“And that’s my number. Thanks, January.” I felt the need to be official with him now, needing that distance. Why was I always drawn to things that weren’t good for me—protests, men?
Another night awaited me with Oliver so close by. I should have gone to my sister’s.
Good instincts, bad judgment.
Chapter 12
Oliver
“You were always a careful judge of character.”
I felt that she could tell what mine was. Looking too long into her eyes was a struggle. I was afraid that if she looked long enough, she could sense the explosives that were still concealed in my soul—rage, desolation, pain.
I had to get out of there. She was a weakness. My weakness.
My body burned for her, my soul bled. The primal part of me wanted to pin her against that goddamn fridge and take that uniform off her, find the January inside it, and fuck her against that kitchen counter.
But no. Fucking wouldn’t be enough. January wasn’t just anyone. My body burned for her, but mysoulbled. And wanting someone like I wanted her, wanting to lose myself in her, with her, forever, was not an option.
So, I just left.
Because that wasn’t the solution.Shewasn’t the solution.
Herwords.
And she couldn’t be the reward.Mywords. My response to a court-appointed therapist who had once said, “She’s not the solution, but she can be the reward.” I had gone to see him a few times, years ago, until I realized that I couldn’t do more of the necessary diving, digging, mining for memories, descending into the abyss of my mind. I already knew what awaited me there.
She couldn’t be the reward, because all I could do was to take from her. I had nothing to give.
On my bedroom’s balcony, facing the dark ocean, I felt the drops of March rain and thought of January Raine out there in the pool house. So close, yet out of reach. Like she had been on that rainy night when we were twenty-two.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After four years in London, never visiting on breaks or holidays, and meeting my father only twice, returning home—a word I used loosely—dug up everything that I had buried in the depths of my soul.
Two evenings spent in his house, listening to him boasting of himself, lecturing me on how I had more chances of becoming a failure because I wasn’t showing signs that I had it in me to succeed, had brought back all the demons.
“All that expensive education, andthat’swhat you want to do? Be a teacher?”
“A researcher. And I worked, you didn’t pay for everything.” We stood a few feet apart, and I had to look down an inch. My father was now shorter than me.
“Researcher? That’s a coward’s job. Hiding behind books and numbers in a stinking room in some university instead of living and working in the real world where these numbers actually mean something, making you money.” His accent—that he tried to suppress unless he thought it’d impress someone or open a business opportunity if he highlighted his background—was more pronounced when he was angry. “I paid for your education; your temp salaries hardly covered your upkeeping. You took all those jobs just to prove something to me?” He scoffed. “All you proved was what you’re worth, and what you’re worth are these jobs.” He then muttered to himself, “A nobody.”
“You came from a farm!” I often wondered how this specimen of a man, who had come from a country that respected hard work, equality, and humbleness had turned out to bethat.
“And look where I am.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arms around the house. “You have everything, and you want to throw it away.”
“I have nothing.”
“Youarenothing.”
I saw red.
My breath became shallow and fast, my fist automatically clenched, and my arm was halfway raised.
I stopped myself, noticing through the red rage the way his gaze followed my arm. I dropped it to my side.
He shook his head, his lips contorting with disdain. “Like I said, a coward. I raised a loser.”
