“I do,” I say before turning around from where I’m loading Evee’s presents into the trunk of the car I share with Ava.
Every time I look at Jack, it’s like the first time. The butterflies in my stomach are out of control when his jade eyes are on me, or when I imagine running my fingers through his hair, or when I picture those strong arms wrapped around me.
I could go on and on.
“Did you need any more help with packing up?” Jack asks, his arm reaching up to close my trunk for me.
I lean against my car, interlacing my hands together, resisting the urge to grab him and pull him closer, something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since he hugged me and Evee goodbye last week or when he leaned in to kiss me on the cheek earlier today.
The quick moments of touch won’t be enough for much longer.
With every one, I crave more in a way I don’t think I ever have.
The touch of a man has always been something associated with hurt and fear—part of my story that might be time to rewrite.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, tearing myself away from my thoughts. “But thanks for helping us clean up.”
Jack stuck around to help me, Ava, and Emerson take all the decorations down and pack up all the presents and leftover food.
“Don’t mention it,” he says, his hands going to his pockets.
Is he thinking about pulling me closer too?
I don’t let myself sit with the thought for too long, letting it go as quickly as it came.
We’refriends.
“And thank you for coming. Evee loved her gift.” I turn to look over my shoulder where my daughter is. Jack got her a plush fire truck with matching stuffed Dalmatian puppies. Looking through the window of Hey Honey’s, I can see Evee still clutching the stuffed puppies now, one in each arm, as toddles between Ava and Emerson.
Jack follows my gaze. “Glad she likes them,” he says softly before turning to look at me. “Before I head home, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I nod. A knot forms in my stomach as thoughts begin to spiral in my head—possibilities of what I did to upset him, what I did wrong. “What is it?”
He lets out an exhale before he continues. “I have PTSD.” It sounds like an admission, one that he’s been holding close to him for a while now.
A moment passes before I say anything, not sure how he wants me to respond but not wanting him to feel like he made a mistake in telling me something so personal. “Okay,” is all thatcomes out, and I make sure to school my features, keeping them neutral in hopes he says more.
He takes his hands out of his pockets, opening and closing his fists at his sides. “It’s from the fire that killed Bennett.” His shoulders relax once the words are out, like the sentence was literally weighing on him, and, now that he’s spoken it out loud, he no longer has to carry something so heavy.
His eyes slowly blink as he lets out another breath. “I was there the night he died, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.” More tension releases from his body, and the slight crack in his voice leads me to believe these words haven’t been spoken out loud before.
I reach out to grab his hand, both of mine holding one of his as I hold it between us, the urge to touch him, especially seeing the strength it takes him to say these words, is too strong.
He looks down at our hands. “I couldn’t do anything to stop it.” He repeats the words once, then again. The third time, he says them more as a whisper, as if trying to convince himself the truth of them.
“You couldn’t do anything to stop it,” I echo, feeling the need to convince him too.
I know how easy it is to let your mind tell you that you’re the one to blame for something that’s happened to you; that you could’ve prevented it; that it was your fault.
Grief and trauma have ways of contorting our reality, making us believe the irrational.
Jack looks up at me, his eyes glistening.
A dry laugh escapes him. “I didn’t plan on saying all that.” He squeezes the two of my hands with his before he lets go, taking his baseball hat off with one hand and running his other through his hair before putting it back on. “I planned on telling you about my PTSD and letting you know I was in therapy for it because I wanted to explain what you might have seen wheneveryone was singing to Evee.” His eyes drift past me, looking into Hey Honey’s. I turn, looking over my shoulder, finding Ava and Emerson talking but they’re closer to the window than they were before.
I let Jack’s words settle, remembering the look on his face, his body stiff and rigid, his fist clenched, as I lit Evee’s candle with Emerson’s lighter. “I noticed you lookeduncomfortable.”
It’s partly true—he did look uncomfortable.
