Page 22 of Fight from the Heart

“Did you back up what you were working on?” With the electricity flickering, I’d hate for him to lose whatever he was writing on.

“You were holding in your hand what I was working on. I was waiting on you.” The undercurrent of attitude in his tone is not appreciated. “Let’s pull one couch closer to the fire.”

If it were anyone else, the setup might be romantic, but knowing all I know about his dislike of romance, this is not going to be a romantic evening. This is necessity, and it looks like we’re sharing a couch for the time being.

Once we rearrange the furniture, placing one couch only feet from the blazing fire, I settle back on the cushions in a corner while Jacob falls into the opposite corner. Somehow, a bottle of scotch appears near the leg of the couch. Jacob pours himself a glass, not offering me one. I assume I’m to keep reading, which I do as best as I can under firelight and the diminishing light of the day.

“Why didn’t you introduce me to your friend the other night?” The question startles me from reading.

“I did introduce you.”

“But only after I asked you to do it.” There’s something in his voice I can’t read.

“I signed an NDA, remember?”

“Are you embarrassed to work for me?” The genuine concern in his tone surprises me.

“What’s there to be embarrassed about? You’re a famous author. I was respecting your privacy.”

He sniffs and takes a sip of his drink. His body slouches back on the cushions, his head resting on the back of the couch.

“When I was a kid, my father was embarrassed by me. He rarely introduced me to people as his son. He was very proud of Ella because she was such a beauty, but not so proud of me, his flesh and blood.”

I’m stone still as he speaks, astonished by the admission, especially as it’s more than he’s ever told me about himself in relation to his dad.

“So you weren’t close to your father.”

Jacob rolls his head to look at me. “Only as close as his fist could reach.”

Horrified, I bite back a gasp. “That’s awful.”

He takes another heavy gulp of his drink, looking away from me while my eyes beg him to turn back. His focus fixates on the fire, and I’m worried for half a second he’ll toss the alcohol at the flames and set the house ablaze.

“I was close to my father but not like people would think. I didn’t match the rest of the Carter clan.”

“Don’t depreciate yourself,” Jacob states, his voice tight.

“I’m not. I’m just stating a fact. I’m not one of the famous Carters, and I struggled with the difference between myself and my siblings when I was younger. I wasn’t the football star of Jess or the class clown of Tom, and definitely not the beautiful tomboy of my sister. They are all tall, lean, and athletic. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, unlike the rest of them who seemed destined to be an engineer, a small business owner, and a teacher, respectively. I sort of fell into the position of EMT, and while I loved it because I don’t mind blood and guts, I fell out of love with it.” I’m quiet as Jacob knows why I stopped being an EMT.

“But my father always gave me the best advice, as if he knew I didn’t think I measured up or considered myself worthy. I needed to love myself as much as he loved me, he’d say.”

I love you bunches, Pammie, he’d tell me. I smile to myself, recalling my father and noting the snowstorm oustide again. “His advice reminds me of a song by Tori Amos, called ‘Winter.’ And I don’t know why I told you that.”

Jacob’s attention has turned back to me. “You know I’m always sorry about your dad.”

“I know.” I met Jacob the night my father died. Jacob was the man in that red Corvette, and I was tending to him when my dad passed away in the ambulance ride to the hospital. I wanted to blame Jacob when it happened, but he wasn’t at fault. Still, I went to visit him the next day in the hospital to rip him apart for his stupidity. Drinking and driving, he could have killed someone. He could have been the one to hit and run on my dad, but he wasn’t. I was still hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind, but when I entered his hospital room, something changed my mind.

“Don’t go there, Lilac,” Jacob whispers, but it’s too late. The loss of my father was difficult for me. Memories fill my thoughts for a few minutes. My father’s advice. His bear-style hugs. His silent support.

“You never mention your father. Is it because of mine?” I’d actually never thought about it until this moment, but Jacob doesn’t discuss his, and perhaps it’s because his is still alive and mine is not.

“I don’t mention him because he’s an asshole and not worth my breath.”

Ouch, but then again, Jacob just mentioned his father’s fist, which suggests an unpleasant history between them.

“I’m sorry he hit you,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Jacob sneers. He’s so unfeeling sometimes, but his concern for his sister and the friendship he tried to start with Ethan prove he isn’t totally heartless. He’s just a contradiction, even in our arrangement.