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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

RORY

The moment Jorge’s body touches mine, a warm comfort washes over me—a calmness I only ever feel when I’m with him.

“I am so sorry,” I whisper against the side of his neck. “But I know my words aren’t enough. I was a fucking asshole, and I don’t deserve a second chance.”

“I don’t forgive you.” His voice sounds pained as he loosens his hold on me and steps back from our embrace. My heart breaks a little when he looks up at me; the hurt in his eyes is unmistakable. “Words are great,” he gruffly announces. “But actions speak a whole lot louder than words.”

Staring back at him, I swallow hard and nod. He’s right.

“You’re a fucking mess.” He lets out a heavy sigh and steps to the side of the doorway, letting me enter. “You can’t stand in my hallway or wander around the city covered in Conor’s blood.”

I glance down my body and take in my appearance for the first time. As soon as I saw Jorge’s face at the club, I stormed after him so quickly, I didn’t stop to think. Conor’s blood has soaked through my shirt and stains my hands like a pair of gloves.

“Fuck,” I mumble, accepting Jorge’s gesture to come inside. Stepping through the threshold, I find myself in the tiny kitchen, which occupies one wall of his living room. His apartment is… quaint. It’s compact but so inviting. A bright yellow couch and a mismatched orange armchair—both appearing to be secondhand or vintage—adorn the small space. Photos and artwork are hung haphazardly—yet intriguingly—across a dark teal accent wall. It’s bright and lively—just like Jorge.

Jorge leads me down the short hallway. I glance through the open doorway to my left into his bedroom. It’s equally as colorful as the living room, but in an understated and calming array of colors. “This one.” Jorge draws my attention to the door on my right, pushing it open and revealing a bathroom that is just big enough to be functional.

He turns on the shower, and the pipes in the old building creak for a second before spraying water over the tiles. The warm steam creates a fog in the air, quickly heating the room. Reaching around me, Jorge pulls a fresh towel from the shelf and hangs it next to the shower. When he turns to leave, he flatly insists, “I’ll go find some clothes… leave you to get cleaned up.”

Actions speak louder than words…

Struggling to find the courage, I want to give him what he’s asking for. I want to show him that I can tear down my walls—even a little—and let him in, just as he begged me to do. It’s the only way to convince him of the sincerity of my apology. He has one foot out the door—metaphorically and physically. And I worry that if he steps into that hallway, I’ll lose him forever. My lips part, and before I can think better of it, I blurt, “Stay.”

It’s one word, but it carries everything I’m feeling.

Stay... Don’t leave... I need you... I want you... I’m sorry... I can let you in… Because… I love you.

Jorge hesitates, his hand on the doorframe and his chin falling to his chest. Not releasing his hold on the jamb, he turns just enough to meet my gaze, and I find his rich brown eyes clouded with the beginnings of tears. His throat bobs, and he nods without saying anything.

I close my eyes as he leans against the wall, my chest tightening with nerves. This it is… This is when I show Jorge that I’m as broken on the outside as I am on the inside. Composing myself with slow, deep breaths, I slowly undo the buttons on my blood-stained shirt. I’m unable to bring myself to open my eyes and see him as I struggle through trembling fingers to unfasten the final button.

Dropping the shirt to the floor, I stand in front of him, completely exposed. The scars marring my torso—deep, jagged reminders of the horrible things I’ve done—are on display for him. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes because I’m scared of his reaction. An old man… battered and damaged inside and out… Why would he want me?

He sucks in a sharp breath and exhales, “Oh… Rory.” I flinch at the pain in his voice. Pity. Shame and vulnerability creep in, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t let my shirt fall to the floor.

“God, you’re beautiful…” His words cause me to freeze in place. I’m dumbfounded by them; they prevent me from retreating back into myself. How can he see that? How can he look at me and say that?

“You can’t mean that.” I shake my head and denounce his words. Needing to see his face, I force my eyes open. His gaze follows the trail of scars running along my chest, his eyes filled with admiration.

Jorge steps closer and gently, yet deliberately, places his hands on my shoulders. They’re warm and grounding, matching the way he looks back at me. “You don’t have to understand,” he says softly. “You’re beautiful, Rory. All of you. Not in spite of what has happened to you—and your body—or the life you’ve led, but because of it.”

My chest heaves, but I feel like I can’t catch my breath. His hand slides from my shoulder and down my chest, his fingertips tracing my scars like they’re a map toward my heart, flattening his palm over the racing beat. “They aren’t just your wrongs, Rory. They also tell the story of the good you’ve done and your will to live. Your story, it’s beautiful…”

Jorge doesn’t pity me. He sees me. And that’s more than I expected—far more than I ever thought I deserved.

Without saying another word, he pulls his shirt over his head. His fingers work to undo my pants. I undo his and push them over his hips as he does the same with mine. We both step out of our pants and into the hot water of the shower.

Standing chest to chest, our lips dusting against one another’s, the rust-colored water swirls around our feet and down the drain as the blood washes from my body. The steady spray washes away my sins of the evening and takes with them any hesitation of letting Jorge get too close.

“I missed you, mo rúnsearc .”