“Avoidance isn’t an effective coping strategy. You need to talk about this.”
I snorted. “Make me.”
Okay, not my most grown-up moment. But Jack brought it out in me like no one else.
I wasn’t going to talk about my dreams or the root of all my lightning issues. The manhole cover over my emotional black hole lurched at the thought.
Sometimes the pain of something is just too much to bear. And so you are left with two choices: face the pain and fracture into a million pieces or bury the pain deep enough so it can’t destroy you.
I stood by my choice.
And emotional trauma aside, I most certainly wasn’t going to tell Jack about my dreams.
Well, you see, Jack, I’ve been having these incredible dreams where you’re dashing and handsome and oh-so-kissable—
Like that wouldn’t be giving him a decade’s worth of teasing ammo.
Hmmm. So maybe Jack did have a teeny-tiny point about snark being our thing.
Jack glared at me, his jawline tense. If possible, steam would have been pouring out his ears.
I did what I did best—I retreated behind a mask of bravado and spunk. To that end, I smirked and arched a cocky eyebrow, knowing it would irritate him.
His eyes promised retribution.
Holding my gaze, he took a step forward, put a finger against the plastic juice bottle . . .
. . . and pushed it off the counter.
The plastic split open on impact, dousing the floor, the cabinets and my legs in sticky orange juice.
I flinched, jumping back, jaw dangling open.
“What the hell?!” My voice went up a solid two octaves.
Jack had the smuggest look on his face.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” he mocked, walking through the juice mess, the cabinets and the wall itself.
Game. Set. Match.
All Jack.
TEN
Jack
Istomped out of the kitchen, mind seething.
I had lost my temper.
I did not usually lose my temper, as bad things tended to happen when I did. The last time fury had washed through me, I acted precipitously and ended up in my ghostly state.
But Chiara’s stubbornness was impossible. She was maddening and infuriating and reckless and . . . and . . .
Unbidden, part of a poem from the Roman poet, Catullus, sizzled through my brain:
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
