Jett follows me into my house and stops in the doorway of my office. “She’s in every fucking room,” he says.
And yeah. That’s the truth. Since the first time she broke in, back when I should’ve called the cops but didn’t, she’s been leaving her mark. Lip gloss smudged on mugs. Notes hidden indrawers. Her scent in the linens. Glitter in places I haven’t even figured out how she got to. The place hums with her.
“You really love her,” Jett says, voice low. “You’re good for her.”
I stop where I am, folder in my hand. The edges curl in my grip. “Yeah,” I say. “I love her.”
He nods, serious now. “Leave Hank and Chad to me. I don’t have a clean record. The gym won’t fire me. You got too much to lose. She needs you.”
This is Jett laying himself down for me, sure, but it’s really for her. He’d bleed for her. I know the feeling.
“She needs you too,” I say. “Loves you. You love her.”
He cracks his neck and starts fidgeting with the stack of scrunchies on his wrist. He’s collecting them now, like a kid with friendship bracelets. They’re hers. I don’t even think he realizes how obvious it is.
“I’ll handle Hank,” he says, dark now. “He put his hands on her.”
My jaw flexes. My hands tighten on the folder until the cardstock creaks. If he hadn’t already tagged him, I would’ve torn Hank apart.
“Don’t kill him,” I say flatly.
“That’s why I’m handling him, not you, fucking brute.” He winks, trying to cut the tension.
“Chad touch her?” I ask, throat tight.
“Nope,” he says. “Just Hank.”
“Good,” I say. Even that doesn’t help.
He huffs a laugh. “She got a hit in on all three of ‘em. Little Tasmanian devil. She’s wildfire.”
That breaks something loose in me. I let out a breath. “She is. Burns so damn good.”
I shift the papers in my hands. “Maybe let Walter handle Hank. Legally.”
He gives me a look. “Why?”
“Because he’s not worth us losing you.”
There’s a small moment where something soft flashes across his face. “Fuck, man. You gonna cry on me?”
I shake my head, but yeah, maybe I fucking am.
I’m not the only one shaking. We all are. That’s what love does. That’s what she does.
Journal Entry #12
Monday August 9th
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
Today went off the rails and down the side of a fucking cliff. Jett and I were minding our business, maybe about to get arrested for gym-related crimes of the deeply inappropriate variety, when boom, the Unholy Trinity appeared: Chad, Hank, and Margo. I think the devil spit them out just to ruin our afternoon.
Thanks for believing us. I could tell by how you loitered in Walter’s parking lot like a guilty dog outside a butcher shop that something was chewing at you. You wanted to say yes to Benji’s sleepover invite. But something held you back. Was it the mess of it all? The violence? The way Jett looked when he said yes?
For the record: no sex tonight. Too much adrenaline and bruises and courtroom foreshadowing.
