Can’t.
If he’d said he didn’t love me…if he’d said it was just sex to him, I’d lick my wounds and move on. But it’s what he says and doesn’t say that holds me in limbo.
Damn you and the way you make me feel.
If I could love you back, I would.
I don’t know what it is or what it could even be that keeps him so embedded in his guilt—that has him convinced he doesn’t deserve more than pain and suffering.
Maybe if I understood…I don’t know. Maybe I could help him. Or at least, get it through my thick head that there is no hope, and get over it…over him. Because this in-between, wondering, hoping, obsessing is killing me.
Months ago, when Stiles was just a sexual crush, I’d looked him up on Facebook and Insta, intending to creep his pics and posts. But there hadn’t been anything on the Internet about J.D. Stiles, except a short bio on his business website and his name mentioned in connection to the shooting, where Dee and Mick were the headlines.
It’s unusual these days to have such a minimal online presence. Stiles had started a new business. Why lay low?Jeez. I need a good smack upside my head. I’m worse than Dorian. But I’m too desperate to stop myself.
I recall the colonel telling me that back in Colorado, Stiles had been called Jay. Preparing to go down a pitiful rabbit hole, I retrieve my laptop from my bag and sit cross-legged on the bed. I power it up with no idea of what I’m expecting to find that will give me any insight into the man that is still a part mystery to me.
I type in Jay Stiles and get a number of hits, but none of the profiles fit. What was the name of his hometown? Something Springs. Calton? Carlen? No, Carlton—Carlton Springs, Colorado. I add it to Jay Stiles in the search bar. But nothing pops up except several hits for Jay Bailey. The caption of the first one has me sucking in a breath.
One-night Stand Turns Bloody.
There’s a crime scene photo of a townhouse with yellow police tape across the front. According to the article from the Carlton Daily:Gemma Kershaw, 26, allegedly stabbed Lilah Jones, 29, eleven times after spending a night in a Minneapolis hotel with Jones’ boyfriend, Jay Bailey, 30. Kershaw of Nebraska was said to have made the four-hour drive to Carlton Springs repeatedly for months, awaiting Bailey’s return home from a mission for the U.S. Army, where he is a special forces sergeant. On the evening of April 10th, Kershaw arrived back in Carlton Springs to find Baily at home. She allegedly rang the doorbell, armed with a butcher knife, and Jones answered.
“Jay is my soulmate,” Kershaw told the police. “I just wanted him to see that. But she [Jones] kept telling me that she was Jay’s girlfriend.”
Kershaw is accused of inflicting life-threatening wounds to Jones’ hands, abdomen, and chest. Police said Bailey saved Jones’ life by subduing Kershaw and slowing the loss of blood. Jones was rushed to UCS Hospital, where she underwent emergency surgery and received two blood transfusions. Jones is said to be in critical condition. Kershaw has been charged.
No, no, no, no! My hand covers my mouth in shock and disbelief. This couldn’t be Stiles. I don’t want it to be him. But too many of the pieces fit for me to cling to denial: the town, the first name, the army sergeant.I loved someone once, and it ended badly.This is worse than badly…worse than anything I could ever have imagined.
No wonder he was afraid to have sex with a stranger. No wonder he stopped trusting his judgment. No wonder he is obsessed with my safety. No wonder he can’t let go of the guilt over his past…over Lilah.
With a chill that coats my skin, I dig a little deeper because I have to know. I come across a brief article on the charges—attempted murder in the second degree. Lilah had survived. I exhale a huge breath of relief.
There’s a mug shot of Gemma Kershaw, who looks dazed and out of it. She pled guilty and was sentenced to ten years, seven fixed. The article doesn’t say anything about her background or mental state. Obviously, she wasn’t well, but seven years hardly seemed fair when Lilah nearly died. Toward the end of the piece, it reads:Jones and Bailey were unavailable for comment. However, we received a statement from a spokesperson for Jones.“Lilah has a long recovery ahead of her. She still hasn’t regained the full use of her right hand or been able to return to her career as a professional cellist,” he said.
Lilah hadn’t lost her life, but she’d lost her livelihood.
I find a picture of her—warm, dark eyes that seem to sparkle and the face of a goddess. She’s beautiful—really beautiful. Why would Stiles have cheated onher? Of course, that’s not the real question. When a man cheats, it has little to do with his partner and more to do with him. The real question is, why had Stiles cheated?
Lilah must have asked herself that over and over again. I can’t imagine she could ever forgive him, considering the near-death consequences. But I know one thing for sure, Stiles hasn’t been able to forgive himself.
Drained, I close the laptop and force myself downstairs. Dad is out at the grill, and Mom is puttering around the kitchen, listening to Whitney Houston and humming, her hips swaying as she moves about, strands of curls slipping from her bun and sliding along her neck. The familiarity would normally bring a smile to my lips. But my mouth is unable to conjure one up after what I just read.
“Jordie!” she startles. “I didn’t hear you come down. Your dad’s been waiting to see you.” She sets the golden chocolate chip cookies onto the cooling rack and turns off the music.
“I’ll go out and say hi in a minute.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Worse.”
“Oh, honey.” She takes my hand and leads me over to the kitchen table. “Talk to me. What’s causing you to feel worse?”
Reluctant to voice any of this out loud and make it a reality, I don’t say anything for ages. But Mom has the patience of a saint. She pours us each a glass of wine and sits across from me, waiting.
“I found out why he can’t love me.” Tears fill my eyes. “It’s horrible, Ma. Just horrible.”
“What is it?” She asks gently.
