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Jaxon
2018
Memories are funny things.
Five years ago, if someone asked me what Claire St. James’ address was, I could’ve rattled it off in my sleep. Even now, I know it. I know it as well as I know my own name. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about her over the years. There were times when the memory of her face was the only thing that sustained me.
Kept me together. Kept me sane.
Even now, back in the world, I spend more nights than I should, remembering how she felt against me. Beneath me. Wrapped around me.
I’ve been with women—before Claire and after—but none of them have been her. None of them have come close to even the memory of her. So, eventually, I stopped trying to replace her and just concentrated on trying to survive her.
I’m not sure what that makes me. I know it’s not exactly healthy, the fact that I can’t seem to let her go—which is fucking sad considering I did this to myself. I ruined it. I’m the one who took what she so innocently offered and then just walked away.
When I think about showing up on her doorstep, I know exactly what I’d say. I’d tell her why I left. That leaving her was the last thing I wanted to do. Make her understand that I didn’t have a choice.
Which brings me back to the memory thing and why they’re funny.
Even though I know the address, Even though I’ve worked up the fantasy of hopping on my bike and coming for her, like something out of a goddamned fairytale—a thousand different times in a thousand different ways—I don’t recognize it for what it is until I’m popping open the driver's’ side door and stepping onto her driveway.
That’s when it hits me.
Claire St. James.
I’m here. Standing in her driveway.
And it feels like fate.
I’ve been home for almost six months, and I’m three-months post-op. I’ve had plenty of time to make it happen. Make it right. But I haven’t. Always find a reason to wait. I pretend that it’s what’s best for Simon. That we need time. That he and I need to get used to the way things are now, not how we wish they still were.
Truth is, I’m chickenshit.
Pure and simple.
Even though I’ve thought about making the drive, forcing the conversation—forcing her to listen to me—I never found the nerve because I was sure she would slam the door in my face. Possibly laugh in it. No way she waited for my sorry ass.
That’s when I remember why I’m here.
A bachelorette party.
Jesus Christ, she’s getting married.
You dumb, gutless motherfucker.
You waited too long, and now you’ve lost her for good. And not just you—Simon. What about Simon?
He loved her. Still talks about her. I know that the loss of her is something he blames me for. I can still see him at five-years-old, peering up at me through narrowed eyes, angry and not understanding the why of how things had to be. For him, it was simple.
Why can’t we take her with us?
When am I going to stop fucking things up?
Someone is looking at me. Watching me from the second-floor window directly above my head. Has been for a while now. I can feel the trace of their gaze along my frame like it’s a real, tangible thing and my skin starts to prickle under the weight of it. I feel naked. Exposed.
Stow your shit, Bennett. You’re standing in the driveway of an honest-to-god mansion, in a ritzy neighborhood—not some dirty, middle-eastern stan, waiting to get your head blown off.