Page 54 of Misadventures in Blue
God, no. Maybe I needed these last twelve years of control. Maybe being an island has served me in the past, but not anymore. Not anymore because I have Jace and I have the knowledge I’ve had all along but somehow still couldn’t believe until now: surviving isn’t living.
And I’d rather be vulnerable with Jace than strong without him.
My breath catches, my heart pounding with this epiphany and my fingers already flexing to grab him back to me, to pull him close and tell him everything.
To tell him I love him and I want to move forward with him, even though, yes, I’m scared.
But when I wipe the tears from my eyes, I see something awful. I see that I’m alone.
Jace is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Jace
My instincts have never failed me.
Not in a war zone, not on the beat. Not even when I took a bullet in a medical building staff room, because taking that bullet meant Cat was safe. Which means I’d do it a thousand times over again if I had to, even knowing how the shooting unraveled into pain and heartbreak. I’d still choose it because keeping her safe is the priority.
No, my instincts have never failed.
Except for right now.
I walk out to my car with fast, jerky strides, desperate to avoid anyone lingering after the ceremony or the usual flow of evening-shift cops dropping off in-custodies or hopping into the report room to catch up on paperwork. I smell like Cat and my uniform is rumpled, and I can’t decide if I need to cry or smash something with my fists. So yeah, avoidance seems like the right strategy.
And as I go, I question myself over and over again. How could I have been so wrong about us? How could my instincts have let me down?
From the moment I first saw that woman, I knew she was mine. Knew we fit together in some important way I didn’t entirely understand yet. And truly, through the next near month we shared, I saw our fit become better and better. She laughed more, played more. She trusted me, shared that keen mind with me, shared moments of genuine, unfiltered joy.
I knew she was good for me in every measurable way. But hell, I thought I was good for her too. I needed to be good for her. Not because of my male ego—well, okay, not only because of my male ego—but because she deserved it. She deserved someone to be good for her. Because it felt wrong to sponge up all that intelligence and determination without giving her something in return.
All of that came crashing down that awful night in the hospital, of course, but there’d been some stubborn part of me that refused to believe she really meant the things she said. This silly, fragile hope that she would confess she’d pushed me away out of fear and wanted to make it right.
Too young, too coarse.
A stupid waste.
Even now, the words rake over an unhealed wound, but even in my pain and shock that night, even through her cruel tone, I heard something almost sad in her voice when she accused me of being reckless.
If you’re that careless with your own life, how the hell can I trust you with my heart?
Yes, I’m young, and yes, I’m probably coarse and reckless and everything else she said—but I know the woman I love. I know she’s afraid and afraid with good reason. I know she’s kept herself safe for a long time by keeping everyone else away.
And I thought tonight when I chased after her…
It doesn’t matter. You were wrong. She didn’t confess to any of that. She didn’t apologize. She simply offered me her body. As if that were any kind of substitute for her heart. So now, here I am, alone and torn up and forced to acknowledge I was wrong about all of it.
She’s not mine, and she never was.
When I get in my car, I’m not even sure where I want to go. My apartment is still haunted by her. By the few odds and ends she left there. By the tea I bought for her and by the memories of her presence. I don’t feel like seeing any of my family or friends, and I don’t really feel like getting a drink at the Dirty Nickel and watching whatever sports thing is on the television there. Every place I can think of feels wrong because every place I can think of is a place without her.
I finally decide to hit the gym. It’s attached to my duty station up north, and I’ve got a change of gym clothes in my locker. Better yet, since it’s only for cops, it’s usually only got one or two other people in it, and I’ll have a chance at some privacy while I try to burn out these feelings.
I try not to let myself think too much as I drive from the main station to my station. I try not to think about Cat’s silence when I laid myself bare for her or about how she didn’t correct me when I told her I knew she didn’t love me like I loved her.
I try not to think about her at all.
And fail miserably.
