Page 96 of Unconditionally Yours

Why is she chasing men like us, volatile, dangerous, not safe, when she has a Benji? A golden boy. A fucking lighthouse. Does she want to drown? Maybe she sees herself in Jett. Not safe, not soft, not good enough to be loved without blood. She’s used to chasing ghosts in male form. Men who run. Men who confirm every fear she tries to outgrow. Especially the one that says she’s too fucked up to keep.

Her and Jett, caught in that feedback loop of need and destruction? They’ll break each other, and call it love.

“Why did you hit Chad? Really,” I ask.

“He had her name in his mouth,” Jett says. “Like I’m not the fucking owner.”

Well. Shit.

“You want to talk about what happened with you and her,” I say at last, voice even. Always even.

Jett snorts. Looks out the window like the darkness might offer an answer.

“No,” he says. “I want it erased.” Like it wasn’t the best and worst night of his goddamn life.

He loves her. I can see it now. That’s what tonight was. Not anger. Not possession. Love. Brutal, unprepared, self-loathing love.

I shouldn’t think it, but I do, raw and rotting in my gut: If I’d just broken, if I’d let myself fall, would she have climbed into my lap instead of his? Would she have moaned my name in that filthy, ruined voice that haunts me?

I take a bit of pancake with peanut butter. Because I’m not allowed to think like that. It’s good that way.

“She’ll understand, eventually. Intensity isn’t something she always knows what to do with.”

Jett doesn’t say anything right away. He drags his fork through syrup and peanut butter like it’s something to kill. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet.

“She’s not supposed to understand me,” he says. “She’s supposed to fuck me and disappear.”

I swallow the heat in my throat. Coffee’s cold. Pancakes too. Everything’s gone lukewarm and bitter. “Consider the class on Friday. It helps quell the inner voice.”

“You think drawing naked people is gonna make me forget she’s fucking some asshole named Benji?” he says.

“It helps,” I say.

“I’ll think about it, doc,” he says.

“Are you going to do anything stupid tonight?” I ask. My voice is calm. Like I didn’t just imagine her in my lap, mouth open, taking me like she belongs there.

“Define stupid,” he says.

“No more bars. No more fights. No stalking Chad with a tire iron,” I say.

He snorts. “Christ, I’m not her.”

“I’m serious, Jett.”

He looks up, jaw flexing. “I’m good. I’m not gonna kill anyone.”

“Swear to me.”

“I just did.”

I stare at him. He holds the look, eyes bloodshot but clear. Or clear enough. I nod once, push up from the booth, and toss down enough cash to cover both plates and tip. “If Chad presses charges, let me know. I’ll… do what I can.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my patient.”

He scoffs. “Is that what this is?”