Me:Same. But we did the right thing.
Lana:I know. Doesn't make it easier.
Me:Tomorrow. We talk. Figure out if this is real.
Lana:Promise?
Me:Promise.
I drive home replaying the sensation of her mouth, her hands, the way she looked at me when she said we needed tostop. Knowing she's right doesn't make the wanting go away. It just makes it more complicated.
CHAPTER 14: LANA
I don't sleep, can't sleep. I keep replaying the sensation of Jax's hands under my sweater, the way his mouth felt against my neck, the moment when I pushed him away even though every nerve in my body was screaming to pull him closer.
Three forty-seven AM. I've been staring at my bedroom ceiling for two hours, trying to convince myself that stopping was the right decision. That crossing that line would have been catastrophic. That we need to talk first, establish what this actually is before we complicate it with physical intimacy.
But my body doesn't care about rational analysis. My body only knows that it wanted him, that the wanting didn't feel like acting or strategy or any of the calculated moves I made with Gabriel. It felt real. Messy and complicated and terrifying, but real.
My phone sits on the nightstand, the screen dark. Jax hasn't texted since we said goodnight. Part of me wants to reach for it, to send him some message that bridges the gap between wanting and having, between stopping and continuing. But what would I even say?Come back and finish what we started?That's exactly the kind of impulsive decision we're trying to avoid.
I get out of bed at four-thirty because lying there pretending I might sleep is its own kind of torture. I make coffee in the kitchen where a few hours ago we were kissing like the world was ending. The wine glasses we never used still sit on the counter. I put them away, wipe down surfaces that don't need wiping, and go through the ritual of making my space feel normal again.
The camera I now discover to be near my bookshelf watches me move through the living room. I'm hyperaware of itnow in a way I wasn't before—aware that somewhere, recorded on whatever server Jax uses for storage, there's footage of us on my couch. His hands on my skin. My sweater coming off. The moment when I stopped us before we crossed the line completely.
The thought unsettles me in ways I can't quite articulate. Not because I'm ashamed of what happened, but because surveillance and intimacy are now entangled in ways that feel impossible to separate.
At four forty-seven, I give up pretending I can process this alone and text Solange: You awake?
Her response comes three minutes later: I am now. What's wrong?
Me: Ezra dropped the will contest. Mira called last night.
Solange: That's incredible! Are you okay?
Me: Yes. No. I don't know.
Solange:Did Jax come over?
Of course she knows. Solange has been reading my patterns since we met six years ago, and she’s the one that caught it when I was still pretending my marriage to Gabriel was functional.
Me:Yes.
Solange:And?
Me:And we almost made a catastrophically poor decision. But we stopped. Talked about needing to figure out if this is real before we complicate it further.
Solange:You stopped. That's progress.
Me:Doesn't feel like progress. Feels like torture.
Solange:Good torture or bad torture?
Me:Both. All of it. I don't know anymore.
The dots appear and disappear three times before her response comes:Come to my place for breakfast. 7 AM. You shouldn't be alone processing this.
She's right. Being alone with my thoughts at five in the morning is exactly how I spiral into places that don't serve me. I type back:I'll be there.
