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Not that I can get much stiller than I am.
And then I do something I never thought I’d ever do.
I roll to face him.
His bed is massive, which I’ve been glad for, but right now, he feels too far away.
He’s lying on his back, and he turns his face to mine when I roll over.
I pull my legs up to my chest and rest my hands under my head on the pillow. “What was your father like?”
“Fuck.” The word falls harshly from his lips instantly. I feel every drop of heavy in his response. Every ounce of pain. He looks up to the ceiling for a long minute before scrubbing a hand over his face.
I can’t tell if he’s going to answer me or not.
Another minute passes and I decide he’s not going to.
“You don’t need to tell me,” I say. “I just—”
He looks at me. “You don’t want to know what my father was like.” His voice is jagged. Filled with bruises and cuts and wounds that I sense sit deep in his soul.
I think he’s right.
I don’t think I want to know what his father was like.
I map the angles of his face. It’s dark, so I can’t make out the fine lines, but I can see the shape of him. It occurs to me, though, that I don’t need light to know where the lines sit. Jameson and I might not be married in the true sense, but I’ve studied him so closely over the last three and a half months that those lines are committed to memory already.
“How many times has your nose been broken?” I ask, thinking about the fact he was a fighter at one time in his life. I suspect it’s been broken at least once because its alignment is slightly out. It’s barely noticeable, but I noticed it the other day.
“Twice.” He pauses for a long beat before adding, “By my father.”
I know Jameson’s father died when he was eighteen, so this means his broken noses occurred while he was still a child. He was absolutely right that I don’t want to know about his father.
We lie in silence for a long time, watching each other.
This man is the biggest puzzle I think I’ll ever meet.
What lies on the surface is nothing compared to what lies beneath.
Yet, everything on the surface is there only because of what lies beneath.
I have an overwhelming desire to do something I never saw coming.
I want to break through his surface.
I want to move past the shallows and find the real Jameson.
16
Adeline
I’m onto baking my second batch of cupcakes when Mom joins me in the kitchen just after 6:30 a.m.
“Goodness,” she says, eyeing them. “You’re not planning on eating any of those, are you?”
“She’ll get a few,” Jameson says, coming in after Mom. “There won’t be many left after I get to them.”
I could grow used to having him around while she visits me. He has this way of coming in at the exact right moment of a conversation when I need help.
