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In Jack Stapleton’s garden, out by the pool house, partially hidden behind a Palmetto tree… Robby, my ex, and Taylor, my friend…
Were kissing.
Each other.
Robby… who had dumped me a month ago on the night after my mother’s funeral… and Taylor… who had come over right afterward to console me while I cried…
Were kissing.
And worse than that: on the job.
There’s no way to describe how it felt to live through that moment. My eyes tried to look away but could only stare, Clockwork Orange–style, as the two of them went on and on, all tangled and pressed together, sucking face like hateful teenagers.
Remember when I couldn’t feel any feelings about Robby?
Well, that cured that.
The closest word I have for it is panic. Just an agonizing, urgent feeling that I needed to turn it off, or make it stop, or find some way for it to not be happening. Then add some rage. And some humiliation. And disbelief, too—as I tried, and failed, to understand what I was seeing.
It was a physical feeling—burning and searing, like my heart was pumping acid instead of blood.
Up until that moment, I didn’t even know that feeling existed.
At some point—Five minutes later? Five hours?—I heard a voice over my shoulder. “They should get fired for that, huh?”
I turned. It was Jack Stapleton, his eyes on the monitor.
As I looked at him, he looked at me, and his expression shifted from amusement to concern. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”
But I didn’t know what to do with my face. It was like the muscles didn’t work right. My eyes stayed wide and bewildered, and my mouth couldn’t seem to close itself.
Jack certainly didn’t know how universe-shattering this moment was for me, and the last thing I wanted was for him to find out. I wanted to cover. To smile and shake my head and say, “idiots,” like they were just dumb coworkers who I was judging for fooling around on the job.
But I couldn’t smile. Or shake my head. Or speak.
What was Jack even doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t he be inside doing movie star stuff?
And then I realized something else, as Jack pulled the cuff of his shirtsleeve over the heel of his hand, lifted it to my face, and started dabbing at my cheeks.
I was crying.
My eyes were, at least. Without my permission.
After a few dabs, Jack pulled his hand away to show me how the wetness had darkened his cuff, and, with a tender voice I remembered from the grand finale of You Wish, he said, “What’s going on here?”
At last, I shook my head. A historic achievement, all things considered.
Activating the neck muscles seemed to release the jaw muscles as well, and I was able to close my gaping mouth. With that, I became functional enough to look away.
“Are you crying?” Jack asked, trying to step around.
Of course I was. Obviously I was. But I shook my head.
“I thought you were a tough guy.”
“I already told you: I’m not.”
“I believe you now,” Jack said.
