With Dad out of sight, I head for my room where I can have a little privacy. He isn’t one of those people who gives advice freely. I doubt he wanted to say anything about it since he’s not an authority on healthy relationships—he basically lucked out with Holly and her Stockholm Syndrome because, honestly, nothing else could explain it—so he must find this awfully important to bring it up. My cheeks heat at the idea that I matter so much to Jeremy that a few encouraging words from me could turn his mood around. I see it happen with Dad and Holly, but they’re in a very different place than Jeremy and I are.
It was nearly a year ago now that I thought he and I were going to run away together and get married, but that didn’t happen. Part of me wishes it had turned out differently and that, instead of being in the small room with unfamiliar walls and a rather impersonal décor, I were in another small room tucked into his side as we learn how to live together. But in my fantasy, I’m back home in Fort Bragg with a gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand and with the last name Whelan and maybe, just maybe, one day a baby of our own on the way. But that’s not how life has turned out, and I’m slowly coming to terms with that. Like an idiot, the thought finally occurs to me that if I’m struggling with my new reality, maybe Jeremy is struggling with his new reality as well.
I grab my phone from the cheap, plastic bedside table where it’s been charging, disconnect the cord, and sit at the foot of my bed. After bringing up my contacts and pressing the touch screen where Jeremy’s face appears, I wait in hopeful anticipation as the phone rings. I shouldn’t be nervous about calling him. I love him, and he says he loves me still, even despite the distance. Even despite how short-lived our quasi-engagement actually was.
I take a deep breath and force myself to shove off the impending disappointment when his voicemail picks up. When it’s time to leave a message, I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Better not, I guess. I don’t even know what I was going to say to him, much less how to convey exactly how I feel. Because I guess that’s the point of Dad telling me to call him, so that I can tell Jeremy what it means to me.
The moment my phone starts ringing I swipe my finger across the answer button and I bring it to my ear. I didn’t even check the caller ID before saying, “Hey.” My voice is soft and encouraging. In an attempt to get him to talk to me—really talk to me. Not that bullshit crap he tries to pull where he always says he’s fine and everything is good and that the club is settling. I know all that already. Just because I’m a few hours away doesn’t mean I’ve been exiled from the club. I keep in touch with Alex and occasionally Aunt Ruby—though not as much lately. She’s just not in a place where she’s up for talking, and I don’t really know what else I can say to her. Nothing seems to make anything any better.
“Hey, babe,” Jeremy’s deep voice says from the other end. “What’s up?”
Relief washes over me, showing me how disappointed I was at not getting to talk to him. Sometimes I don’t even realize how sad our distance makes me until he’s on the other end of the line telling me bullshit stories about work that mean nothing, matter little, and don’t do shit to make me feel any better.
“I miss you. I miss you a lot.” So much for easing him into this conversation. But that’s kind of the Forsaken way—bulls in a china shop.
“Fuck, I miss you, too,” he says. We just saw each other a few weeks ago, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. And just like that, the imaginary dam we built to keep ourselves safe and the scary emotions at bay during this time apart freaking bursts, and everything comes flowing out. “I was starting to think you were moving on.”
“Never. I’m just scared,” I admit. He sucks in a deep breath but doesn’t say anything. “I’m scared we’re going to drift apart, and every time I start thinking about what you’re doing while I’m down here, I have the urge to flambé somebody’s face.”
“What the fuck is a flambé?” he asks, a light laugh echoing on the other end of the line, followed by static and what I think might be the whistling of the wind.
I settle in on my bed, not even trying to ignore the fluttery feeling in my stomach. “You know those kitchen blowtorches? The ones that make crème br?lée?” I ask. I almost tell him it’s the thing that Dad forces me to carry with me in my purse. He says it makes an excellent weapon, and I have an excuse for having it. Got a problem? Light ’em on fire. That’s his motto. Since my school doesn’t allow firearms on campus, I can’t bring my handgun with me. We don’t have metal detectors or anything that could bust me for bringing it, but I’d feel like a prisoner if I had to carry it with me everywhere.
“Is that some kind of cake?” He has to repeat himself because I didn’t hear him the first time. “Sorry the connection sucks. I’m outside waiting on someone.”
“Someone special?” I ask, almost teasing but not really. I would hate to have to cut a bitch.
“Just my favorite girl is all,” he says, and I swear I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Give Robin a hug from her auntie for me, will ya?” He must be on babysitting duty for my little buddy.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, brushing off my comment. “So anyway, the cake?”