Page 43 of Lonely Hearts Day

The conversation I’d had with Troy while writing the poem flashed through my mind. How I had no idea why Jack had given up on us: jealousy? Unrequited feelings?

And just like that I burst into tears.

His entire demeanor changed from playful to worried. He stood and reached for my hand. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to give it to him. He helped me stand and then led me back inside. He quickly traversed the crowded living room, blocking my body with his. I could tell he thought about stopping in the hall, but that was crowded, too. Suddenly he was pulling open a door and ushering us into a coat closet. He moved some hangers aside, but, still, we barely had enough space to stand. When he pulled the door shut behind us, we were plunged into darkness.

Tears were still streaming down my face. They were hot and salty and—I assumed—black with mascara. I was glad for the darkness. I sniffled.

He felt for my shoulders and when they were in his grip, I melted against his chest. One of his hands went to my back, pulling me close, the other cupped the back of my neck, beneath my hair. A buzzing vibrated through my body, warming me from the inside out.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you too. But you shut me in a closet with Micah then didn’t talk to me for a year.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was a jerk.”

“Why?”

The groan started in his chest before I heard it escape. “Because you’d been pushing me away all year, talking about how terrible love was. I thought that maybe you were trying to tell me to back off, to give you space. I thought I was taking a hint.”

I gulped in some air. That’s not what I was expecting to hear at all.

“I tried, Scar. I tried to be there for you, but you wouldn’t let me. Your bitterness only seemed to grow, and I started to wonder if I was helping to feed it. And that night, seeing you happy with Micah, it broke me. I thought maybe I was bad for you. I just wanted you to feel happy again.”

I swallowed hard. He was right, of course. How had I not seen that this was the actual reason he had to walk away? The perfectly valid reason. I had been closed off. For a whole year. Suddenly him taking the first step to mend things with that poem felt like the wrong order. It should’ve been me.

“Why didn’tyoureach out to me?” His voice was soft when he asked it.

Now I felt ridiculous. Like I was the one who didn’t knowhimat all. “I thought you were jealous,” I said in a small voice. “Of Micah. I thought that you thought I wanted to kiss him or be with him.”

His body went still in our embrace.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I was embarrassed when you rejected my kiss. My pride was hurt and I let that fill my head with all sorts of reasons, except the real one apparently, of why you would walk away.”

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t pull away either. A jacket hanging behind him was brushing against my arm and the closet smelled a bit stale, but I didn’t want to leave.

“You’re angry.” I knew this because Ididknow him. Better than anyone. “And you have every right to be. We should’ve talked.Ishould’ve talked.”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “Well, a little. But I’m angry at myself too, because I probably did let jealousy play a role in my decision. Not jealousy over Micah, but jealousy that I couldn’t be who you needed. But you seem better now... happier?”

“I am, but only because I’ve worked on myself, not because you left. You leaving...” I choked on a sob.

He adjusted his hold on me, pulling me closer. “I’m not perfect and I know you aren’t either, but I want to be in your life. It wasn’t the same without you,” he said.

I closed my eyes, new hot tears forming. Not sad tears. Happy tears. I was so relieved. “I want to be in your life, too.”

His mouth was inches from my forehead, his breath tickling my skin.

I rose up on the balls of my feet, pushing my forehead against his lips.

I felt the sharp inhale he took, his chest rising against mine, rather than heard it. He didn’t pull away though, just let his lips brush against my skin, once, then twice.

A curious, questioning hum escaped him, but then his hold on me tightened. This time he made the first move forward, and it wasn’t to connect with my forehead. His mouth met mine with an intensity that left no question about what he wanted from this relationship, and it was definitely more than friendship. His other hand joined his first, his fingers on the back of my neck, his palms cupping my jaw.

My hands gripped the sides of his shirt. I could feel the heat radiating off of him. His mouth was soft but sure as it moved on mine. He tilted my head, which was still in his hands, so he could deepen the kiss, his lips parting, his tongue brushing along mine. A jolt of electricity shot through my body and lit my insides on fire.

I moved my hands to his back, pulling him tighter against me as my tongue explored his mouth, tasting him. Then my back was against the door, and he was against me and I knew that we’d waited too long to do this. I should’ve known he would know how to make every nerve ending in my body sing. He knew me better than anyone. And maybe that’s what this was about: not that he knew exactly what to do with his mouth and hands, which he did, but that I felt safe with him. Known. Secure. I felt loved and that made all the difference.

His lips moved from my mouth to my cheek, and then he was hugging me again, burying his head in the crook of my neck and wrapping his arms around my waist in a tight embrace.