“Nothing. I don’t feel well.” I know that will set Salinger off.
“Don’t feel well how? Are you sick? It better not be an STD. I’ll come get you. I don’t trust you to take care ofyourself. Do you know how much goddamn money I have invested in you?”
“You can’t come over.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
“Jenna’s here.”
Salinger is quiet.
“The PR girl—the one you don’t like—is at your penthouse at…” I hear him checking his watch. “Ten thirty at night? You better not be sleeping with her.”
“So what if I am?”
“Crawford told me she was there Sunday as well.” Salinger curses under his breath. “I’m hiring a new PR firm. This is ridiculous. What about the girl you were in the photo with?”
“Don’t hire anyone else. I’ll follow Jenna’s plan.”
“I guess sex is one way to keep you on a leash.” My brother is snide.
“Fuck you, Salinger.” I stare at Jenna through the window.
She’s bumbling around the living room then back to the show kitchen.
Truman has been extricated from upstairs with the promise of food.
I can’t stop staring at her.
It’s like she dug her fingers into my chest and broke my ribs to claw out the dead piece of my heart and replace it with part of hers.
She opens the door.
Truman sees me and wags his tail. He heads off to the grass planter I had installed for him.
Jenna gives me a warm, genuine smile. “I’m making you some tomato soup and grilled cheese. Then I’ll rub your back.”
And that’s it. I’m in love with her. Some girl I barely know, and I’m in fucking love with her.
Since I destroy everything I love, that’s going to be a fucking problem.
38
JENNA
Have I ever told you that my love language is sacrificing my own needs to care for a man with a tragic backstory?
The soup’s bubbling on the stove. I’ve got the grilled cheese sandwiches ready for the panini maker, made with fresh bread and cheese from an elaborate cheese tray on the skinny bottom shelf of the fancy fridge.
Outside, McCarthy is silhouetted against the glittering Seattle skyline.
The story about the dog was devastating. I can’t get his face out of my mind—the lost, broken-hearted look in his eyes.
I want to wrap him in blankets and excuse every single bit of bad behavior.
Because someone whose puppy gets stolen when he’s a foster kid shouldn’t have to be held accountable for his actions, right?
“Right?” I whisper as I make my way down the hallway.
