Losing my temper because she keeps saying that, I bark, “Because it fucking does.”
“Jordan, just let it go.”
I take her hand in mine, so small and soft and fragile. “Can’t do that, sweetheart.”
“You may not like what you hear.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” I push back into her space. “Invite me inside.”
There’s a fleeting moment of grief and sadness on her angelic face, but she finally relents with a nod. She’s going to give me the answers I need, and hopefully, we’ll be able to move on and start fresh. Build something together. Something I know with certainty could be spectacular if she’d just give us a chance.
Opening the front door, she pulls me inside. It’s dark, but there’s enough ambient light from outside filtering in through the middle partings of the drawn curtains to help guide our way. My dick kicks up eagerly as she leads me to her bedroom, and I remind him it’s not going to happen tonight and to calm the fuck down.
My mind wanders as I follow her down the short hallway. Past and present begin to swirl together. How many times had I walked down this same hallway to Amelia’s room, only to stop in front of Douglass’s door?
As soon as we pass through the open doorway of her room, she walks over to pick something up from the floor.
Even though I was in here the other morning, I was more focused on watching her as she slept than I was at snooping around her personal domicile. It looks like the room of a teenage girl, not the woman she clearly is. It’s also pretty much devoid of anything other than the bare necessities. With the exception of some posters and a few books stacked neatly on a shelf, there are no personal knickknacks or other paraphernalia that would give me insight to the shy, standoffish girl Douglass used to be.
Douglass drops a bin full of books at my feet. When she presents me with one of the blue books, I take it from her and trace my fingertips along its cover. The soft leather is worn and frayed a bit at the bottom corner.
“What’s this?”
When she doesn’t answer, I look up and something inside me shatters when I see the waterfall of tears dripping down her face. However, seeing her tears isn’t what completely destroys me. It’s when she lifts her left arm to swipe away the wetness from her cheeks. Her bracelets fall in a stack down her forearm, exposing a jagged, red line scored across the underside of her wrist.
I know what that scar is and what it represents.
Oh, god. No. Please, no.
“It’s all in there.” She points at the book in my hand, then down at the bin. “These are journals that contain everything. About my life. About that night… and what happened after.”
Chapter 28
Five Years Ago
You’re pathetic, I think for the millionth time as I literally stalk Jordan Hammond with my eyes from across the room.
If there’s a more piteous eighteen-year-old girl, I’d like to meet her and swap sob stories about being in love with a man who doesn’t know you exist. Oh, and that man also happens to be your sister’s ex-fiancé. Like I said, totally pathetic.
Every Saturday night, I come to Mickey’s knowing Jordan will be here. Every Saturday evening, I sit at the same corner table and order the same basket of fries. And every Saturday evening since Jordan and Amelia broke up, I watch him leave with some random, tall blonde clinging to his side like a freaking limpet. And it’salwaysa blonde.
I self-consciously bring my hand up to touch my frizzy, red-brown hair I tried hard to tame tonight with Amelia’s straightening iron. I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like Jordan ever notices the extra hour and a half it takes me to do my hair.
I’m invisible. To him. To the people at school. To everyone in Woodspire. The only attention I do seem to get is from my sister, and it’s not the kind of attention I want.
I pull the sleeve of my shirt down to hide the burn mark where Amelia hit me with the straightening iron tonight when she came by the house and found me using it.
Taking comfort in food, I dip a fry in the small bowl of ketchup and shovel it into my mouth.
Deep, male laughter from the bar has me sighing. Jordan has the best laugh. Currently, he’s laughing at something the gorgeous blonde to his right said, while another gorgeous blonde on his left pushes her ample bosom into his side, trying to get his attention.
I plunge another fry into the ketchup and salute her with it before biting it in half. I know how it feels to desperately want to be the recipient of his attention. I’ve been hopelessly in love with the man for the past four years, and he’s been completely oblivious to my existence for the same amount of time.
I just thank God he found out what a deceitful, lying bitch my sister was… still is… and called off the wedding. Maybe miracles do happen.
When Jordan grabs the blonde’s ass and nuzzles her neck, I focus all my attention on devouring the food in front of me. It’s called eating your feelings. Something I’m very good at. The therapist aunt Natalie sent me and Amelia to after Mom died called it emotional eating. Same difference.
I’m on my last fry when a looming shadow falls over my table. I almost choke on it when I look up and see Jordan standing there, beer tipped to his lips, looking all sexy and disheveled and… oh my god, he’s sitting down.
