Page 92 of Middle Ground
I’m already shaking my head. “I don't know who let you believe that you’re difficult to care about, but I’dlike to have a word with them. Because let me tell you, Meyer, it’s the easiest thing I've ever done."
Tears pool in her eyes. The stopper she put on her emotions after the crash has fully come free now. I resent the pain in her gaze, but it’s much better than the robotic numbness that took over instead.
One tear falls and then another. Soon, a cascade of them is trailing down her cheeks. She presses her face against my chest and finally,finallylets go. Lets go of everything she’s been holding in these past weeks, months—hell, maybe years.
Her catharsis is a living, breathing thing between us. It eats at my resolve, the need to dry her tears. But she needs this release more than I wish I didn’t have to see her cry. So I hold tight to her hand, never wanting to let it go.
Eventually, the tears cease, and then her breathing slows as she slips into sleep. My own eyes feel heavy with exhaustion, but I don’t let myself close them. Not yet. I need to drink her in for a while.
When I first came to Fraisier Creek, I never imagined that I would be here. My feelings for Meyer have shifted so abruptly, I’m not sure when the change even happened. But I do know that hearing her say she was in the hospital had never made me feel so panicked.
And I know, without a doubt, that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. I just worry that won’t be enough.
CHAPTER 32
MEYER
In the morning,I wake up alone.
It isn’t out of the ordinary. Before, I would have said I preferred it that way. It was less complicated. But now I feel nothing but complications, and I thought, foolishly, that things were different now. That we were different.
Tears burn my eyes, still puffy from crying the night before. I push the heels of my hands into them, stifling them. It doesn’t work as well as I want it to.
I let out a frustrated huff. “Enough,” I scold myself. “I refuse to cry over that man.”
That infuriating, thoughtful man. Who left me to wake up alone.
More than anything, over the aches and pains from the accident, my mind hurts from the emotional whiplash. From cleaving my heart open and laying it bare for Jackson to see the inner workings. I thought he could handle it. That he could help stitch me back together.
But maybe I misjudged. Maybe this is too much—Iam too much—for him. Wouldn’t be the first time.
What I said to him last night was true. Caring about meisn’teasy because I don’t let people. Because anything is better than feeling vulnerable like this.
Finally, I muster up the strength to leave my bedroom. I can already tell my hair is a mess, but I’m alone anyway, so what does it matter? I trudge into the bathroom, still not entirely awake, and fumble through my morning routine.
Seeing that stupid toothbrush I lent Jackson the night of the fire, just sitting there beside my own, rips the wound open anew. I don’t even feel a little bit bad when I throw it in the trash.
When I exit the bathroom, Fish darts past with an excited trill. I stand there, confused, until I hear movement in the kitchen. Pippa must be here already. Of anyone, Fish seems to tolerate her the most.
I hope she brought food. Because no way am I cooking this morning.
Rounding the corner from the hallway, I expect to find my best friend, ready to patch up my emotional wounds. What I don’t expect to find is Jackson Vaughan, feeding my cat.
Fish swishes between Jackson’s legs, purring, as he opens the can of cat food. Gone is the feline who hated his guts and in his place is a cat so enamoured by the thought of being fed, he throws away his principles.
Like mother, like son.
Jackson smiles when he spots me. “Morning,” he says. “How did you sleep? Are you in any pain?”
I don’t respond as I cross the room. I shove at his shoulder, showing my frustration, and then I wrap my arms around his middle and burrow my face into his chest. It takes him a moment, but he cautiously slides his arms around my back, holding me to him.
I breathe in his familiar scent. “You left me,” I accuse, voice muffled.
“I did,” he says. “I’m sorry. I wanted to have breakfast ready for when you woke up.”
I tighten my grip on him, fisting the back of his shirt. “Don’t do that again.”
One of his hands trails up my spine and cups the back of my head. The way he holds me, like I’m strong and delicate all at once, is nearly my undoing.
