Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“I told you once that there was no price I wouldn’t pay to be with you. And I know that I came after you. That I fought for you. For her. And oh, Christ, I meant it. But I was wrong, Jackson. Because I won’t risk that little girl. I don’t know how to do this. I should never have said yes. It was wrong of me. Selfish, even. I was so overwhelmed by your faith in me and by my fears of losing you that I forgot that faith isn’t enough, and that fear is a crappy jumping-off point for anything.”

I stand up, because I have to move. More than that, I have to leave.

“Sweetheart, please. Wait.”

“I can’t. I—I’m sorry, Jackson. I need to go. I need—” But I leave the words hanging. What I need is him. But as I walk toward the door—as I leave my engagement ring on the top of the dresser—I no longer believe that I can have him.

twenty-eight

I spend the rest of Sunday in my apartment watching reruns of How I Met Your Mother, and I don’t even laugh once. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m even watching the show; more likely, my mind is elsewhere.

Monday, Cass calls to check on me and I assure her that I’m fine, which we both know is a big, fat lie. After all, I was a wreck yesterday when I called and told her the whole story, from Ronnie’s nightmare to losing her at the grocery store to me walking out. No way have I gone from complete mess to fine in less than a day.

“I’m coming over after work,” she says. “We’ll talk.”

“No. Please. I just want to be alone. I want—I guess I want to work through it myself.”

I can hear her hesitation over the phone line, and I understand it. Because Cass has been there for almost all the crises of my life. And if she wasn’t there, then Jackson was.

And that, frankly, is why I want to be alone. I need to prove to myself that I can handle this—this intertwining of fear and anger and confusion that is the big ball of emotion that fills my gut shining bright with labels like father and Jackson and Ronnie and parents and choices.

“You know I’ve got your back.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Are you going to need ink?”

I understand that question, too. She’s asking me if I’m going to need her to give me a tattoo—a reminder to give me strength. To help me hold on and get through. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

“Okay.” I hear her sigh. “Whatever you need.”

“I know. I do. Seriously, I’ll be fine.” But then, before she hangs up, I blurt, “Cass!”

“Yeah?”

I start to ask if Jackson has called her, but I bite back the question. I don’t want this reality where I’m not with him, even if I’m still certain that I made the right choice. And hearing that he is worried about me or that he misses me or even that he is pissed as hell at me would be too damn painful. “Never mind.”

There is a long pause, and then, as if she is deliberately honoring my earlier request, she says, “Okay, then. I’ll talk to you later.”

I am not going in to work today. Not only am I not ready to see Jackson in the office, but my dad’s attorney has arranged a visitation. That, however, isn’t until four, which leaves me with a day to fill. And since I don’t want to fill it with my thoughts, I turn again to television solace. Only, reruns of Friends don’t make me laugh, either.

The phone rings and I start to snatch it up, then slow my hand when I realize the single word that is in my head—Jackson.

But it’s not him who is calling. It’s Ethan.

“Hey,” he says. “Have you seen Dad yet?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m going in about an hour. You’re coming up tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to see him at noon. Let him know, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Listen, has Mom called you?”

I frown. “No.” To say that my mother and I have a strained relationship is like saying that black is a dark color. It’s just a flat-out given. I’ve been a non-entity to her for years, and I don’t even know if she’s aware of what happened to me—of what her husband did to her daughter. She pretty much wrote me off, all of her attention going toward my brother, leaving me to basically fend for myself. But considering what I know of my parents, maybe that was best.

“Dammit, I told her she should. I mean, our dad’s in jail. Isn’t that what moms do?”

Not our mom, I think. But all I say is, “So what did she say?”

“She asked me why she should.”

I sigh. I’m not entirely sure why he’s telling me this. God knows nothing has changed.