“Hi,” Jett says to them and follows me up to my room.
Despite the heaters, I’m shivering still, and my legs ache like hell from the penetrating cold and wetness.
I strip out of all my clothes with my back turned to him, grab a towel from my closet, and dry off. I snag a pair of underwear and pull them on. Next, I tug on some sweats and a hoodie. Jett stays quiet as I work the towel through my hair.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he murmurs when I turn around. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, eyes squarely on me.
“Me, too.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know. She has to have brain surgery to remove a problematic lesion in her left hemisphere once her concussion is gone.”
He clenches his jaw, then sucks in a breath. “That must have been scary.”
“It was. Now tell me why you’re here?” I sit on the floor and cross my legs, watching him. I won’t allow myself to sit close and get my hopes up until he’s explained himself.
Jett scratches the back of his neck, then nods. “I… I got your text. I love you, too, Wes.”
“Sure could’ve fooled me. Youdidfool me.”
It’s not like me to be a dick, but I’m suddenly pissed. I should be glad to see Jett, and while a part of me is, anger is winning out. Tears threaten to spill again. I’m frustrated and upset, and I’mfuckingover crying.
He nods, looking down at his hands, twisting in his lap. “I’m so sorry. Sorry for everything.” He sounds resigned and as tired as I feel.
Saying sorry doesn’t mean he wants to get back together, so I hold my breath and wait for what he has to say.
My grandparents are probably listening to every word, but it saves me the time to explain everything.
“I got… triggered when I saw you holding my meds.”
I huff. “No shit.”
“I deserve that. I know it was an accident, and that you weren’t snooping.” His body shakes with an outdrawn sigh. “It’s just all my… shit I got up in my head. I just… reacted instead of thinking. Once I calmed down, I realized the truth, but then…”
“Then why didn’t you reach out? Why ignore me?”
He swallows hard and stares out the window. Since he started talking, he hasn’t been able to look at me once. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks worn. Beautiful, but exhausted.
“Because I’m not that man in your scrapbook, Wes. I know I teased you about it, but God, I was so touched by it, too, and terrified of what it meant. I… don’t want or deserve to be onsome pedestal. It’s too much to live up to. So much pressure. I’m so fucking tired. I’m angry with myself, my dad… that I’m still stuck in a moment that changed me forever.”
As soon as his eyes water, I’m up, sitting next to him, but I’m not ready to touch him. He turns to face me and takes my hand as if he knows I won’t do it first. Warmth spreads through my fingers and up my arm, the familiar tingles of his touch. It’s pulling out emotions I’m trying so hard to fight right now.
“I’m just going to come out and say it because there’s no easy way. Rip off the bandage, right?” he chuckles, but there’s no humor in it or light in his eyes. “I didn’t show up for my race at the Olympics because I… I tried to kill myself. I would’ve had my sister not pulled me off the balcony that day.”
Just like that, all my anger, frustration, and pain go right out the window. No matter what happens between us, Jett needs me. I pull my hand from his grasp, wrap my arms around him, and hold him against me. He holds me back, hands sliding underneath my hoodie. He presses his palms against my back, warming me, like he can’t get close enough.
“Holy fuck, Jett. I had a feeling it was probably some mental breakdown, but I had no idea by how much. Jesus. I’m so, so sorry that you felt you had no other way out.”
“Me, too,” he whispers in my neck. “They had me in a hospital. It was horrible, Wes. There’s no peace. No privacy. You’re crammed full of meds, scared, alone, but never by yourself. You’re already fucked in the head, then that place… In the end, I knew they were just trying to keep me alive and make me better. But I felt so fucking broken…”
My eyes water for him as I squeeze him tighter. “Talk to me. What happened that day that pushed you that far?”
“Years and years of stress. Pressure. Trying to be the best son I could. Make them proud. Make Dad proud. Show my family that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. To be the best athlete.”His words are stilted between gasps. With every one of them, I feel what he’s feeling.
“And the Olympics was the ultimate success,” I say. “So much fucking pressure.”
“I never showed up at the starting line. People searched everywhere for me. Dad found me on the bathroom floor. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go. Instead of helping me, all he could do was show his contempt and disappointment. He walked away, out of my life. It dawned on me that day that I’d never make him happy, no matter what I did. And if I ever needed him to be there for me, he’d just turn his back. I thought he loved me despite years of doubt. I convinced myself of that. I could be the President of the United States, and hestillwouldn’t be happy. Istillwouldn’t be fucking good enough.” He spits the last part, his blunt fingers digging into my skin.
