Page 62 of Dark Angel

I shrug to cover my surprise at his departure. “I have no idea. Your guess is as good as mine.”

The brief standoff, charged with tension and unspoken truths, momentarily silences the room. “Leave her alone, ma. It’s not like this is the first time he’s taken off. I bet he doesn’t like your insinuations about Rayne’s color.” Rowan’s assessment, laced with the same dry wit as her brother’s, pierces through the mask of politeness.

Her words catch me off guard, a stark reminder of a reality I seldom have to confront. In the predominantly white, middle-class neighborhood of my upbringing, within the sprawling diversity of a large metropolitan city, I have very little experience with racism. So, when I’m faced with such an overt reminder, I find myself momentarily speechless, the sting of the insinuation catching me unprepared.

“We haven’t said a word about her color.” Gloria’s gaze locks on mine as if seeking an ally.

“Of course, we don’t see your color,” Aunt Mary chimes in, echoing Gloria’s denial with practiced ease. Once upon a time, I might have found her words reassuring, but the undertone is clear—they don’t see me.

“Of course not.” Gloria’s assertion of obliviousness to racial differences spews forth in a tale of camaraderie with “your kind” during her service days.

I seize the opportunity to divert the conversation. “So, you were in the army?”

“Navy,” Gloria corrects, launching into her story, allowing me a moment’s respite from the scrutiny and the thinly veiled digs at my background. The evening drags on, Gloria and Mary holding court with war stories as I find solace in the bottom of my glass, the alcohol a temporary escape from the evening’s undercurrents of tension and judgment.

Later, as Gloria shows me to a modest room across from hers—a strategic placement, no doubt, to keep a watchful eye—I review the night’s events. Despite Jaden’s abrupt exit, my feelings are surprisingly unbruised by his behavior. Maybe that’s because of the complexity of our bond or the numbing effect of the wine. As sleep claims me, I put together another piece of Jaden’s motivations, his silent battles, and the intricate dance of our relationship that continues to unfold in unexpected ways.

37

JADEN

I'm almost suffocating with fear as I stumble out of my mother’s house. Yes, I’m fleeing, leaving Rayne amidst the vultures of my past. But it’s not without cause; the thought of my mother’s manipulation tearing at the fragile connection between Rayne and me is unbearable. That disappointment from her, a piercing through our bond, was unexpected yet painfully revealing.

Driving aimlessly, I find myself at Sasha’s, seeking comfort in the solitude of her lakefront property. It’s here, in the quiet, that I confront the chaos within me. Rayne, she’s woven herself into the fabric of my life in ways I hadn’t imagined possible. She’s not just filling the gaps; she’s restructuring the entire foundation.

Her presence in my business covering for Sasha started as a convenience, a relief from the burdens I carry. But it’s evolved into something more—recognition of her worth and an acknowledgment of my own limitations. My aversion to dealing with financial aspects isn’t just a quirk; it’s a scar from past battles, ones she’s unknowingly helping to heal.

The decision to give her half of my holdings isn’t a whim. It’s a testament to her impact, a gesture of trust I’ve never afforded anyone. And it’s hers whether she chooses to stay or not. Yet, how do I convey this without implying a debt or diminishing her independence? She’s fiercely self-sufficient, a quality I admire and do not wish to cage.

Tonight, her resilience against my mother’s thinly veiled barbs solidified my decision. She’s my equal, not a liability to be protected or an asset to be managed. This partnership, offering her a stake in my world, is perhaps the most genuine expression of my feelings—a leap towards vulnerability I never thought I’d take.

Taking the next step terrifies me. Sharing my feelings about her and my past makes every cell in my body scream. If she hasn’t seen through me yet, confessing my love might just reveal the fraud I am. The thought makes me cringe, imagining her reaction when she discovers she's not getting the man everyone admires but rather someone who loves art, sex, and rock and roll. But does she care? Suddenly, my unique ability—my power—chimes in with its perspective.

Can I hope for her to see and accept me as I truly am? Doubts linger because she seemed to embrace my mother's idealized portrayal of a "Full House" TV family life. Does she really see me?

She's appeared in our dreams, a place where our minds and souls intertwine. It’s happened too often to be my imagination . . . Hasn’t it? Is it too much to hope? Sometimes, I awaken, convinced Rayne has visited my dreams, suggesting my power is urging me to share my pain with her. Even if that's just wishful thinking, Rayne's boundless energy and enthusiasm envelop me like a warm hug, offering an escape from my nightmares.

Our connection transcends mere physical intimacy; it's a profound communion of spirits. Voicing such sentiments aloud could easily become a subject of ridicule, not the kind of laughter I'd welcome. The mere thought of Rayne laughing derisively at what she might deem my 'sissy ass thoughts' nearly strangles me with fear. No, she won’t. She’s not like that. I reassure myself, bolstered by the confidence my power lends me, ever her champion. My power overrode my difficulty in expressing my feelings, claiming her and ensuring Rayne knows she belongs to me. Our union the other night was more than mere physicality; it was a profound sharing that led her to expose her vulnerabilities, thereby deepening our bond and underscoring my yearning for her healing presence.

Memories of Rayne's challenging behavior bring unexpected smiles. Protecting her feels like an instinctive duty, yet I question if this drive stems solely from the celestial beings' mandate or my own deep-seated need. Her fearless intervention in a recent altercation at the Manor involving two teens and a knife, oblivious to danger, tested my nerves. Her puzzled reaction to my concern, those wide, chestnut eyes igniting my heart and desire, left me speechless. "I wasn't in any danger. I can sense it." Such a stubborn, fascinating woman.

Revealing my true nature as an asshole, I’ve left her with my mother, abandoning Rayne to navigate my mother’s tempest of righteousness and morality alone. Unlike Savannah, who had aligned with my mother's vision for me, I’d left Rayne standing her ground, her loyalty shining through her defiance. Yet here I am, hiding in the dark, the rhythmic crash of Lake Huron's waves attempting to cleanse my mind of turmoil.

As I stand here, swallowed by darkness, I realize fleeing to the lake's edge was more than escape; it was a retreat into my own fears, away from the one battle I'm terrified of losing—not with my mother, but with Rayne's perception of me. But I no longer want to keep running or hiding, not when I’ve had a glimpse of what might be.

I head back to my mother's house in the wee hours, no closer to a decision but acutely aware that my next steps must include Rayne . . . if she's still willing to speak to me after last night's cowardice.

* * *

Waking to the agricultural report blaring, a brief terror grips me, reminiscent of the months following my attack. Back then, mom had rejected me, and dad, too ill to intervene, passed away in my arms from a major heart attack. I lost my confidant, the one who accepted my sensitive nature. I’d been utterly alone. Now, I fear my mother might have spent the evening painting me as that sensitive little boy to Rayne, potentially altering how she sees me.

"Good morning. What on earth are you listening to?" Rayne's smoky voice cuts through my thoughts, her presence in the next room like a beacon. The sound of the kettle fills the silence, a mundane yet comforting ritual. Could she be making morning tea for us both, or is she about to demand I take her away from this place?

"You slept late." Mom’s chiding ignites a flicker of hope within me. Perhaps Rayne did confront her. "It's the agriculture report. The only thing that gets Jaden up.” She seems to have forgotten I grew up.

The kettle lands on the burner with a definitive clunk. "A hog report to wake Jaden? Now that’s funny.” Rayne's incredulity brings a smile to my face, rare moments of light piercing the habitual chaos. “I’ll tell you one thing, he’s a nicer son than I would be. Teenage me would have killed you by now if you’d tortured me with that thing every morning.” The smell of coffee fills the air. Bless her. She found my mother’s secret treasure. “Where’s the sugar, please?” Rayne asks.

My face isn't used to this much grinning, yet here I am, smiling broadly as I picture Rayne flashing one of her 'reserved-for-morons' smiles at my mother. Not that you'd say such things to their face, of course. My smile widens to the breaking point as her words reverb through my head. That would be shameful and politically incorrect. Rayne's intolerance for stupidity is just one of the many traits we share. As my grin widens, I can almost see the look on my mother's face, utterly clueless about the force of nature she's up against.

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