Page 19 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

Austin starts laughing—really laughing, not the polite chuckles he's been giving me. The sound fills my disaster of an apartment, and for the first time since last night, I feel like I can breathe properly.

"I can't believe I've been thinking of you as Jamie's baby brother this whole time."

"Technically, I am Jamie's baby brother. Just a baby brother who happens to be older."

"This is going to take some adjustment." Austin wipes his eyes, still grinning. "I've been condescending to someone who's more mature than me."

"Define mature."

"Point taken."

The laughter fades gradually, but it leaves something lighter in its wake. Not happiness exactly, but relief. Like we've found some solid ground to stand on.

"So…" he finally says, his tone much lighter now, almost back to normal. "College?"

Oh, right. This again.

"I've been thinking about it for a while," I admit, settling back into the couch cushions. "Going back to school. Maybe studying social work or counseling. People who've been through shit, helping other people who are going through shit."

"That makes sense. You'd be good at that."

"You think?"

"I think you understand pain in a way that could help people. And you've got the whole older-and-wiser thing going for you now."

I snort. "Older and wiser. Right."

"I'm serious. Look at how you handled finding out about...what happened. You didn't minimize it or make excuses. You owned it completely. That takes maturity."

"I also tried to solve it with a blowjob."

"Yeah, well. Nobody's perfect."

We're both smiling now, and it feels surreal. An hour ago I was having a complete breakdown, and now we're joking about my emotional inadequacy.

"So when do you start?"

"I don't. Not yet." I fidget with the application papers. "Maybe next year. I don't feel quite ready."

"Ready for what?"

"I don't know. College. Being around all those kids who have their shit together. Sitting in classrooms, writing papers, pretending I belong there."

Austin leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Did you say that last year too?"

It's like he has this newfound ability to see right through me. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

"Yeah," I admit.

"And the year before that?"

"Probably."

"Jesse."

"I know, okay? I know I'm stalling. But what if I can't handle it? What if I get there and realize I'm too old, too behind, too fucked up to compete with eighteen-year-olds who've never made a major mistake in their lives?"

"Then you figure it out as you go. Like everyone else."

His confidence in me is baffling.

"Besides," he continues, "you won't be the oldest person there. There are lots of adult learners. People starting over, veterans, parents going back to school. You won't stick out as much as you think."

"You sound like you know what you're talking about."

"I went to art school. Trust me, weird is the norm."

The applications are still spread across my coffee table, forms half-filled out in my terrible handwriting. Personal essays started and abandoned. Transcripts request I never sent.

"I filled out the FAFSA," I offer, like it's some great accomplishment.

"That's something."

"Took me three tries to get through it without having a panic attack."

"But you did it."

"Yeah. I did."

We fall into another comfortable silence. Austin checks his phone again, and I wonder if he's calculating how long he's been here, how much of his day he's spent managing my crisis.

"I should let you get back to your life," I say.

"What life?"

"Work. Photography. Normal people things."

"I cancelled my shoot today."

I blink. "Why?"

"Because I was worried about you."

There it is again. That simple, devastating honesty that makes my chest tight.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

Austin shifts on the couch, angling his body toward mine, and we sit like that for a while. Not talking, just existing in the same space. The chaos of my apartment feels less overwhelming with him here, like his presence somehow makes the mess more manageable.

I count my breaths. In, out. In, out.

The panic from earlier has receded, leaving behind this weird emptiness that isn't quite peace but isn't agony either.

"You feeling better?" Austin asks eventually.

I give myself a moment to think about it.

"Yeah," I say. "Thank you."

He looks at me with those dark eyes, studying my face like he's searching for something. "Good," he says.

There's something underneath that single word. Some weight I can't identify.

"Why?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No reason."

But his gaze drops to my mouth as he says it, lingering there for a heartbeat too long before returning to my eyes. And suddenly the air in the room feels different. Thicker.

Is it possible?

After everything that's happened today, after the breakdown, the guilt, the complete emotional collapse on my kitchen floor… Is it actually possible he still wants me?

Time seems to slow as I study his face. The way his pupils have dilated slightly. How his breathing has changed. The tension in his jaw that speaks to restraint rather than discomfort.

My hands are shaking again.

Different reason this time.

I place one palm on his thigh, just above his knee, feeling the warmth of him through the denim.

Austin goes very still, but doesn't pull away.

"Jesse..." he says, but there's no conviction behind it. No real protest. Just my name, rough around the edges, like he's not sure he should be saying it.

I slide my hand up slightly. Just an inch. Testing.

He lets out a slow, prolonged exhale, and I watch the tension drain from his facial muscles. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment.

"I'm not trying to fix anything this time," I say quietly. "I promise."