It’s earlier than usual when I wake up on my laundry room floor with Jax snuggled behind me.
And for whatever reason, I don’t freak out.
Sometime during the night, he muttered he was cold and that I needed to stop hogging the blanket. Then, he dragged me toward him, settling me so that my back was against his chest, and fell asleep. I should’ve stopped him, pulled away, but I didn’t.
I was tired, and it felt good to be held by someone.
It’d been so long.
Lonely nights.
Cold nights.
With no one.
So, I let Jax hold me.
And even though I don’t want to admit it, I liked it.
Who lets their deceased fiancé’s best friend hold you, as if you’re their most prized possession in the world, while you sleep?
It’s wrong. So wrong.
I should’ve stopped it from the very start.
I should’ve told him to leave, and when he poured his heart out to me, I should’ve called one of our friends to take him home. But I didn’t.
After his confession, I couldn’t move.
It was a confession he should’ve kept to himself.
One that he should’ve told a priest and not me.
His breathing was ragged as he waited for my reaction, but there were no words. My head was throbbing, my body sore, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. I needed the rest before dealing with the stress.
Finally, I told him, “We can’t do this right now.”
And I nearly broke when he lowered his voice and said, “Don’t make me leave. If I leave, you’re leaving with me because I refuse to let you sleep on that floor alone. Just tonight, let me stay.”
I didn’t argue.
I said, “All right, Jax.”
He silently followed me into the laundry room. I grabbed my sleeping bag, unzipped it, and opened it wide—something I don’t normally do. I typically cocoon myself into that thing. Jax stood in the corner, his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes bloodshot and empty. He watched me, as if he’d have to recite my moves later, until I turned off the light and made myself comfortable. His only light source then was the night-light on my essential oil diffuser plugged into the wall.
I threw him a pillow and told him to sleep off the liquor.
My thoughts of last night are interrupted when Jax stirs behind me.
I shut my eyes when his erection rubs against my ass.
He groans, and my shoulders tense.
If I roll away, will it make things weird?
“Shit,” he hisses into my ear.
I shiver and immediately miss his heat when he pulls away. I watch him over my shoulder. He doesn’t stand. Instead, he slides backward and slumps against the wall.
I turn on my side to see him rubbing at his eyes with the bottom of his palms. He’s wearing the same shorts and tee he had on at Jasmine’s party yesterday.
“Amelia, I’m sorry,” he mutters, combing his fingers through his bedhead hair.
Sorry for what exactly?
That’s what I want to ask but don’t.
Instead, I sit up, crossing my legs, and wave my hand through the air. “It’s fine.”
His eyes are red and sleepy. “I had too much to drink.”
“I figured that one out really quick.”
“Did I do anything stupid?” He scans the room. “Or did I come in here and crash?”
I wince and stay quiet.
Was he that shitfaced, or is he saying he doesn’t remember to save from explaining himself?
“I don’t see how you do it.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Do what?”
He smacks his hand against the floor. “Sleep in here. It’s uncomfortable as fuck.”
I shrug. “You get used to it.”
“Why in here though? Why not the guest room or couch?”
“There are too many memories of him in those spots.” I look away from him and blink back tears.
“Get a new bed. A new couch.”
“Those aren’t …” I pause, biting into my lower lip, and my gaze returns to him. “The furniture isn’t the problem.”
He stares at me blankly, waiting for an explanation.
“Christopher and I have … memories in all those places.”
His eyes widen in understanding. “No laundry room sex?”
I slowly shake my head.
He gives nothing away on his face.
Not on his feelings toward everything he said last night, or waking up in my laundry room, or hearing about his best friend and me being intimate.
The room is quiet for a beat until he clears his throat. “Gotcha. So, you two really went at it then, huh?”
“Says the guy with his fair share of random girls.”
“Says the girl who said she’s had sex on every inch of this place.”
“It was with my fiancé, not rando one-night stands.”
“Some were more than one night, thank you.”
I scoff.
“And there hasn’t been that many. I’ve been so busy with work that I’ve hardly had time to do anything.”
“How many girls?”
He scratches his head. “Huh?”
“How many girls have you been with?”
“Why would you ask me that question?”
“Just curious.”
“Keep being curious then.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Why do you want to know, Amelia?”
I stay quiet, searching for the right lie to tell him.
“The only girls who want to know the answer to that question are typically ones who plan to sleep with me,” he adds at my lack of answer, and his eyes darken. “Do you plan to sleep with me?”
My heart constricts, as if tightening in my chest. “Given that I have, I think I qualify for the answer.”
“Ah.” He snaps his fingers. “She finally admits it.”
I scrunch my face. “Admits what?”
“That we’ve slept together.”
My cheeks flush. “When have I ever denied it?”
He shoots me a really look.
“You never told Chris either.”
He looks away, as if in shame. “I didn’t.”
“Did he ever ask you?”
This time, it’s him turning quiet, most likely contemplating on whether to lie.
“Did he?” I push.
He grimaces. “Once.” His voice cracks with guilt in just that one word. “And I said no.”
I inhale a shaky breath. “What made him ask you?”
“I have no idea.” He stares down at the floor. “It was out of the blue.” His gaze flashes back to mine, revealing so much more guilt than his voice did. “Did he ever ask you?”
“Twice.” My mind trails back to the two most awkward times in our relationship. The two times I ever looked Christopher in his eyes and lied straight to him, acting like he was out of his mind.
“Twice?” His face turns pained. “Why so many?”
“I don’t know.” My mouth turns dry. “The first time was when we first started dating. The second when he was drinking.” I swallow, hoping it’ll help. “It was like he knew … but he didn’t want to believe it.”
I thought I had him fooled.
He said he believed me when I acted defensive. When I looked at him in shock and asked why he’d ever think such a crazy thing.
I was not only afraid of hurting him, of losing him, but I was also scared he’d lose Jax. If Christopher didn’t have Jax or me, he’d feel as if he had no one.
“If he hadn’t wanted to know, he wouldn’t have asked,” Jax states matter-of-factly. “And maybe we should’ve been honest with him. You two weren’t together when we slept together.”
“But he would’ve felt betrayed by the two people he loved the most.”
His jaw is set when he says, “It doesn’t matter now.”
I nod in agreement, my voice a half-whisper. “It doesn’t.”
But it does.
It does because we’re the ones who have to live with it.
We stare at each other, both of us uncomfortable but at ease simultaneously. There’s so much to say, but we’re too afraid to dive into our true feelings.
Momentarily, I wonder what I’d be doing right now if things had gone differently between Jax and me.
What if I’d never met Christopher?
Or if Jax and I had started dating before Christopher came into my life?
Jax was a kid, having fun back then. No way did he want a serious girlfriend like Christopher did.
But I never doubted Christopher when he told me I was the only girl he’d ever be with. When he told me he loved me, when he told me he’d never cared about any other girls and not touched anyone else, I knew it was the truth. He was always my safe place.
I felt content. But I also never asked Jax those things.
I was afraid to ask, and Jax wasn’t as giving with his feelings as Christopher.
Could Jax and I have been more?
I shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts.
No. It could and would never happen.
Christopher will always be a ghost, haunting us.
Even if I wanted to touch Jax, it’s like we have some barrier between us, a this isn’t right boundary line.
“Maybe you should move,” Jax suggests, and I give him back my attention.
I scrunch my face. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t sleep in your own fucking bed, Amelia. Maybe you should move.”
“I … I want to move, but I don’t want to move. Just like with the brewery, it’s almost like this home is all I have left of him.”
“Because of all the good memories of him here?”
I shut my eyes. “Yes … but then my worst memory of him is here too.”
I’ve never seen Jax’s face turn so compassionate, so caring, so raw with his emotions when he says, “I’m sorry you had to see that,” in a low whisper.