Page 2 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Eight Months Later

Josie

I need your help,” I announce, gliding into the apartment my brother shares with his fiancée, Nora, without invitation. It’s okay. I all but lived here for months while Jordan finished physical therapy and Nora worked.

He looks up from his textbooks strewn across the dining table separating the open living room and kitchen. “Nice to see you too, sis.”

I let out a long exhale, breathless after climbing three flights of stairs, and wrap him in a hug like my life depends on it.

Emotionally, it might. There’s something about hugging Jordan that always settles me.

Like we’re kids again, and he’s the only person who can convince me everything will be okay.

But today, the hug isn’t enough. Not with this kind of news—and issue—burning a hole in my chest .

“I need your brain. Mine’s already in meltdown mode.”

“Did you get it?” he asks, his brow raised.

Of course, he guessed without hints.

I nod slowly. “I got it.”

His face lights up with that proud-little-brother look that never fails to amaze me. “The Las Vegas show?”

I nod again, and this time, he jumps up, lifting me off my feet to spin me around. Setting me down, his hands weigh heavy on my shoulders. “Guess that sold-out New York exhibit was too successful to ignore.”

“They did tell Grant it tipped them toward taking a chance on me.”

“Well, they made the right call. You’re brilliant, and there’s no chance where you’re concerned. They’re the lucky ones.” He pulls me into another hug. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

We sit on the couch, the celebratory moment fading into reality.

“Back to the crisis. Know anyone who might want to take a spontaneous road trip?”

“I know it’s difficult and scary, but a flight—”

“No, Jordan.” The words come out sharper than I mean, and I pause to reign myself in.

I’ve survived one plane crash and that was one too many. Even though they called it “minor,” two people died—a mother and her daughter. I sat next to them at the gate, chatting while we waited. I even showed the little girl a few painting techniques on my tablet.

I still see them in the quiet moments and when the nightmares resurface.

“Sorry. I just . . . I can’t.”

“I understand.” And he doesn’t push. He’s seen me in full-blown panic mode before, and I’m teetering on that edge now.

But he’ll never fully get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be afraid.

He’s faced unfathomable obstacles his entire adult life in the military and after his car accident.

Every time, he emerges stronger. I should use that as inspiration.

Confront the fears holding me back and stick them where the sun doesn’t shine, but I’m not him.

I’m the furthest thing from a Marine as one can get.

“Why can’t Grant take you?”

I slump back against the plush cushion. “He and Eric eloped. He called last night from the airport.”

“Weren’t they planning to get married next month?”

“Yeah. But apparently his family has been difficult and started making demands. So, they decided to say screwdriver to everyone and have a destination wedding just for them.”

“Screwdriver?” He laughs. “That’s one I haven’t heard yet. Is that your version of screw you?”

I don’t know why he’s so amused. He’s not a stranger to my weird and clean vocabulary. I don’t curse. It’s old news.

“Anyway, good for them,” he says, getting back to the conversation. “But that’s crap timing for you.”

“Right?” Grant’s my go-to for all things like this. He’s not only my agent, driver, personal assistant, and stylist, he’s my best friend. I need him to not only keep me sane but to fix all my problems like he usually does. “I 'm out of sorts when he’s unreachable.”

“We’d offer, but finals are coming up. And Nora’s used up all her time off taking care of me.”

“I know.” I sigh. “I’ll figure something out.”

Somehow.

I watch the ceiling, hoping a solution might drop from the sky. Any time now would be helpful. Any. Time. Now.

Nothing? Not even a metaphorical pigeon?

Son of a biscuit.

I wish my fear of flying was the only problem.

Since our parents died in a car crash my sophomore year of high school, I’ve collected a few other unshakeable fears: driving murderous vehicles, heights, public restrooms, abandonment, and a few others.

At the time, the world, even in our little corner in Virginia, seemed too big.

We were alone, and there were no manuals for navigating foster care and parenthood as an impressionable teenager.

It changes you.

Jordan agreed not to drive to appease my worry—a promise he could easily keep while in the military—but the day he became a civilian and bought his dream car, he was T-boned by a drunk driver on the way to his celebration.

He spent three weeks in the hospital after that, his heart stopping several times as his body fought multiple devastating injuries .

So yeah. Relaxing on trains with my sketch pad or walking are my preferred modes of transportation. No exceptions granted.

It was easier in Manhattan. Everything I needed could be reached within a short walk or train ride. Unfortunately, that isn’t feasible here and certainly not when I need to get somewhere nearly across the country on a deadline.

“Have any ideas?”

“Hire a big, sturdy bodyguard to drive and protect me?”

He rolls his pretty sapphire eyes, looking like the boy I remember growing up with. “How would you manage that?”

Thinking of the earnings from my sold-out show in New York, I start to respond, but he raises a hand to stop me.

“Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

“Jordan Ian Jones.” I sit up. “Are you insinuating that I would sell my body to some hunky stranger in exchange for driving me?” I grin at him, knowing the vision is killing him.

I consider adding a few spicy details to torture him for even thinking it.

“It’s not a horrible idea. Might make the trip more entertaining . . . and satisfying.”

“Please shut up.” He groans. “You want a serious idea?” he begins to avoid the topic of his big sister’s sex life. “Self-defense training. It would empower you. Help you face your fears.”

“Jordan, I weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds. I paint for a living. Even proven techniques couldn’t overcome that disadvantage. Anyway, I’m a lover . . .”

I smile at his cringe.

“Let me guess. Not a fighter.”

“Bingo.”

“Well, whoever you find to drive you, make sure they know what they’re doing.” He pats my hand. “I want you home safe.”

“Me too.”

◆◆◆

Later, after Nora arrives and we celebrate my news again, I head back to my tiny apartment. The second the door shuts behind me, loneliness creeps in like a cold draft.

I’ve never lived alone. Not really. From foster homes to raising Jordan after I aged out and we got our own place, then dorm rooms to living with my boyfriend in New York. My life has always been full of background noise and someone to talk to.

Now, it’s just me.

I flip on the Bluetooth speaker, letting the music fill the depressing silence, and settle in front of the easel. With my brush in hand, the canvas takes me away.

Painting is the only thing that quiets my mind. My one real escape when too many shadows encroach on my peace.

I lose myself in a sunset lake scene—tranquil and untouched by the pressures of the world. The kind of place I’d rather be right now.

Tomorrow, I’ll think about all the logistics and start problem-solving. I promise to concentrate on getting to Vegas without flying or driving .

For now, I need to paint and clear my head.

◆◆◆

Before going to bed, I text Grant. Maybe he’ll get it wherever he is and come up with a grand idea to solve my problem. At the very least, I need my best friend to lift my spirits.

Me: Hope you’re having fun! Wish I could be there to celebrate with you.

Me: If you’re not busy, I need your brain and calming BFF vibes. Nothing hard.

Me: That’s a lie. Freaking out slightly. Painting didn’t help. I was so unfocused I had to toss it and start over.

Me: I miss you.

Grant: Honey, if it’s not hard, you’re not doing it right.

Oh, thank goodness. I knew he wouldn’t leave me hanging .

Wait . . .

Me: Was that a sex joke?

Grant: Duh. Kind of on my brain with Eric looking so sexy in the sand and sun. It’s HARD (all the time) to control myself.

Grant: Wish you were here, too . . . sort of. You’d just be grossed out.

Me: Probably, but I’d get over it. You two are beautiful together. When’s the wedding?

Grant: Tomorrow at 1:00. I’ll be drowning in my husband and cocktails every minute I can after that.

Me: So, don’t call . . . you mean?

Grant: Unless it’s dire. Is this dire?

I want to scream, “Yes, help me! It’s what you always do!” But he deserves to think about his wedding, not my stupid, self-sabotaging issues. I shouldn’t have brought him into this.

Me: No. I’ll figure it out.

Grant: Yes, you will. Whatever it is, remember you’re unstoppable. You can do anything.

Me: Sure.

Grant: Where's the commitment?

Me: Darn tootin ?

Grant: [Eye roll emoji]

Me: Heck yeah?

Grant: That’s sort of better. Now, go put on a facial mask and tell yourself: “I’m Josie fucking Jones. I’ve got this.”

Me: You know I don’t say that word.

Grant: You can just this once. And say it loud and proud. It will work wonders. Love you, girlfriend.

Me: Love you.

Lumbering my weary body to the bathroom, I slap on one of the masks Grant got me for my birthday then lie across the bed.

“I’m Josie Fudgesicle Jones, and I can do this. It’s not as complicated as I’m making it. I just need to brainstorm a solution.”

Staring at the ceiling, my brain goes numbingly blank with not even a seed of hope brewing.

I’m in trouble.