Page 18 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

I'M KNEELING ON my kitchen floor like some kind of penitent. The tiles are cold against my knees, and Austin's hands are gentle on my face, and I'm completely fucking falling apart.

"I can't fix this," I whisper. "I don't know how to fix this."

The words come out cracked down the middle, split open like everything else about me right now. Austin's thumbs brush across my cheekbones, and I realize I'm crying again.

When did I become someone who cries this much?

Oh right. Last night. When I found out I'm actually a monster.

"I hurt you," I continue, because apparently we're doing this now. Having the breakdown right here on the kitchen floor where I spilled coffee this morning and didn't clean it up properly. "I destroyed you and I don't know how to make it right."

Austin lets go of my face and steps back, giving me space to breathe. Or maybe giving himself space to escape if I completely lose my shit. Which feels increasingly likely.

"You don't have to fix it," he says quietly.

"Yes, I do!" The words explode out of me with enough force that Austin actually flinches. "That's what you're supposed to do in recovery. Make amends. It's literally in the fucking manual."

I'm on my feet now, though I don't remember getting up, pacing around my kitchen like a caged animal because sitting still means thinking, and thinking means drowning in the enormity of it all.

"But how do you make amends for something like that? How do you apologize for ruining someone's entire life?" My hands are shaking again, so I shove them in my pockets. "I can't take it back. I can't undo it. I can't give you back your life."

Austin leans against my counter, watching me pace. His jeans are still unbuttoned from my pathetic attempt at problem-solving, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Jesse—"

"I've been awake all night trying to figure it out.

" I gesture wildly at the chaos of my living room.

"All those papers? Lists. Pros and cons.

Different approaches. I even looked up 'how to apologize for outing someone' online, and you know what I found?

Nothing. Because normal people don't do shit like that. "

I don't fully register us moving to my living room until we're there.

The coffee table is covered with evidence of my spiral. Legal pads filled with illegible handwriting, my laptop still open to various forum discussions about making amends, empty mugs forming rings on surfaces that will probably stain.

I've been living in this mess for fifteen hours, and it looks exactly like the inside of my head.

"There's no guidebook for this," I continue, kicking at a crumpled piece of paper. "No twelve-step program for un-ruining someone's life. No magic words that make it okay."

"No," Austin agrees. "There aren't."

The honesty hurts in a brand new way. Because he's right.

"I keep trying to picture it," I say, collapsing onto my couch, my legs suddenly refusing to support me anymore. "What it must have been like for you. Walking into school that Monday and having everyone know. Having them whisper and point and..."

I can't finish the sentence. The images my brain conjures are bad enough without giving them voice.

"I imagine you trying to act normal while your world fell apart around you.

And the worst part?" I look up at him, and his face is carefully neutral.

Like he's a therapist listening to a patient instead of the victim talking to his tormentor.

"The worst part is knowing I did that to you and then just..

. forgot. Moved on with my life while you were dealing with the aftermath. "

He comes to sit on the opposite end of my couch. Far enough that we're not touching, close enough that I can see the way his jaw tightens when I describe his pain.

"You were sick," he says after a moment.

"That's not an excuse."

"It's not an excuse," he agrees, and I appreciate that he doesn't try to absolve me. "But it's an explanation."

We sit in silence for a while. I count the coffee rings on my table—seven—and wonder if I own enough coasters to prevent future damage. Stupid, mundane thoughts that keep me from spiraling further into self-loathing.

"You know what's really fucked up?" I say eventually.

"What?"

"I've spent seven years in recovery. Seven years working the steps, going to meetings, talking about making amends. And I never once thought about you. Never once wondered if there were people I'd hurt that I couldn't remember hurting."

The admission tastes like poison in my mouth.

"I made my lists of people I needed to apologize to, and your name wasn't on them. Because in my mind, I was this harmless addict who only hurt himself. Poor little Jesse, victim of his own disease."

Austin doesn't respond, but I can feel him listening. Really listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

"How fucking narcissistic is that? Even in recovery, I made it all about me."

"You didn't know."

"I should have known. I should have tried harder to remember. Should have asked more questions, done more digging." I scrub my face with my hands, feeling the stubble I haven't bothered to shave. "Instead, I just... moved on. Built this new identity as someone who'd learned from his mistakes."

"You did learn from your mistakes."

"Did I? Because it feels like I just forgot them instead."

Another silence stretches between us. This one feels different, though. Less loaded with my panic and more...thoughtful. Like we're both processing instead of just reacting.

Austin shifts on the couch, and I notice he's finally buttoned his jeans. Good.

"Tell me about high school," he says suddenly. "What do you remember?"

The change of subject throws me. "Why?"

"Because I remember you from before you got sick. And it’s nothing like you’re describing."

I try to think back, but it's like looking through fog.

"I remember some things. Bits and pieces.

Football. Parties. Being popular, I guess.

" I pause, searching for more substantial memories.

"I remember feeling like I had to be perfect all the time.

Like everyone was watching, waiting for me to mess up. "

"You were the golden boy," Austin says. "Star athlete, good grades, parents who showed up to everything. Everyone wanted to be you or be with you."

There's no bitterness in his voice, just observation. But it makes me feel worse somehow.

"That doesn't sound like me."

"It was you. Back then." He leans back against the cushions. "But you were also... intense. Like you were running on some kind of internal pressure that never let up. Always had to be the best, the most popular, the center of attention."

I can almost see it—the person he's describing. Someone desperate for approval, for control, for everyone to see him as perfect.

Someone who might spread gossip without thinking about consequences.

"I was an asshole."

"You were a kid. And then you were self-medicating." His voice is matter-of-fact now. "You weren't thinking clearly about anything, let alone the impact of your actions."

"You're being awfully understanding about this."

"I've had ten years to process it."

"And I've had ten years to not even remember it happened."

We fall quiet again. Austin pulls out his phone, checks the time, and I realize it's getting late. He probably has places to be, people to photograph, a life to get back to that doesn't involve managing my emotional breakdown.

"You don't have to stay," I say.

"Do you want me to leave?"

The question is simple, but the answer isn't. Part of me wants him gone so I can wallow in private. But there's also this other part, terrified he'll walk out and never come back.

"I don't know what I want."

"That's okay. You don't have to know right now."

His patience is maddening. How is he this calm? This understanding? If someone had destroyed my life and then forgotten about it, I'd want to punch them in the face, not sit on their couch offering comfort.

Maybe that's the difference between us. He's evolved past his pain, while I'm just discovering new depths mine.

I watch his gaze drift around my living room, taking in the chaos with fresh eyes. His attention settles on my coffee table, and his brows furrow.

"Are those… college applications?"

Shit.

I lean forward, trying to gather the papers, but it's too late. He's already seen them.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yes. They're college applications. Don't make a big deal about it."

"Why would I make a big deal? It's great."

I roll my eyes. "I'm twenty-nine, Austin. Most people finish college at twenty-two."

"Most people don't rebuild their entire lives from scratch and—" He stops abruptly, head snapping to study my face. "What did you say?"

I scrunch my forehead. "Which part?"

"You're…how old?"

"Twenty-nine?" I don't mean it as a question, but it comes out that way.

"No, you're not." He shakes his head like he knows better. "You're twenty-seven."

I blink. "I'll be thirty in November."

He tilts his head, and there's a hint of a smile on his face, the first one I've seen today, although it feels like it's been ages. "But… you were a year behind me in school."

"Yeah, well. My golden boy era was very short-lived, come to think of it. I had to repeat second grade. Twice."

The look on his face is priceless. Pure confusion mixed with dawning realization.

"Wait. You're telling me you're actually older than me?"

"Surprise. You've been lusting after an older man."

"Oh my God." He runs his hands through his hair. "You're a whole year ahead of me in life experience and you still don't know how to work a camera?"

"Hey, I was busy learning how to read chapter books while you were in kindergarten."

"This explains so much. You're practically ancient."

"Watch it, punk, or I'll tell you about the good old days when we had to walk uphill both ways to school."