Page 92 of Jinxed Hearts

I nod but don’t answer. He means well, but in moments like these, I need more than a pat on the head. I need him to hold me. To tell me he hates seeing me suffer. To tell me what he knows. But no, he’s a closed book. Affection reserved only for sex or in bed. Conversations limited to bills, school stuff, and politics. His love? Distant. Surface-level shit with no depth in sight.

“Who do you think this masked man in my dreams is?” My voice wavers, but I push through. Maybe vacation isn’t the right time to say this, but the words tumble out faster than I can think. “I can’t keep doing this, waking up in a panic. Should I check myself into a psych ward to figure out what the hell is happening to me?”

Jacob sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by the conversation… and me. “Really? I bring you to this beautiful place to reconnect, and you’re what, picking a fight? Trying to ruin our trip?”

His words cut through me, sharp and dismissive. “Wow. So now I’m ruining our trip just for asking questions? For not being able to control what happens in my sleep?”

“For God’s sake, Jenna.” Jacob’s voice rises. “We’ve had this conversation a million times. We’re in paradise, and you’re still dragging this up. Just let it go!”

I can taste my tears as I bolt to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

“Jenna.” He knocks. “Open the door. Can we just talk?”

“Talk about what? The news? Work?” I say, pressure building in my chest. “These dreams—they mean something. And I know you’re hiding something.”

Silence.

“I’m tired,” I whisper. “Just leave me alone.”

I hear him exhale, slow and heavy, through the thin walls. “I am too. I’m sorry about the nightmares. I wish I had answers for you. I just… I don’t know what you want from me.”

I think I want out.

The thought escapes in a breath, like a quiet death sentence I’m trying to accept.

Then nothing. No plea. No anger. Just the sound of Jacob’s footsteps walking away.

I slide down the door, my cheek pressing against the tile.

Hello, cold tile. My old friend. We always meet like this.

Memories flood in. Sixteen years old, screaming into the void, begging God to fix me. Ryan. My dad. All of it.

Then another image hits—Izzy’s bathroom. The room spins. I’m dizzy, nauseated. Jacob’s there. A feeling of dread. I remember nothing else.

I think I gave up on God that night. But maybe that’s when I needed Him the most. Maybe that’s where faith was supposed to begin.

Twenty years later, in a different country, in a different bathroom, but still with the same ache. I squeeze my eyes shut and let it all pour out, the numbness replaced by raw, uncontrollable emotion.

Do I leave Jacob? Do I rip my life apart?

A knock at the door cuts through my spiral.

“Jenna, are you okay?” Jacob’s voice is tight, impatient.

“What happened that night?” I finally ask, voice wrecked.

“What are you talking about now? Why are you asking this?” His voice cracks. “You were drunk…” He hesitates. “You passed out. I got you home safe. That’s it.”

My stomach churns as I drag myself up.

“Can we please talk about this at home and enjoy the trip? I’ve got tee time booked, then we have a couples massage after.”

I don’t respond. Eventually, I hear the door shut.

I fixate on the mirror. A stranger stares back. Abeautiful mess. A divorced woman? Or an unhappily married one? Who am I right now? Who do I want to be?

The river in my eyes swells into a tsunami. These nightmares need to stop. The agonizing back-and-forth decisions. The craving for that escape, even when I’m on the other side of the world.