Page 8 of Make You Love Me
“I’m sure it’s fine, Jo Jo, and temporary, right? You’ll be moving back to New York after I’m self-sufficient, and I’ll go back to Quantico.” I pause, confused why her eyes are glistening. Is she worried about me getting hurt again? Does she not want us to be apart? Is she embarrassed about the apartment? I focus on the last since we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the rest. “Plus, this will feel like a luxury apartment compared to what I’m used to.”
“We’ll see.” With a sniff, she inserts the key into the lock and pushes open the door. “Well, at least it smells better than the last time I was here.”
She rolls me over the creaky hardwood floors to the center of the small living room. I can see the entire apartment from my vantage point. A small galley kitchen with off-white flat cabinet doors trimmed in medium-stained wood. The new white stacked washer and dryer at the end of the counter standing out like aspotlight. The curtainless glass doors Josie mentioned and the courtyard beyond to the left. Two doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom on the right. And not a single piece of furniture.
“At least I came with my own chair,” I joke.
“Don’t.”
“Big city luxury in my mind.”
She rids me and the chair of our belongings and sets them on the floor. “You have more imagination than I thought you did if that’s what you see here.”
“I’m used to wobbly folding tables and sleeping on the floor or on cots that feel more like a bed of rocks.” I hold out the hand that’s not trapped in a sling, and she slides hers into it. “Because you’re here, this will feel like home.”
Her body reacts to thehomecomment before she hides behind a smile. But knowing her as I do, I notice the eye twitch, her muscles tightening ever so slightly, and the pad of her thumb rolling over her fingertips in slow circles. Her stress signals. Regret punches me in the gut for using the word in jest.
We lost everything that represented a traditional home the day our parents died. As if high school wasn’t hard enough, we were dumped into the foster care system before our young minds could process what happened. We were expected to be model students, refrain from causing any disruptions, and go about our lives as if our hearts weren’t ripped from our bodies. From that moment on,homebecame each other.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor in your condition,” she informs me, fully recovered.
But I’m still mentally punching myself for the careless slip. We’ve always protected each other, and in this situation, she’s the vulnerable one. It’s like we’re teenagers again—the last time she changed her life to support me. I need to do better and stop making it harder on her.
“I’ll grab two air mattresses until we can buy some beds,” she continues. “You’ll take the bedroom.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Jordan, I’m not backing down on this.” Her free hand finds her hip as she glares down at me. It’s the stance she takes when she’s in sacrifice-myself-for-others mode. It’s the most stubborn one. So, I try another route.
“But what about the safety of my eyes whenever I want a late-night snack?”
“What are you talking about?”
“All the hot guys you’ll be bringing home and getting to know in the living room.” I wiggle my brow and wait for the joke to settle into place. Punchlines usually register for her well after delivery.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says finally with a huff. “If you didn’t have a concussion, I’d smack you on the back of the head like Dad used to do.”
“Since you can’t retaliate, I’m not shutting up until you take the bedroom.”
“And since I’m in control of your transportation, you’ll go where I take you each night…which will be the bedroom. I win.” With a toss of her hair, she saunters toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Grabbing my phone. The mattresses can’t order themselves.” She shuffles through her bag, pulls out the phone, and starts her search. While she shops, she rambles about what she finds or whatever pops into her head to fill the silence. “When do you want to visit VETS? They’ll take care of all your appointments after we sign up and provide physical therapy, mental health counseling, and anything else you need.”
“Doesn’t matter. When did you want to paint the mural?”
“Crabcakes,” she says with the punctuation of a curse word, warming my sore body like a heating pad. “All my supplies arestill in New York…atRyder’s.” Her eyes circle to the ceiling, then back to her phone.
“Why did you say his name like that?”
“Like what?” she asks, her disdain glaringly evident.
“Like you’re mad at him.” If they’re over, it will be the best news I’ve heard in forever. The rich bastard is such an arrogant tool and not even close to good enough for her. “I thought you two were all in.”
“I was mostly in. He was all the way out and just hadn’t told me yet.”
“What’d he do?” There goes my easily excitable blood pressure.
