Ah shit, just saying good-bye while looking at Jasmine was eating him alive. He had to get out of there now. Before he did something insane, like press his face against her legs and ask what else he could have done. Yeah…yeah, he had to walk toward the door, get in his van, and find a place to hole up. Couldn’t let everything rush in on him right now, or Jasmine would only feel guiltier than she already looked. He hated that guilt. Wanted to kiss it off her face, but would never get that chance again.
Something hard and leather pressed against Sarge’s palm, and he looked down to find his guitar case, Lita in his periphery. For the second time that night, he was grateful to the drummer. Holding his guitar proved to be the push he needed to give Jasmine one final memorizing look before exiting into the dark chill of night.
Chapter Fifteen
As far as Christmas mornings went, this one was somber as hell.
Following tradition, Jasmine had shown up at River’s house to watch Marcy open presents before spending the rest of the holiday with her parents. She hadn’t had a chance to speak with her best friend since Sarge’s departure last night, but it was obvious they were both making a Herculean effort to stay positive for Marcy’s sake. Currently, the three-year-old was tearing through wrapping paper with glee as River followed with a black trash bag.
Jasmine felt like she’d been covered in cement. Her movements felt sluggish, and no number of commands sent to her brain could hasten them. She’d managed to wait five full minutes after Sarge blew out of the church hall before leaving herself—and it had been a rapid downhill shot from there. Her eyes felt like they’d been rubbed raw with sand she’d cried so much. Huge, racking sobs that reminded her of a devastated child, which wasn’t so far off. Years seemed to have been stripped away, leaving her bare, with no experience to pull from.
How did she go about getting over this? How did anyone? If she ever found the wherewithal to speak to anyone about the loss that was caving in her stomach, what would they say? Probably that it would get easier in degrees. Well, the next degree over from her current state was still bereft. So was the degree after that. And the one beside that. So Jasmine was pretty sure she’d be living inside this swamp of pummeling pain a good, long while.
River handed her a cup of eggnog with nutmeg sprinkled on top, but she only stared down into it without drinking. “Thanks.”
“Are you all right?” River asked.
“Are you?”
They stared at each other until Marcy bounced over, flushed from excitement. “Who are these ones from, Mom?” She handed two silver-wrapped presents to River and brushed her loose curls back. “Can I open it?”
River checked the tag. “They’re from Uncle Sarge…they were delivered yesterday. One for you and one for me.” She turned the packages over in her hands. “And these are extra presents, Marcy. Uncle Sarge already bought you the guitar.”
Marcy whooped. “Thank you, Uncle Sarge.”
A line formed between River’s brows, reminding Jasmine so much of Sarge she felt pricks behind her eyelids. With more eagerness than she had the right to feel, Jasmine watched mother and daughter open the packages from Sarge, watched them smile at what they found. Matching bomber jackets with the Old News logo on the back, their names stitched over the pocket. River stared down at hers while Marcy worked her arms into the sleeves. “We’ll have to send him a thank-you card when he gets back to L.A. If he’s not already there.”
Needing to move, Jasmine stood and walked to the closest window, looking out over the side yard. He could be an entire country away at that very moment. All she’d had to do was throw her arms around him instead of making him leave. It would have been so easy. But there had been a reason for her decision. She needed to remember that. Even if in the light of day, nothing seemed a good enough excuse for his absence. Even if the business card James had slipped into her hand on his way out burned in her pocket, tempting her to find out at least where he’d gone.
“Jasmine, there’s one for you, too.”
She turned to find River holding out a silver box. Perhaps it was the worst idea possible, but she grabbed on to the gift like a lifeline. Something—anything—that would remind her of Sarge. Conscious of River watching, Jasmine ran her index finger beneath the folded edge so as not to rip it. She slid the medium-sized box out of one end and tipped the lid back. Inside white tissue paper was a bomber jacket, just like the ones he’d sent River and Marcy.
Except when she turned her jacket over, it didn’t say Old News on the back. Bright neon-green beading spelled out the name Bon Jovi. A cross between a laugh and a sob broke free of her mouth as she picked up the card and opened it.
Never get into an ugly clothing war with a Jersey man, when bragging rights are on the line. I love you, Sarge.
“Oh God.” Jasmine dropped the box along with the jacket, pressing both hands over her heart. “I can’t do this.”
River stooped down to pick up the jacket, watching Jasmine with concern as she went. “You can’t do what?”
“Pretend everything is fine. Like he didn’t come here and make me”—Jasmine’s eyelids fluttered shut, the organ pounding beneath her palms with increased force—“make me fall in love with him.”