“And now I’m not sure. I’m just...” I take a breath, not sure how to express everything that's racing through my mind. “Something has to change, Jacob. I can’t keep living like this. It’s like I’ve built my walls up so high that I can’t let anyone else in. I created a prison for myself, and I don’t know how to escape.”
He sits in silence for a long time, just holding my hand. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say, but I’m dying for something; for him to give me advice, or yell at me. Maybe even kiss me again so I know if I still feel something.
He squeezes my hand. “It took a long time for you to build those walls. They’re not going to come down easily, and you won't be able to do it by yourself.” He stares down at our hands clasped together. “I might be biased on this one, but I don’t think running to the other side of the world is the answer either. There are people here who love you, people who want to help, but maybe we’re too close to help. Michael might even be too close to help.”
“Where does that leave me?” I feel very alone, even with him beside me. He just confirmed that no one can help me, not even him. He must have moved on, even if I can't.
“I think your roommate is right. It’s time to stop pretending everything is okay when it isn’t. It’s time to stop running. Maybe it’s time tolet the past catch up with you, so you can feel everything you’ve been avoiding. Let yourself hurt so you can heal.”
I stare at the pool of moonlight on the floor in front of me. I look down at Jacob’s hand holding mine. Finally, I look at him.
“I think you might be right.”
fifty-five
Jacob: Moving On
November 2006
Another weekend. Another bar. I glance around and take in the scenery. Familiar. Women in tight jeans or short skirts, low-cut blouses, too much makeup, sitting in pairs or groups, drinking and looking around casually—trying to look like they aren’t looking. The guys are in jeans and t-shirts, less obviously dressed to attract interest—more obviously looking, looking for their next conquest.
I guess I’m one of them now—part of the problem. The whole thing has become a game to me, a game I’m tired of.
It’s almost been almost six months since Jess showed up like some kind of dream when I was sleeping in her bedroom. I thought we’d connected, that I’d helped her. I thought she’d stay home, and we’d work things out, that things would be good between us again. That I could help her get better. Even if it meant we had to start over as friends.
By the time I came back, she was gone. Her message was obvious. “I’ll never get better with you around.”
I decided it was time to move on.
I’ve done everything I can to forget her. I don’t go to her house anymore or hang out with her family, not even Tyler. I spend a lot of time in places like this and with a lot of different women. I got a new car—a Dodge Charger with a custom paint job, screaming green with black stripes over the hood—almost as obnoxious and irresponsible as the car I used to drive. I avoid anything and everything that might remind me of her.
I pretend that it’s working.
I scan the crowd. A redhead catches my eye—pretty face, nice body, nice smile. Her hair is short and curly. At first glance there’s nothing about her that reminds me of Jess.
I buy her a drink and we talk. Her name is Angel or Angelina, something like that. She has a little turned-up nose and a sprinkling of freckles. They make her look like a teenager, but I’d guess she’s at least twenty-two. She says she’s a college student. That she’s only here for the weekend.
I dance with a few other women, talk to some at the bar before I go back to the redhead. She’s only in town for a couple of days, easier to spend tonight with her without it needing to be more.
She’s friendlier, more talkative the second time I come around. She asks me a lot of questions about the Army, about my family, about Iraq. It's easy to talk to her, like she knows me already.
A slow and romantic song comes on, so I lead her to the little dance floor. I pull her close. Her lips look inviting. I make my move. Her finger on my lips stops me. “Before you do that, I think you should know who I am.”
“I know who you are,” I laugh, trying to sound casual. “You’re Angela…” Damn, did she tell me her last name? I can’t remember.
“Angelica. But I don’t mean my name, Jacob. I meant who I am.”
She’s trying to be coy or pretending to be deep. I don’t know.I’ll play along. “Okay. Who are you?”
“I’m Jess Roberts' roommate.”
I step backward. She has to grab my elbow to keep me from tripping over the couple behind us.
“I came here with Taryn.” She nods towards a table set back at the edge of the room. I barely recognize the woman sitting there. She’s cut her hair, and she wears a lot more make-up, but it’s definitely Taryn, one of Jess’s high school friends.
I stop pretending to dance. Only one question crosses my mind: “How is she?”
“Better,” Angelica answers firmly. “A lot better than she was.”
