one floor up, but it’s decisive; women respond to confidence. The door opens faster than I anticipated—and only just far enough to frame Chelsea’s face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wet.
I put my hand on the frame, leaning in. “Are you okay?”
Her chin rises, all stoic with attempted indifference, but she’s as bad at it as her foul-mouthed, car-stealing nephew is. “I’m fine.”
Then she shuts the door in my face. She doesn’t slam it—but I get the feeling she really wants to.
I knock again.
And again it opens—same width, same expression staring at me.
“I acted like an asshole to you.” I thought it best to skip the formalities and get right to the point.
This time her eyes travel up and down, gauging my sincerity. Her beautiful mouth remains in that firm fuck-you line. “Agreed.”
And closed goes the door.
When I knock again and the door cracks open again, I wedge my foot in there good to keep it open. “I’m sorry, Chelsea.”
Can she hear the strain? The regret that sounds absolutely nothing fucking like me? Does she know this new voice is reserved only for her?
Of course she doesn’t, idiot—’cause you haven’t told her.
“I was angry that he—that anyone—would try to hurt you. I took it out on you, and I was wrong.”
Chelsea blinks and her countenance thaws a couple of degrees, but it’s still chilly. She shrugs—and I almost laugh. Because I see exactly where Riley gets it from.
“Just forget it, Jake. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” I press my face into the crevice between the frame and the door, feeling like a fucking moron but laying it all on the line. “And part of the reason I was pissed, even before you left with them, was because . . . I was jealous.”
Her jaw drops. “You were?”
I nod. “Can I come in? I feel like a jackass talking through the crack.”
“Oh.” She moves back, opening the door wide. “Sure.”
I step inside and close the door behind me, and I’m surrounded by all things her—her scent in the air, her clothes lying across the corner chair, the jewelry that’s graced her delicate neck on the dresser, a framed picture of her in a graduation gown flanked by her brother and sister-in-law on the nightstand, and her sketchbook open on the bed. The sensory overload of these intimate sights and scents literally makes me weak in the knees.
She stands in front of me, waiting. She’s changed her clothes—gone are the sexy halter and skintight jeans. In their place is an even sexier royal-blue LA Dodgers jersey and tiny white cotton shorts. Her face is flawlessly makeup free, framed by soft auburn waves. My hand twitches with the insane impulse to run my fingers through those waves—to count every shiny shade of color I find.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” I ask.
She unfolds her arms and nods. “Yeah. I’ve dealt with overeager guys before.” She sits on the bottom of the bed, toying with the blanket. “I just never expected Lucas to be one of them.”
I don’t want to ask, but the masochist inside me needs to know. “Was he . . . like . . . a boyfriend?”
“No, it was never like that. We were . . . friends. Casual, you know?”
Yes, yes I do.
She shakes her head. “They texted me from the airport after they landed—a surprise. But as soon as they got here, I knew it was a mistake. How much everything—the way I look at things, my idea of a good time—all of it’s changed.” Her eyes crinkle with grief. Grief for her brother, for the carefree girl she used to be. “I guess responsibility will do that to you.”
I sit down on the bed beside her. “I’m sorry.”