Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

15

The week passes without much from Jocelyn.

My calls go unanswered. My texts receive single-word responses, if any at all.

It makes me anxious. Concerns about being discarded nag in my mind. I do everything I can to keep my worries from consuming me.

I manage to finish knitting the elephant for my mom. I play some cards with Rox and Ralph. Instead of getting my transcripts in order for Harvard, like I’m supposed to, I clean out my entire email inbox and spam folders, which takes three hours. I make appointments to view some apartments in Boston. I spend fifty bucks on moisture-wicking athletic socks because of an ad I saw on social media, then spend a few hours trying to figure out how to return them, because why the hell would I spend fifty bucks on socks? I play some guitar. I watch Houseboat. I watch Houseboat again.

I do everything I can to give Jocelyn space. Maybe she was feeling overwhelmed after our weekend at the lake. I get it. It was a lot. She might need time to process.

But by the day of graduation, my patience is shot.

All through commencement and dinner with my parents, a day that should be filled with excitement and pride over my achievements, I can’t stop stressing over Jocelyn. I mean, I should be gassed the fuck up. Today, I graduated undergrad with honors when I literally barely survived high school. But do I feel any of that pride? No. Instead, I keep wondering if I did something wrong to piss Jocelyn off. If she’s cooled on us. The old feelings of inadequacy flood my body until I’m itchy and ready to crawl out of my skin.

Joss sent me one text this morning. A little emoji man wearing a cap and gown followed by a firework emoji. No words. Nothing. I’ve never hated emojis until now. When Mom and Dad leave to head back to Chesterton, I go straight to Jocelyn’s.

I’m surprised I made it as long as I did, to be honest.

The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, but I know she’s home. The kids should be with Deputy Douche Canoe this weekend, and unless she picked up an overnight shift at Harvest View, she should be off work.

I climb out of the car and stalk toward the door, closing the distance in three strides. I knock twice, and the door opens seconds later. Jocelyn stands in the entryway and smiles tightly.

“Hey,” she says, then takes a step to the side, “come in.”

I follow her through the house and into the kitchen, where she sits on one of the stools at the island.

“Congrats,” she says, cutting through the silence with forced brightness. “College graduate, next stop Harvard Medical School. That must feel great, yeah?”

I don’t have the patience for small talk and false niceties.

“What’s goin’ on, Joss?” I ask bluntly, and she takes a deep breath. Those little lines between her eyebrows are back and I grit my teeth. I hate seeing them. “Just fuckin’ tell me.”

“Patrick came to see me on Sunday,” she says slowly. “After you dropped us off.”

“Okay?”

I dropped them off around four in the afternoon. It’s a little weird that Sherriff Shit for Brains would show up that late on a Sunday, but I don’t say anything. The comments Dylan made a few weeks ago— Comes around a lot. Random times. Usually at night—invade my head, and I have to physically bite my tongue.

“Jesse...who is Sandra Huntington?”

Every muscle in my body stiffens, and ice shoots through my veins.

“How do you know that name?” I ask slowly, fighting against the urge to run. To hit something.

“Patrick brought her here—”

“She was here?” I cut her off, my voice rising. “She was here in this house?” I spin around, eyes jumping from each window to the patio doors, looking for...I don’t even know what. A pair of cold brown eyes peering inside? “Joss, she’s fucking nuts.”

“So, it’s true?” she says, and when I swing my attention back to her, she’s stark white and her eyes are double in size.

“What’s true?” I ask.

“That you had an affair.”

The comment stabs right into my chest, and I bark a sardonic laugh.

“Is that what she told you?” I cock my head to the side. “Is that what Mrs. Huntington and your brilliant ex-husband told you? That she and I had an affair?”

She sucks her lip between her teeth and bites down. Instead of talking, she nods.

“What else did they tell you about my life, Joss?” My voice is hard, mocking. Cruel. I’m losing my grip on my control. My thoughts swirling rapidly, half-formed and confusing. Am I defending myself? Is she thinking the worst of me? I can’t tell if I’m more hurt or more angry. Do I feel betrayed? Nervous?

When Joss doesn’t speak, I ask again, “What did they tell you, Jocelyn?”

Her voice is a whisper when she finally speaks, but each word jolts through me as if it were shouted through a megaphone. I have to brace myself, so I don’t flinch.

“That you had an affair. You liked her because she was older. You...you seduced her. She lost her job. She left her husband for you. Lost her kids. And you...you didn’t want her after that.”

“And you believed them?”

“I didn’t,” she rushes out. “But the way you just acted. I thought...”

“You thought what? That I have some sort of mom fetish? An Oedipal complex? That I like to prey on older women?”

She shakes her head no, but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t protest. It guts me, and I clench my fists and breathe slowly through my nose.

“Jocelyn,” I say tightly, “did they tell you when me and Mrs. Huntington had our affair? When did I supposedly seduce her?”

Joss shakes her head and wipes tears from her cheeks.

“You know how I know Sandra Huntington, Joss? She was my freshman year guidance counselor. In high school.”

“No,” she says on a gasp, and more tears fall.