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They sprawled on the couch side by side, feet propped on her coffee table. Jig’s cut rested on the back of an armchair. The whole scene was very domestic. He’d given up any thoughts of that life years ago, but would be lying through his ass if he said it didn’t feel nice. It felt too nice. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with appreciating the person he was with for nothing beyond her company.
Izzy rolled her head in his direction. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.” He grabbed his beer and took a good pull. Nothing like beer and pizza to round out a shitty day.
“You’re not going to like it.”
His gut tightened, and he lowered the bottle, unable to take another sip. “What’s your question?”
She reached out and traced a finger over the scar pattern on his face. Feather-light, her finger tracked the puzzle-piece shape that had given him his nickname. Each spot she smoothed over tingled with awareness until he could feel the entire scar on his cheek. Not the burning that came when the shit hit the fan, but a pressure, almost like someone was pushing a template of the pattern onto his face.
Jig froze, couldn’t move a single muscle, couldn’t speak, could barely draw in a breath. Over six years he’d had that scar, and none of the women he’d been with had touched it. Most of them would never want to, and the two that had tried faced fury they hadn’t bargained for.
Anger didn’t come this time, just a paralyzing terror for the question about to fall from her lips.
“Will you tell me about this? About how it happened? About what you went through?”
Not only had his face been untouched, but no one dared ask him about the event. No one was willing to face the consequences. Copper knew the entire story, but he was the only one. Everyone else knew the basics, but never learned the depths to which Jig had sunk after the tragedy.
But Izzy was brave and didn’t back away from a fight or let fear control her actions. There was true caring gleaming in her gaze, not morbid curiosity. The intense events of the day had deepened the bond growing between them, and he now realized that, even though neither was prepared, the connection between them was growing into deep affection. So she touched. And she asked. And for the first time since Copper, Jig found himself willing to unload the story. There was a chance she’d run screaming before he was finished, but he still felt compelled to tell her. The gentle way her fingers caressed his face and the uncharacteristic way her body melted against him made him putty in her hands.
He cupped his hand over hers on his face and held her palm against his cheek, then turned his head and pressed his lips to the very center. Izzy straightened on the couch and faced him, folding her legs underneath her.
“About six and a half years ago, I had a wife and a little girl.” His voice cracked over “girl.” “They’re both dead now.” For so many years, he’d refused to voice that truth, and while it was painful to say, it wasn’t quite as gut-wrenching as he’d imagined. And that was all due to Izzy and the compassion flowing from her. Not pity, just concern and patience.
She didn’t feed him bullshit, didn’t tell him it was okay, didn’t say she understood. It was appreciated. Because nothing about the story was okay, and how could anyone ever understand? But she sat in silent support, listening with focused attention and holding his hand.
“I was—” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I was very different back then. You probably wouldn’t recognize me if you crossed me on the street. Fuck, I wouldn’t recognize myself anymore. I was a Ph.D. student in physics. I’d never been in a fight, hardly swore, never held a gun. I was…normal.”
Izzy gave him a small smile of encouragement and squeezed his hand.
“My wife was…” He blew out a breath and stared at the ceiling as a host of unresolved feelings washed over him. It was astounding how sorrow could feel so fresh even after six years had passed. “She was the definition of sweet. Small, a tiny little thing, soft-spoken, non-confrontational, a pacifist.”
His gaze met Izzy’s, and though neither of them spoke the words, they both had to be thinking about the differences between the women. Callie and Izzy couldn’t have been farther apart on the spectrum.
“She was just a good, loving, supportive wife. We met when we were fifteen, and I fucking loved her.” He snorted. “She’d have hated me saying it like that. Don’t think I ever heard a four-letter word come out of her mouth. Everything about her was so damn sugary sweet. I swear, we never even fucked. Just made love. Callie was a hopeless romantic. And my daughter was a carbon copy of her mother. Two peas in a pod.”
