Page 18 of Fight from the Heart

“You know what? I’m going to head out. Why don’t you take my seat, and you can talk here?” Mae suggests, scooting herself to the edge of the booth. Jacob steps back, allowing Mae to exit, but I reach for my friend.

“Don’t go,” I say, suddenly feeling guilty that our girls’ night is over. She needed tonight as much as I did.

“We’re good,” Mae assures me and stands from the bench seat. “See you Monday.”

After a quick hug, Mae walks away, and Jacob turns on me. “Perfect as I need to see you at my place tomorrow.”

“Is that all you had to say to me?” I ask as we remain standing next to the booth. When he doesn’t answer me directly, I reach for my purse, searching for my credit card.

“You’re all set. It’s all on my tab.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. Now, if that’s all you had to say, I guess my night is over too.” I’m bitter about this fact. I wanted to hang out with Mae, talk about men in general, and just enjoy some laughter.

I walk around Jacob and head out the front door to Main Street. The February air is bitter cold like I suddenly feel. Jacob had no right to walk over when he did, nor did he need to run off Mae. Not to mention, seeing Spencer has brought on a wave of regret and memories of Brendan. Crossing my arms to huddle against the cold, I walk toward my apartment.

“Where are you going?” Jacob calls after me.

“Home,” I say over my shoulder, not stopping due to the frigid temperature.

“Where’s home?” he questions, catching up to me and keeping pace with my rapid stride. I stop and stare at him.

“After all this time, you don’t know where I live?” I’m floored. How can he not know? I mean, I don’t expect him to have my address memorized, but how does he not remember I live over the pharmacy? It’s all a reminder that Jacob doesn’t know me. He likes to keep me at arm’s length, and that’s what makes the other night even more confusing.

“I’ll walk you home,” he suggests, and I huff, mist forming outside my mouth in the cold night.

“It’s right there.” I point at the pharmacy across the street at the end of the block.

“I’m still walking you across the street then,” Jacob demands, and we walk in silence a few steps. “Look, the other night—”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” I cut him off.

“But I don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t think anything of it,” I lie.

“You don’t?” he questions, his tone almost sounds hurt, and I chew my lip to prevent clarifying.

I’d love for you to do it again sometime, but that probably isn’t a good idea. As badly as my body wants it, my heart can’t take it.

“I understand you were under duress from a bad dream, and I was there. Perhaps you had me confused with Mandi and—”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps.

“Do what?”

“Don’t make this about Mandi. There was no confusion. There’s no comparison.” The tone of his voice emphasizes our difference.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me I’m not your type,” I snap, unable to hold back my sarcasm.

“Not. My. Type,” he stammers.

I stop, holding up a hand before he can continue. Changing topics before I burst into tears in the cold temps, I speak. “We don’t need to see one another tomorrow, Jacob. Just email or text me what you need.”

I begin walking again, but Jacob follows.

As his personal assistant, I set up his social media posts and handle reader interaction in a Facebook group. Despite not being his type, we quickly learned we have something in common—our love of books. Only I hated one of his. This caused him to ask me to beta read for him, then I became his critique partner and eventually started to work for him. Most days, I wonder why I still do it.

Because you love him.