Page 4 of Artfully Wild
“So…how was today?” His voice is low, not quiet, but soft in a way that I know is him trying to protect me from my own answer. Like he’s hesitant to ask, but more afraid of what my answer might be.
I sigh and take a long swig of water, avoiding his question as long as I can. “It is how it always is,” I finally answer.
“Yeah, I know…I thought I would ask anyway.” He reaches for the water and I give it to him, fingertips brushing the inside of my wrist when he grabs it. He lingers there for a moment before pulling away and quenching his thirst.
“Yeah, well, she’s still dead. And she’s not coming back. Year three of that. I’m used to it,” I lie, almost wincing at my own words. Truth is, I’m not used to it. I’m not used to my sister being gone and I don’t think I ever will be and I hate that. I hate that she’s gone. I hate that she left and I especially hate that I am stuck here without her.
“You know it’s okay to still be sad, right?” he asks.
“I know, I know.” I’m exasperated by everyone telling me that. Because I do know. But I am so tiredof being sad. “I know all the bullshit. It’s okay to be sad. Grief takes time. It’s a process. I’ve heard it all, Jacob.”
Stretching his lips into a thin, sad smile, he reaches for my hand and squeezes once, twice, before softly stroking his thumb over the top of my hand, silently encouraging me to go on and I do. “I know sometimes the fact that she is still gone hits me in the chest and nothing is going to change that and it just fucking sucks.”
He puts an arm around me and gives my shoulder a slight squeeze. “I know, and it does fucking suck,” he responds softly. “I’m sorry.” No sugarcoating. No trying to put a positive spin on it. He doesn’t try to fix it or change the way I feel. He’s just there. He’s always just there.
Reaching to the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulls out an orange flower, something that he’s done for years. Every few days, or whenever he thinks I might need a bright spot in my day, he brings me a flower and tells me the meaning behind each one. Growing up working in the flower shop with his mom, half of his life has been flowers and he knows more than me.
“A marigold is for positivity. Figured you could use a little bit of that today.”
“Thank you,” is all I can think to say.
I sink into his embrace, running my fingertips along the bumpy corduroy of his jacket. I calm my body with a deep breath, except the scarf he gave me is starting to get itchy. I fidget and he must sense it, because he doesn’t hesitate to grab the scarf, maneuvering it off my neck and back onto his own. My skin can’t handle the feeling of certain fabrics for a longer period of time. It’s taken me years to figure out which clothes work best for me and which I should avoid. Itchy maroon scarf is now added to the list.
Jacob finishes adjusting the scarf and takes another drink of water, looking past the trees before doing a spit take and laughing through a series of coughs. I start patting his back, because that’s usually what people do when they see others choke on water. “Drink too much?” I ask. And now he’s laughing so hard, tears are streaming down his cheeks.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He answers by pointing through the trees and doubling over again, laughing even harder. I turn in the direction his finger is pointing and all I see is a bare ass pressed against the top floor window of my brother’s cabin.
“Thatis something I really didn’t need to see,” I squeal and turn around as fast as my body is physically able. “Whydid you just scar me for life, Jacob?” I yell and shove him the rest of the way over. His body falls to the dirt and snow, and he groans. The kind of groan that comes after a fit of laughter that makes your sides ache like hell.
“I really needed to see the look on your face after seeing your brother’s bare ass in the window. Do you think he knows that window is visible from the top of the trail?”
Jacob sits up and shifts so his back is leaning against thenearest tree, a slight frost coating the bark. “Oh, the poor tourists. Coming on a hike expecting to see nature and instead they get a full view of your naked brother. And Avery I’d imagine. Probably a much better view thanthatthough,” he says, pointing again toward the cabin. His words shouldn’t affect me the way they do, because I know he didn’t mean anything by them other than saying Avery is better looking than Hudson, but when the words leave his lips, I feel a small ache in my chest. A shard of ice impaled into my heart, digging deeper with every second he thinks of any other woman but me. I get it though. I’m not like Avery. And I’m not the textbook definition of a “girly girl” either. That was Sarah. Not me.
I was the weird girl in boy’s clothes because it was the only thing my skin felt okay in. I was mocked and teased because I didn’t like to wear dresses or tight clothing. The fabric never felt right against my skin and it wasn’t until I was an adult and had a few therapy visits that I figured out I have some kind of sensory processing disorder that doesn’t let my skin tolerate certain fabrics. Usually when people hear that diagnosis, they think of blaring lights or blasting music, which can affect me some days, but the one that affects my everyday life is the way my skin reacts to certain things.
I realize I’ve been quiet for longer than is appropriate for a response, so I try to force a laugh at his words and do anything but focus on his gaze. His eyes crinkle at the sides and he tilts his head slightly, before releasing his smile. “I didn’t mean—”
“I knew what you meant, Jacob. It’s fine. I’d be stupid not to notice Avery and her looks,” I wave it off. “She’s gorgeous and if Hudson wouldn’t have gotten her, chances are, I would have tried to swoop in,” I try to joke, but we both know my normal sarcastic air isn’t behind it.
“No way. You’re completely out of her league,” he says, his tone shifting to serious.
I just roll my eyes and snap a picture of Hudson’s window,trying not to focus on the subject matter, before I open our text thread and send it.
You’re leaving smudges on your window.
I pocket my phone and turn to start hiking back even though we didn’t finish the trail. Suddenly, I’m not really in the mood to go further.
CHAPTER THREE
JACOB
Iam so stupid. I get nervous and when I get nervous, I tend to word-vomit and when I do that, things tumble out without any thought. My mouth moves faster than my brain and I can’t help it.
“I just can’t believe I said it, Soph.” I throw my head back in frustration and sigh at the ceiling, rubbing my hands down my face to try to release the stress migraine I feel coming. We have a surgery to do and a migraine is the last thing I need. I’ve always suffered from stress-induced migraines, but lately, they seem to be getting worse in frequency and intensity. They’re to the point where sometimes all I can do is lay in bed. Opening my eyes is even too much of an effort. Once I feel the pain subside a bit, I stop massaging and try to ignore the dull ache enough to focus on the task in front of me. Or the cat, really. At least this one is a simple surgery. One I could do in my sleep, so it won’t take too much out of me. I’ll probably be bedridden the rest of the day and end up with a migraine hangover tomorrow. Fantastic.
“Look J, you can’t help it,” she says, bending over the cat and slowly shaving away the fur so we can easily see the lump weneed to remove. “Your brain quite literally never stops going and Sky knows that. I’m sure she knows you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”
