Sinful Like Us (Like Us 5)

“That was my plan,” I tell her stiffly. “Except you’re not a part of it.” I hold out my hand for the flashlight.

She doesn’t move.

“Jane, your shoes.”

She glances at her leopard-print ballet flats. Our boots are back at the house, still drying from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Only difference is that I had an extra pair.

Jane sighs at the sight of her shoes. “And here I thought you were being over-prepared by bringing two pairs of the same boots to a week-long trip.” She brushes a strand away from her eyes. “My mom would call you intuitive.”

I shake my head. “It’s just a habit. I’m a size 15 shoe. I can’t run to the store if anything happens to my boots.” I stop and then push myself to say more. “As soon as I started making good money in security, the first thing I bought was an extra set of shoes for each that I own.”

“I love how practical you are.” She flushes immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped.” Her eyes are reddened from crying earlier. “Which, I suppose, is why they call it a slip of the tongue. And I’ll just stop talking…”

I want to tell her to never stop.

I want to tell her that I could listen to her forever.

We’re broken up.

I fight between being a pushy asshole and giving her space that she needs—and I land over on respectful ground.

Give her space.

I keep my mouth closed.

She passes me the flashlight, the plastic thudding into my palm.

“You’re okay staying here?” I ask, just to confirm

She nods. “We don’t need to have another problem to deal with, and me getting frostbite on my toes would surely fall into that category.”

I take a good look at her—head to toe—one last time before I grab my jacket from the backseat and leave.

Brittle air and freezing winds bite my exposed skin and burn my eyes. I tug on my gloves. No time to waste, I bend down and clear snow off the exhaust pipe.

And then I stand and try to wrench open the iced trunk. I forgot to unlock it.

I step back, wind whipping my hair and snowflakes wetting my cheeks. My lungs burn from the cold, breath visible in the dark, and I pull my jacket higher, covering my mouth.

The trunk pops.

Suddenly. Without me doing jack shit.

Jane.

I almost smile again.

And then I remember we’re not dating anymore. Don’t think about it. I reach into the trunk and fumble through the bags and consolidate some of the items into two.

When I shut the trunk, my stomach sinks at what I see.

Jane is outside of the car. Or at least half of her is. She leans out the driver’s side window and ties her purple scarf to the side-mirror.

In case we get buried under snow.

Her body is exposed to the elements, flurries kissing her brown hair and wetting the strands.

I’m about to help, but she’s so quick. In a blink, she’s back inside the car, window rolling up. Good job, honey. I want to tell her those words, but somehow I know that staying in the blistering cold might be more comfortable than sharing a cramped car with her all night long.

We’re not together anymore.

She made that clear.

I double-check the exhaust pipe one more time before climbing into the backseat. Some food and supplies now accessible, I tear off my gloves and stick them in a seat pocket.

Jane is still in the driver’s side, reading the time off her wristwatch. “We should turn off the car in a couple minutes to preserve battery. And only turn it back on every two or four hours after that. I’ve also cracked this window about a half-inch to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning. Just in case snow covers the exhaust pipe while we’re asleep.”

I won’t be going to sleep tonight, but I don’t tell her that. “Looks like we’re all squared away.” I lean back, but my body is a cement block. “We should do four-hour increments, not every two-hours.” I’m not taking any chances.

If we can dig the car out tomorrow morning, we might be able to drive. But if the car dies because we fucked the battery, then we’ve lost that opportunity. Suffering the cold tonight in favor of better odds tomorrow—that’s the plan.

She inhales a deeper breath and angles her head, watching me unlace my boots and take my feet out of them. Her eyes feel like hot lasers on me, scorching each inch of flesh. I shrug off my jacket, damp from the snow, and I stuff it behind my head in the gap between the back window and seat.

Silence.

It eats around us. Painfully, uncomfortably. She’s the only person who could make me despise the quiet. Before her, it never really bothered me. I craved it. Pined for it. Now silence is too loud, too blistering, and I’m begging for her voice to deaden it.

I rub at my lips, frustration building. Not at Jane, but at this situation. I didn’t want to do this here where there’s not an exit for her. Where she can’t run away into another room if she wants.

But I can’t wait.

I can’t spend the next however-long in this fucking cramped car with nothing but the sound of pelting snow and howling winds.

I just fucking can’t.

“Jane,” I say her name a little too loud. My ears ring. “We should talk.”

She hesitates for a long moment like she’s trapped in her brain. And then she says, “I agree.” She ties her frizzed hair to the side. “Give me a moment.” She shuts off the car and drops the keys in the cup holder. I watch as she crawls over the middle console.

I shift towards the door, giving her room.

Now in the backseat with me, we’re staring at each other head-on.

“Ready?” I ask.

Her gaze dips down to my crotch. She blushes and raises her blues back to my face. “I didn’t mean to look at your dick. It was involuntary. You usually ask that during sex. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about us having sex right now.” Her words come out rushed and she touches her temple, eyes squeezed closed. “I am so incredibly sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” I wonder because she’s losing me. I’ve been lost by her verbal derailments before, but this is different. It feels heavier.

“Talk to an ex-boyfriend.”

I don’t blink.

This is worse than I thought. She’s already filed me under the ex-boyfriend category. I should have prepared for this. She’s the type of person that will slice you open but immediately cauterize the wound.

By breaking up with me, she thinks she’s protecting me from herself.

But I don’t want her protection.

“I’m your ex-boyfriend,” I say bluntly, gauging her reaction.

Jane swallows hard, eyes bloodshot, and she opens her mouth but closes it quickly. Even lost for words, she doesn’t break my gaze. We hold it, and somehow the contact feels even more powerful than a single, brief touch.

I continue, my voice never wavering. “To be clear, you broke up with me because you feel like you’re not treating me well.”

“Precisely.” She places her hands on her knees, gripping them tight. “You don’t deserve to be pulled in and then pushed away by anyone. And I can’t promise I won’t keep doing it. My head is a jumbled mess.”

I run a rough hand through my hair. “Most people don’t have thousands of strangers bearing down on them with their shit opinions. Acting like they have a say in your life and know who you are—I understand if that’s fucking with your head. It’d drive anyone insane.”

She breathes in sharply. “Just…wait for a second. It’s…” She shakes her head, blinking. “It’s far too hot in here.”

It’s not that hot.

Really, with no heat in the car, the chill starts to creep in. The window next to me is like a block of ice.

She hurriedly tugs off her fuzzy sweater, her elbow catching the sleeve. I’m about to help, out of instinct, but she frees herself. Brown hair strewn in every direction, the elastic

tie lost, she straightens her pink-and-yellow striped blouse. Her freckled cheeks are rosy-red, maybe partly from the cold.

She’s beautiful.

One readying breath later, her eyes land back on mine. “What you just said—it’s the problem.”

I don’t get it. “Why?” I ask. “Because I’m wrong?”

“Because you’re right.” She fists her crumpled sweater, balled in her hands. “Because you’re making me feel better, and that’s the issue, Thatcher. You are helping me when everyone says I should be helping myself. These aren’t horrible comments about my weight or appearance or upbringing. They’re attacking my independence…and for me, that’s…” Tears well up in her eyes.

“It’s your identity,” I finish for her, understanding fully now. Complete realization washes over me like a tidal wave. “And you feel like you’re losing it to me.”

Which is why she’s been pushing me away.

Pain twists her face as she nods. “I’ve never had to rely on a man for emotional support…I’ve never wanted that. But I find myself wanting your reassurance, your help, your everything. It terrifies me to know that want inside of me could turn to need, and there are moments I feel myself suffocating under the weight of that fear.”

My chest constricts.

I won’t lie to Jane. “I can’t promise that your fear won’t come true,” I tell her.

A tear rolls down her cheek.