Page 13 of Make You Love Me
Jordan:when can I see u?
Something in my stomach flutters as I stare at the question. I don’t know if I can keep up this charade in person. It’s one thing to text lies, it’s another to say them to his face. To see his reaction to me and the promises my presence makes when I have no intention of following through.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hurt him again and myself in the process. I don’t want to touch him and feel his love, knowing how it will end.
But still I answer…
Me:Soon.
He doesn’t respond. I stare at the phone, envisioning him hunched over and unconscious in his wheelchair, and all I can think is I hope he’s not alone. I hope he’s safe.
Chapter 4
Nora
I’ve been trying to avoid the subject of your reincarnated relationship with Jordan, but it’s obvious your attention is there…as it should be,” Sydney says, but I’m barely listening. This lunch is turning into another situation I don’t want to endure now that Jordan and my fake girlfriend status has entered the conversation. Yet, it’s not as if it hasn’t been constantly weighing on my mind.
Like the best friend she is, Sydney took me to lunch to give me an opportunity to talk about it.
“When are you going to see him?” she asks carefully.
“When I’m forced to.”
“Delaying it is not solving anything.”
“Sure, it is. The longer I wait, the more likely he’ll remember, and this whole damn ordeal will end.” I take a sip of water because my throat feels like I ate fresh-off-the-skillet fajitas instead of a cool salad. “He can go back to hating me, and I can go about my life as if none of this ever happened.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want out of this second chance?”
My answer is a solid, you-know-me-and-don’t-be-ridiculous glare. Plus, responding would only dignify a question that never should have been asked.
“Fine. I’ll tuck that away for another time.”
“Or never.”
“There will come a time when this conversation ends differently. I’ll just keep my comments to myself until—Hey, is that Josie?”
My eyes follow where she’s pointing through the wide front windows of the restaurant, and I see Josie carrying four too many grocery bags. More like she’s dropping four grocery bags. Cans and apples roll across the sidewalk. Boxes tumble out of flimsy, overstuffed plastic bags. As her head drops back in exasperation, I get what feels like a steeled-toed boot to the shin.
“Go help her,” Sydney says when I don’t jump up with eager excitement. “It will do you both good to get to know each other.”
“Syd—”
“Go!” Shenudgesme with her hard-ass boot again and stupid me doesn’t dodge it despite knowing it was coming.
With a long exhale, I slide to the edge of the booth, rubbing my sore leg under my jeans before standing. “I hate you.”
“Love you, too,” she sing-songs as I storm out of the deli. This is our regular go-to lunch spot for escaping the hustle at VETS. What I wouldn’t give to escape the uncomfortable confrontation I’m about to thrust my stupid self into against my better judgment.
“Need a hand?” I hear myself ask, but it sounds hollow, like an unbalanced voiceover. Like someone else is hastily covering up what I really want to say with what I should say.
“That would be—” When she sees it’s me asking, her tone and demeanor switch from friendly appreciation to stubborn refusal. “I’ve got it.”
“Come on, Josie. Let me help by giving you a ride. How were you going to carry this back to your apartment?”
“It’s not that far, and if the bags hadn’t ripped…”
“Jordan’s not alone, is he?”
