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TWENTY FIVE
Jarra
It’s way too fucking late in the afternoon when I finally scrape myself away from the car crash of my campaign to go see Mel. With Stuart’s warning ringing in my ears about how I shouldn’t, I park my car, slam the door, and glare daggers at every single motherfucker I see hanging around outside her apartment building.
Was it the guy with the brown jacket and the dirty jeans sitting on the bench, smoking a cigarette? Was it him who took that fucking pic?
Was it that old lady walking her big fluffy dog? Unlikely, but I glare at her, too.
I barely remember to stoop and turn my head to the side and nearly do damage to the door with my horns on the way in. Most of all, I hate the really long, really silent pause when I knock on her door.
I didn’t message first. I should have messaged or called. I just wanted to see her, to have her in my arms when I tell her how bad today was. I want her to stroke my ears and tell me I’m not the biggest clown in existence, and maybe I can rescue this campaign, as unlikely as that seems right now.
Most of all, I want to hold her.
The shuffle of feet sounds behind the door. A moment later, she opens it and just about collapses into my chest. “Jarra! It’s you. I thought—”
She straightens and tugs me inside, shutting the door quickly.
“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!”
I hang my head. Of course she doesn’t want me here. She must be so mad at me about the photo and everything going public. “I’m sorry. Should I go?”
She doesn’t answer. In the background, I hear the television and something bubbling in the kitchen.
“Don’t go yet. Not now you’re here. God I’m glad you’re here.”
She throws her arms around my waist and presses her head against my chest in a fierce hug that catches me completely by surprise. When she lifts her head up again, I almost think she’s going to cry.
“Jarra, what have I done? I’m going to lose the kids,” she whispers. “He’s going to take the kids just to spite me.”
I shake my head. “I thought they were already permanently with you?”
“No.” She takes my hand and pulls me through to the kitchen where she rushes to the stove to check a pot of something and stir it. She sniffs. “I went and got a lawyer who was going to help me get custody, but it’s still before the magistrate, and now this sex work thing has come out and—”
She presses the hand with the spoon against her mouth as she visibly chokes down tears. A drop of orange sauce splats onto the floor and I stoop to swipe it away with my finger. Then, I go to the sink to find a cloth.
She stares at me like I’ve grown another set of horns. “Thank you. Why are you so sweet?”
I blink at her. “Why what? Because of that?”
I wipe wet hands on my trousers, not caring about the tailored fabric. Then I grab her and shove the spoon on the counter and pull her into the kiss I should have given her before. She doesn’t resist.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead on hers for a minute. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that no one was taking care of things for you like they should have been. You deserve that. You deserve not to have to deal with any of this. With me, with this story, with anything.”
“Jarra, I want you! I just think I messed up.”
