Page 62 of Compassion

Keeping my stare on the process of fastening my seatbelt becomes my primary goal.

“I noticed you wouldn’t look atanybooks related to the subject. And I started thinking about it a little harder only to realize you always change the channel if something comes on or leave the room if the show focuses on it for too long. You don’t even display your dog tags despite the fact you now have a place to.”

“Why would I want another reminder of the horrific shit I’ve seen, done, survived, and am constantly haunted by?”

My eyes lift just in time to see her lips pull to one side on a tiny head bob of comprehension. “It wasn’tallbad, was it? I mean…why cover yourself in tattoos of something awful?”

The innocence in her tone defuses some of the tension in my system. “No, Jaye. It wasn’tallbad. I got a lot of shit out the military I didn’t even know I needed.” She begins to smile prompting me to stop it. “But for everything it gave, it took twice as fucking much.” Her expression falls once more, and a heavy sigh precedes me ending the subject. “Can we let this shit go?” Jaye’s mouth twitches to argue, forcing me to quietly beg, “Please.”

At that, she sweetly nods.

Starts the car.

Plants a hand supportively on my leg once we’re out of the parking lot.

Maybe I’m an asshole for how I handled that shit, but I don’t care. I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t…needto talk about it. And if we talk about it then the chances of a fucking episode arriving increase rather than decrease, which is the wrong goddamn direction. Especially in a new relationship. She doesn’t need to be reminded that I’m damaged goods. That’s the last shit she needs.

Our drive home is thankfully smooth. We sing along to classic rock, and she tells me little stories about bonding with her dad over certain bands. Bringing him up always fills her with happiness yet diving into anything related to her mother, a bit of sadness.

Not really sure why their relationship is so strained, but I get the feeling nothing Jaye does is ever good enough for the woman.

Once we’re home, I announce that I will be unloading our goodies all by myself and for her to get inside where it’s warm. Jaye decides that means to not only change into her pajamas but prep the couch for TV time. Ignoring Mrs. Prescott’s suspicious peeking through her blinds is ten times easier when I know that the woman of my dreams is waiting for me braless in a thin lavender sleep top and matching short shorts.

Our haul is left in the entryway – per my girlfriend’s command – for proper sorting tomorrow, and I don’t bother putting up a fuss about it.

The sleep pants she first gave me are the ones I definitely wear the most and seem to be perfect for our first night on the couch as more than housemates.

More thanfriends.

Fuck. Me. Remind me to take this shit slow. Yeah, we sort of passed go, collected our two hundred dollars, and went straight to buying property on Boardwalk, but I know physically speaking we should pace ourselves. She hasn’t been with anyone since Chris – a little fact she let slip out on accident about two weeks into our situation – while I haven’t been with anyone since pre-physical therapy which means I’ve been celibate even longer than her. I’m way out of fucking practice. And her finding that out on our first official night together isn’t exactly something I want. Understood?

Stretching ourselves out lengthwise to fit side by side lying down on the purple couch requires the removal of the back cushions yet the instant it’s done, getting comfortable under a shared blanket is effortless. Jaye’s soft, curvy, figure curls itself against me so that her ass is pressed to my front, leaving me with no choice but to chomp down on my inner cheek to keep all the groans it conjures up inside. I do my best to focus on the showUnbreakablethat we started binging together a week ago instead of how tiny the shorts are that she’s wearing.

How I can pinpoint exactly where they stop.

Her bare ass starts.

Yeah. Bare ass as in she’s not wearing any fucking panties.

I force myself to zone in on the TV screen rather than how the palm of my hand is resting comfortably on the smooth skin of her stomach with hers lingering on top of it. “All his training looks so fucking real.”

“According to an interview the author did in regard to the show, the guy that plays the main character, actuallydoestrain like an MMA fighter, to stay in shapeandin character.”

Smiling over the trivial bit of information can’t be helped.

“Andthe author worked one on one with each of them toreallydevelop their characters wanting them to be as close to the book as possible.”

“Do you think they are?”

“So. Fucking. Close,” Jaye squeals and wiggles in excitement.

Yeah. Don’t fucking need those wiggles. Not now. Not if my dick is ever going to go down again.

All of a sudden, the worst possible thing begins to happen on the huge screen.

In fucking stereo.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

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