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“Did you find out about Mr. Webster’s guest yet?”
He’s guided me to the couch and nearly shoved me down onto it—I was right, it’s not comfortable at all—and is looming over me, looking furious. Done with my questions, he demands, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Once upon a time, I would’ve flinched. I would’ve shrunk down and probably even apologized for disturbing him. And I’m sad to say, that time wasn’t all too long ago. But I’ve remembered who I am, who I’ve worked to become.
That week in the woods might’ve started my spiritual rehabilitation, and Cole’s reminder that I deserve better helped more than he’ll ever know, but I’m the one fixing my insides and doing a really good job at it, if I do say so myself.
Cole, on the other hand, seems to have returned to his former grumpy self.
“Excuse me?” I reply. “I went through all this trouble of finding you—no easy task, mind you—because I wanted to tell you something.” He blinks, blank-faced, but I’m pretty sure he’s gritting his teeth. I forge ahead, doing this for me more than him. “Thank you. That’s it. You helped me with the wedding, and I said thanks for that. But you did so much more, and I’m doing really well now. I’m not perfectly fine, but I’m not broken either. I’m healing, seeing the good in situations that have them, and not making excuses for those that don’t. For the first time, I’m not worried about what everyone else is feeling or thinking. I’m making myself happy. Yeah, I’m happy. So, thank you.”
He huffs a laugh. “You tracked me down to tell me that?”
I stand up, facing him as close to eye-to-eye as I can get. But it’s not enough, so I step up onto the fancy-schmancy couch that definitely shouldn’t have shoes on it so I’m even with him. “No, and also, screw you. It hurt my feelings when you gave me your business card and dismissed me like I was a pity fuck. I didn’t deserve that.”
I did not mean to say that. I didn’t practice that speech a single time before coming. But now that it’s out in the open, I realize how true it is and I’m glad I said it. New Janey isn’t pulling any punches. Truth jabs here, come ’n get ’em!
But Cole leans in, our noses touching and his eyes probing into mine. What I said hit him beyond whatever shields he’s putting up. “You were never a pity fuck. I wanted you so badly, I almost climbed that fucking ladder a million times, and I jacked off listening to you touch yourself.”
I gasp as heat floods my cheeks. “What!”
“And I’ve done it nearly daily since getting back, wishing it was you each and every time,” he adds, his voice low and intense. “But I’ve forced myself to stay away as much as I could, knowing you need time to heal and that you don’t need me fucking up your process. But it’s been hard.” His hands are curling and uncurling at his sides like he’s fighting himself, holding back from touching me. “I’ve wanted to bang on your door, take you into my arms, wipe away your tears, and fix things for you. That’s what I do—save people, help them, fix shit. But you don’t need me to do that for you. You’ll do it on your own eventually, and then I’ll be standing on your sidewalk, proud as hell and ready to fuck you like you deserve.”
Okay, none of that was on my Bingo card for today.
Cole makes it sound like he wants me but has been staying away because . . . I don’t even know why?
“I don’t get what you’re saying. What are you talking about? You’ve been to my house?” I ask in confused shock as I step down from the couch. There are probably shoeprints on the nice leather, but I can’t care right now.
“I left you alone. I swear, I did. But then Kayla called me a coward, and I couldn’t anymore.” He runs his fingers through his hair, scrubbing over his scalp punishingly. “There’s a short-term rental across the street, four houses down. So, I watched and waited. But you were—”
Wait. WHAT?
I cut him off. “Did you say that you’re staying by my house? Watching me? Like a stakeout, like you were doing with Mr. Webster?”
He shrugs casually, like a little mild stalking is a totally normal activity. “It’s what I do,” he explains.
A million thoughts are running through my head at once. I mean, that’s not unusual for him, professionally speaking, but it’s really weird for me. If this were one of my books, it might be darkly romantic. But it’s not. This is real, and after a lifetime of trying to be as invisible as possible, I feel seen in a way that’s startlingly uncomfortable.
