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Goddammit.
My phone starts pinging with messages as I see Sage’s burgundy truck careening after us. Well, that’s just dandy.
Sage: Where are you going? Who is in the car with you?
Sage: You can’t just leave. I didn’t know you were coming. I can explain.
Sage: I know it looks bad.
Sage: You need to answer me, JoJo.
Sage: FUCK JOJO FUCK.
“Where to?” Trish asks, lighting her four-hundredth cigarette for the day as we speed toward an intersection. She nonchalantly passes a stop sign and I’m about to pee my pants—yeah, despite all the Pilates.
“Slow down, Trish.”
“Did he cheat?” She ignores me, getting all worked up. “It looks like he’s been cheatin’ on ya. This kinda thing doesn’t fly with me. Bob cheated.”
“It’s complicated, but…” I don’t want to die. Not even over Sage.
“Bastard!” She hits the accelerator so hard my head swings back. Meanwhile, the texts flow like cheap alcohol at a frat party.
Sage: Tell her to stop the goddamn vehicle or I swear I’ll slam into you from the side to pull you over.
Sage: Bitch is crazy, JoJo. She’ll get both of you killed.
Sage: IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK.
“You have to stop.” I swivel my whole body toward Trish.
“Like hell I will!” she exclaims with an evil laugh. Dude. Okay. Trish might be a little on the psychotic side. Plus, she is plucking out another cigarette from her magical, never-ending pack. I grab her shoulder and squeeze lightly so she doesn’t do something reckless in an attempt to gain her full attention.
“Trish, you’re spinning. Stop the car or I’ll take all your tips,” I threaten, and the car pulls over so fast my head is swimming again. We’re on the shoulder of the highway, in the pitch-black, and Trish leans over my body, throws my door open, and points outside.
“Get the hell outta my car, girl. If you’re taking this cheating bastard back, I don’t want to hang out with you no more.”
That escalated quickly. I grab my stuff and hop out, Sage already pulling behind her with his truck. No matter what happened between him and me, I still trust him more to get me home safe. Wherever home may be. He gets out of his truck and walks toward me, chest puffed up, eyes ablaze, just when Trish hits the gas pedal again and leaves us in a thick cloud of exhaust smoke. We’re standing one in front of another. I don’t say a thing. Neither does he.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and texts me. I stare at him like he’s an absolute lunatic.
Sage: If we talk about it right now, we’ll fight again. Come home with me and I’ll explain everything.
I don’t budge. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to fight. But I don’t want to be a doormat, either. He’s got plenty of girls who’d be happy to play that role for him. But not me. He sighs, texting me again.
Sage: OUR home, JoJo. Don’t throw away all these years for a misunderstanding. Pls?
The drive back is soul crushing, no less. The silence hangs in the air like a stench. When we get to the apartment, I kick my Chucks against the wall and walk over to my room. A big hand grabs me by the waist and spins me around. I swat it away, feeling all the humiliation, anger, and sadness I’d felt at Barnie’s returning, burning in me like a red-hot wrath.
“What the hell, Sage. Get off me! All this bullshit about me being in your blood didn’t feel so true when you ran after Amber, begging.”
“You are in my blood!” he screams in my face, raking his fingers along his thick, lush blond hair. I look away so he won’t see the tears. My cheeks are wet, and my heart is pounding loud enough to hear from across the room. “You’re in my blood, in my veins, in my fucking soul. You’re in my heart and in my fingertips and on my fucking lips like a prayer. You’re fucking everywhere, Jolie Louis. Always will be.” He pushes me to the wall. My back slams against it. I growl, pushing him away. He lets me. We’re angry. We’re desperate. We’re frustrated.
“That Amber chick called me a slut today! And you ran after her! Pleaded for her to stay when you thought I wasn’t there!”
“I don’t want Amber,” he says, his lips pursing and his eyes thinning into slits. “I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” I huff—oh, God, since when did I become a huffer?—turning my back to him and walking toward the hallway. He pins me against the wall again, this time bracing his arms above my head and locking me in. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I have to stay here and see this through. His eyes are burning. My body is heaving. There’s an impending storm between us and we’re both exposed.
