Page 18

JACKSON

Every time I fuck up, someone else enters the chat. First Ethan, now Ricky. He may have a boyfriend, but it’s clear he’s attached to Aurora, and she to him.

I stand in her hallway, staring at her closed bedroom door. She’s right behind it yet worlds away.

My chest feels tight, an iron fist wrapped around my heart, crushing me. A tremor runs through my fingers, and I clench and unclench my hands. My stomach is a knot of dread, churning and twisting with panic.

She won’t forgive me this time.

She’s different.

A fiery haze of rage blurs my vision, though not against her.

Me. Kyle. My fucked-up life. The thought of living without her.

It’s torture.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I absentmindedly lift it to my ear.

Silence hangs heavy before his gruff voice breaks through the blackness. “Take a breath.”

Air fills my lungs, the act of breathing labored. “Let me guess: Ricky called you.” My words come out raspy and broken, and I swallow the thick lump in my throat.

“Yup. Told me I better get a handle on my boy or he was tossing you over the balcony.”

My feet carry me away from her door, my paranoia compelling me to check the apartment for him. “He can fucking try.”

Ethan ignores my agitation. “What’s she doing?”

“Resting or sleeping in her room.” I release an audible exhale. “Without me.”

“You’re still there. She’s pregnant and sick, and as much as she tries to hide it, she’s heartbroken. Focus on what you can do. What does she need?”

“A security system. Anyone could break in here.”

“That’s ironic. Did you test that theory?”

Is semi-forced entry and non-compliance in leaving considered a break-in?

“Wasn’t necessary. I practically walked in.”

“Sure you did,” he says sarcastically. “Go make yourself useful. If you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t mind being spoiled.”

An unexpected chuckle vibrates in my chest. I created a monster. “You’re welcome.”

We hang up, and I wander through the apartment, allowing my chaotic thoughts to settle. It’s an open space with tall, industrial windows overlooking the terrace. Modern and well-appointed, but cozy.

She has stacks of fashion magazines on the coffee table and racks of clothes in the front room. Her favorite pair of Converse is lined up next to the door, and her worn leather jacket hangs on a hook.

A bottle of prenatal vitamins sit on the counter, sonogram pictures pinned to a corkboard on the wall above. I remove the tacks from one and hold the paper to my chest, tears prickling my eyelids—fucking depression.

I can’t miss this. I have to do better. I have to get control of myself.

Carefully, I slide the photo into my pocket, being sure not to crease it.

I check out the food situation. The fridge is stocked with prepared meals with sticky notes on them. I pick them up individually, reading what can only be Ricky’s handwriting.

Breakfast. Don’t forget your prenatal pill and one coffee!

Lunch. Drink a bottle of water. Take a nap.

Dinner. Another water. Text me if you need me. I’ll be close.

Snack. Go to bed! Don’t sleep on the couch.

This fucking guy. His “I’ll be close” comment seems suspicious, especially since he walked in on Aurora and me arguing.

I send a picture to Ethan.

Can I fire him?

Coach

No, that’s his job.

“He’s a little too good at his job,” I grumble.

After I search her entire apartment, order groceries, and put them away, there’s nothing else for me to do. The place is spotless; Aurora has never been messy.

I stare out the window, restless, at the bleak, rainy night. Does it ever stop snowing or raining in New York? Why would she want to stay here? She loves the ocean.

Is it work, or is she avoiding LA…and me?

That depressive thought leads me back to her door, and I quietly turn the knob.

Warmth fills her room, the fireplace casting dancing shadows on the white walls.

Snuggled in a blanket, she sleeps soundly, her arms wrapped around a fluffy pillow. Thick lashes rest on blotchy cheeks, her full, red lips slightly parted.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

I slide my phone from my back pocket, snap a picture, and share it with Ethan.

Coach

As much as I appreciate pics of my girlfriend, please tell me you did not break into her room like a stalker!

Not your girlfriend. You’re just the rebound guy.

I smirk, all too pleased with myself as I update his contact.

Rebound

A high percentage of women marry the rebound guy.

Plopping down on the floor, I lean back against her bed.

Where’d you read that, Cosmo? And I’ll kill you first.

Rebound

Whatever magazine my future wife was featured in.

Doesn’t matter. You’ll die far sooner than I will, old man.

Rebound

Not with all the shit you put in your body. Think about that next time.

There won’t be a next time.

Rebound

You’re right, because I’ll lock you in a shitty rehab and send you pictures of our wedding.

Rebound

And honeymoon.

Fuck off.

Wait. What kind of honeymoon pics are we talking?

Rebound

None of my dick, if that’s what you’re asking.

I stifle my laughter to keep from waking our girl.

I wasn’t! Jesus, Coach. Gross.

Rebound

In all seriousness, she better be happy when you return her to me.

Yes, Dad.