Page 34 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

He’s frozen, wide-eyed. “Other than the part about you being drunk, nothing you just said makes sense.”

“I sent an email! To Bart! And I need it back. Immediately.Please, Jack.”

He looks toward my empty, turned-over wine bottle on the floor next to my laptop, and then back to me. “So this is not an emergency?”

“It is,” I slur, and get close to him so I can press the heels of my fists against his chest. “Why don’t you understand me?” I’ve never been so frustrated to be drunk in all my life. I need my brain to work right now, and it won’t. I need to be Emily Walker, oldest sister who can handle any problem, but I can’t find her tonight. All I see is this sad, pathetic woman who hurts and hurts and hurts.

Jack softly wraps his hands around my wrists, cradling them. “I’m listening, Emily. What do you need?”

“I need you to fix it.”

“Name it. I’ll do it for you.” He sounds like he means it.

“Roll back time,” I say, and I can’t tell anymore if I’m talking about this or about the man holding my wrists.

His eyes drop to my wobbling lips. He stares—his chest expanding with a deep breath while he holds me with the lightest touch. This alcohol has turned me transparent. He sees all the truth swimming in my veins.Regret. Pain. Loneliness. Helplessness.“Whatever it is, you’re going to be okay. I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

Tears I haven’t let myself shed in years stream down my cheeks. They burn.

“Which way is your closet?” he asks softly, almost like he’s scared to startle me. What I must look like to him to warrant this coddling. I’m broken glass in his hands, and it’s going to be unbearable to remember tomorrow.

I point down the hall. “I don’t think we’re the same size.”

He lets go of me with a five-star smile. I watch his retreating back slip down the hallway and into my room. A second later he emerges, my light pink silk robe clutched in his hand.

“Here, will you put this on? I don’t care what you say, these are not pajamas and I can see your nipples perfectly through your camisole.”

I snort against rock bottom. There’s a nice little pity party down here. “Who cares if you can see my nipples?”No one.My body isn’t that interesting anyway. It certainly hasn’t been enough to make anyone fall in love with me yet. Or to make up for the jagged edges of my personality that men seem to hate.

“I care.” He drapes the silk robe around my shoulders, and I punch my arms through the sleeves, aggravated we’re wasting valuable time because of modesty that I don’t even need.

“You’ve seen a woman’s body. Mine is no different.”

He pauses, a thick crease forming between his brows. “Emily,you arethedifference. I’m realizing that.” What does that even mean? I’m not sober enough for riddles.

Reading my mind, Jack adds, “And you’re drunk. If Sober Emily wants to wear this in front of me, great. But she’s not in the room right now, so I’m looking out for her.” He steers me into the kitchen. “You’re also covered in dirt. And a little blood. Let’s get you cleaned up and then we’ll tackle the problem.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The wine I drank pours itself out of my eyes. “My life is over. O.E.V.E.R.”

“I’m glad you also know the super-secret way to spell ‘over,’ ” he says, but no attempts at humor will pull me out of my misery.

“Ifucked up,Jack. And now it’s only a matter of time until everyone knows.”

He spins me around and leans my hips back against the counter to anchor me before wetting a dishrag. He raises the loose silk sleeve of my robe and, with the warm rag, begins cleaning the dirt from my elbow. “Good. It’s about time you messed up,” he says, before moving to the other side and cleaning me off there too. “It’s been excruciating trying to keep pace with you all these years.”

His touch is tender and attentive and for a second, I forget all about my manuscript and my impending doom. All I can think about is Jackson, in my kitchen, wetting the rag once again with warm water and lowering himself in front of me. His hand wraps around my calf and gently tugs it forward so my leg emerges from the opening of my robe. So much of my skin is on display right now, but he doesn’t look anywhere besides my knee and shin where he’s gently, gently cleaning the dirt and blood away.

Chills cover my body. Does Jack see them? Does he know what the sight of him like this is doing to me? Can he feel me reaching back in time to cover my own damn mouth before I lash out at him over the coffee spill? What would life have been like if I had neverinitiated our war that day? Would we have become friends? Or was fighting always meant to be our destiny?

He moves to the other leg and it’s all I can do not to slip my hand into his thick brownish-blondish hair. Such nice hair. Such nonconfrontational hair. Jack is so kind that he doesn’t even have a true hair color lest he disappoint anyone’s preferences.

Does he ever think about me? Probably not unless it’s to imagine I’m roadkill. And besides he was with Zoe, and she was beyond beautiful. And soft too. She was like Annie and Maddie. I am nothing like any of them.

I’m crying again, unable to find the surface of my emotions and taking on water.

Jack sees me and stands, cups my face to wipe my tears from my cheeks, and then pulls me in tightly to his chest. “Say it out loud, Emily. Let me inside that brain of yours.”

I’m afraid to. He’ll see how messy it is. How dark in some corners. Sometimes it even scares me in here. When I’m not moving, when I’m not busy, when I’m not needed, it’s so, so lonely.

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