Page 25 of Fight from the Heart

“Yeah, desperate for sex.” My eyes roamed her body on that day, and I instantly knew she was too good for me. To cover my blatant perusal of her, I also noted, “You’re wearing all purple.”

She laughed at herself when she realized she was.

I almost laugh to myself as she’s wearing a light purple sweater tonight.

“I’d never print what you just told me,” Pam says, interrupting my memory. “But thank you for sharing the real reason, the real Jacob with me.”

I smile half-heartedly. The real Jacob. I don’t even know who that is most days.

“Have you ever considered therapy for the things you can’t work through with writing?” Pam asks, her voice quiet.

“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed, Lilac.” I fall back onto the cushions, placing my feet on the hearth of the fireplace.

“Maybe you need someone to talk to you,” she mutters.

“I’m talking to you,” I remind her. It’s not that I’m against therapy. My sister is in it and has been for months. I just don’t think I need it. I have my writing, Pam, and . . . I stare at the glass in my hand.

Shit.

What I really need is a good round with my punching bag. I’m tense and tight with the urge to fight, but it’s not Pam I want to battle.

“I’m sorry. I’m a dick and in a mood.” It’s true, but that’s as much as I’m telling her. My mood has to do with her. She’s avoided me all week, and I don’t want her going on a date with some slick surfer dude even though I don’t have the right to tell her not to go. However, my mouth cannot stay shut on the subject.

“Are you going to go out with that guy?” I blurt out.

“Who?” she replies with surprise.

“That surfer wannabe.”

“Spencer?” she questions.

“Spencer,” I mock.

“Why does it freaking matter?” Pam asks, shifting her body to face me, and I turn to mirror her position.

“Because I don’t want you to go out with him.” Fine, there’s the truth, the whole fucking truth. Analyze that. Only, she doesn’t. She stares back at me, setting her wineglass on the hearth of the fireplace away from the fire.

“He’s not good enough for you,” I add. I’m aware I’m not making sense or being fair. I’ve had Mandi for years, but I can’t help the jealousy I suddenly feel that Pam’s been with someone recently or could go out with someone in the future.

“You don’t even know him,” she retorts.

“Do you?”

Her lips clamp shut, admitting more without words. How well does she know the chump?

“I kissed him back when I was eighteen,” she says, a giggle in her voice and heat on her face. Is she blushing over a kiss? What must she think of what I did to her then?

“I didn’t take you as a demure damsel,” I tease. Pam loves medieval things.

“Oh, I’m no innocent.” Her voice turns deep, sarcastic even, and now I’m truly interested.

“Pray, do tell,” I inquire, mockingly holding a hand to my chest over my heart.

“I am not giving you my sexual history.” She snorts.

“Oh, please give me your history . . . the sexual parts, all the sex and parts.” My eyes lower, roaming over her lush body. I don’t want her history. I want to make the present—the here and now—a sexual memory.

Easy, man.