Fall (VIP 3)

Why did John worry specifically if I had an STD? Was this some bullshit throwback to when he believed I was an escort?

A slow simmer of rage builds and bubbles. But then I think of him slumped in bed, the way he seemed to mentally beat himself up. He’d been hiding something. All through our movie marathon, I’d known. It was there in the tension that kept creeping back up his neck, and in the tightness of his jaw when his attention would flag. Yes, I’d known something was bothering him deeply, but I couldn’t force him to tell me what.

I’m about to text John and ask, I don’t know what, something, anything to give me a hint about what’s going on, when I get a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey, this is Brenna. Doing a little PR damage control. Since you’ve been hanging around Jax, they might come to you for questions. If anyone does, just stay calm, say no comment, and get out of there.

“What the fuck?” What the hell had John done? But I think I know, and it makes my heart plummet.

My fingers fly over the phone, responding to Brenna so she won’t text again.

Will do.

It takes all of two seconds to find the stories. This time, my chest squeezes tight. The way they dig into his personal life makes my skin crawl.

One thing is clear: John lied to me. A lie of omission is still a lie. He kept me in the dark.

“Damn it.” I set my phone down and stare out the wide window wall where the sunlight reflects off the buildings in the distance.

I’ve been lying too. I’m more invested in John that I’d wanted to admit. Maybe I’d have been able to walk away earlier on. Before I’d been sick, before I’d hunted him down and comforted him in return. I can’t do that now.

It scares the crap out of me. They say there are times in your life when you realize everything is about to change. I never believed in that, until now. I’ve never been one for change. But I can’t deny it any longer—John means something to me. I might mean something to him too. Or maybe our relationship is just a distraction for him. I’m not sure. But I do know one thing: when he eventually slips out of my life, it will hurt.

I need to sort this out before I go over there and say something to him. I have no idea what I would even say at this point.

I have no one to talk with about John. It hits me like a punch to the stomach the moment I pick up the phone to dial and realize I don’t know who the hell I’m calling. More to the point, there is no one to call. It hurts. More than I expected it to. I’ve spent years pretending that my life is filled with people and joy, when really I’ve walled myself off in this self-protected tower. I didn’t need anyone to talk to about men and personal worries because I’ve never let myself get attached to anyone or anything.

A lump fills my throat and swells until I have to swallow convulsively. Hurt suffocates, pushes in on the walls and makes the room stuffy. Outside, the city waits for me, a never-ending river of motion and humanity and noise.

But as soon as I get outside, I find myself hesitating. I’m not in the mood to walk and roam.

Ten minutes later, a light, dry voice made rough by decades of smoking cuts through my brooding thoughts. “Don’t you have a terrace in that apartment of yours, my dear?”

Elbow braced on my knee, chin resting in my hand, I glance up from where I sit. “I’m more of a stoop kind of gal,” I say to Mrs. Goldman.

Her red lips pull into a thin but friendly smile. “I grew up in the Lower East Side. Sitting on the stoop and playing around in the fire hydrant spray made up the majority of my childhood.”

“I would have liked to play in a hydrant spray,” I tell her.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “You look like you could use some company.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to pretend that I’m fine. But I can’t make myself do it. I shrug instead, embarrassed that I’m so obvious. But she doesn’t look at me with pity. Her eyes are warm as she nods.

“As much as I’d love to relive my childhood by sitting with you,” she says, “my hips cannot tolerate it. Why don’t you come upstairs with me, and I’ll fix us a nice lunch.”

Again, I want to protest, to tell her not to put herself out on my account, but I find myself clearing my throat and pushing a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldman. I would appreciate that very much.”