Page 34 of Wait for Him

Turns out I only liked that plan when it was theoretical.

Jackson's jaw flexes. Then he gives one small nod, turns and walks out without another word.

“Fuck!”

His yell comes from somewhere beyond the door before it swings shut behind him.

I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.

The tears start again. This time I don't fight them.

Because I finally understand.

I am helplessly, hopelessly in love with Jackson, and it changes absolutely nothing.

He's younger than me. He's my brother's best friend and business partner. He's spent years respecting a boundary I drew, and I have spent those same years moving it whenever it suited me, letting him hold me, take care of me, spoil me, love me in every way I would allow while refusing to acknowledge what I was giving him in return.

He deserves better than that.

More importantly, he deserves the chance to build a life that isn't dictated by whatever mess I haven't managed to outrun yet.

So, I do what I do with every truth I can't afford.

I bury it. I dig a grave somewhere deep inside myself and put the truth into it while it's still kicking and screaming, then pack the earth down hard enough that maybe I can convince myself it isn't there.

I love Jackson.

Another handful of dirt.

I wanted that to be me.

Deeper.

I love him.

Gone.

By the time I face the mirror properly, my eyes are dry. I repair the damage beneath them, fix my lipstick and smooth my hands over my dress until there isn't a wrinkle left.

Then I straighten my shoulders.

I still owe Michael a dance.

Part Two

Chapter One

Rose

Well, isn't this just a bag full of dicks.

Literally.

See, I've had only one rule about dating for most of my adult life, and it's this: I don't introduce a partner to my brother, Michael, unless I'm certain it's serious.

Our parents died when he was fourteen, and somewhere in the long gray haze of that year I decided his life would keep some semblance of normalcy even if I had to build the normalcy myself, by hand, out of whatever materials I could find. He's a grown man of twenty-eight now, perfectly capable of meeting my boyfriends without the need for me to chaperone the interaction, but the rule has never much cared about his capabilities and neither, frankly, have I.

Some things you keep long after the reason for them has technically expired because letting go would mean admitting the reason is gone, and I've never been particularly good at admitting things are gone.