Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

“That’s what the camera is for? Roxanne’s advice?” I don’t answer, and he continues, “It’s like a to-do list? A wish list?”

I sigh and meet his eyes. “Yeah, kind of. Just trying to find myself, I guess.”

He nods like he gets it, though I’m not sure how he could, then scans my face. I look away. I can tell he wants to say more. Whether it’s to tease me or to ask me questions, I’m not sure, but the look in his eye tells me he’s not finished with this topic.

I shift my weight and brace myself. I’ve never been good with boundaries. I’ve always been a grin and bear it kind of person. Avoid the confrontation. Go along with whatever, just so it doesn’t get uncomfortable for everyone else.

But that’s how I got to this point, right?

I’ve always let things happen to me, instead of making them happen for myself, and that’s not who I want to be anymore. That’s not the example I want to set for my kids. For June.

So, this time, instead of being passive, I take a deep breath and speak up for myself.

“It’s personal,” I say to the ceiling, then force myself to meet Jesse’s eyes. “I’m not really comfortable talking about it.”

I watch his face, wait for any signs of anger or disappointment, even straighten my spine to better absorb any snide comments. But I’m surprised when he smiles and nods instead.

“Cool,” Jesse says, and his deep voice is genuine. “If you ever do want to talk, I’d love to hear about it.” I blink, and his smile grows at my obvious confusion.

“How old are you?” I blurt, and I wince at my rudeness, but he laughs.

“I turned twenty-three in December,” he answers, then points to his chest. “Sagittarius Sun, Cancer Moon, Virgo Rising.”

Five years. I was right. I study him blatantly. He knows his birth chart, which just makes him that much more fascinating. Then he winks and hooks his thumb over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna head out. See you soon?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Okay.”

He walks past me, close enough that our arms brush, and the goosebumps that prickle my skin make my heart speed up. I turn and follow him to the door. I tell myself it’s so I can lock it behind him and ignore the way my body is drawn to his.

“Thanks again for this, Jesse,” I say as he slips on his shoes and opens the door. “I know I probably sound like a broken record, but I really appreciate your help.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says, slipping his hands in his pockets and leaning on the door frame. “Though I should be thanking you for letting me hang out with your crew. Anytime you need someone to watch them, gimme a call.”

“Thank you,” I say again, then immediately laugh at myself. I cover my face with my hands. “Ugh, just go before I say it again.”

He chuckles, and I’m so glad I’m hiding my face because I don’t want him to see how red my cheeks have gotten.

“Later, Classic,” he says, voice low, and then he turns to walk away.

“Jesse,” I call out, and he spins around. “Why ‘classic’?”

He smirks. “It fits.”

I want to ask what he means, but I can’t for some reason. My voice won’t work, so I stay silent. I just watch him until he gets to the curb and climbs into his car. Then I shut the door and rest my back against it. Like every other encounter we’ve had, I take a moment to play it back in my head. God, he’s just so attractive. And smooth. Jesse is definitely the kind of guy I would have fallen for when I was younger.

I laugh to myself.

When I was younger. As if five years is a lifetime.

Though, I suppose it kind of is, in this case.

Still. If I’d have met him earlier, sooner, I would have crushed hard, and he wouldn’t have given me the time of day. I close my eyes for a few breaths and give myself a few seconds to imagine a different reality, then a loud knock sounds through the house and makes me jump.

Several sharp pounds, made undoubtedly with a closed, impatient fist, rattle the door, and I want to growl in frustration. I unlock the door and whip it open before the knocking wakes the kids.

“Patrick,” I breathe out, “what are you doing here?”

He’s driving his truck and wearing civilian clothes, which fills me with dread. At least when he stops by in uniform, I can trust that he’s sober. When he’s not working, though? I straighten my shoulders.

“Who was that?” he seethes, and I smell the sweetness of whiskey on his breath. His eyes are droopy with drink but sparking with barely-restrained anger, so I step out on the porch and pull the door shut behind me.

“Who was who?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Lyn.” He takes a step closer, but I hold my ground. I’m not letting him in the house when he’s like this. “Who the fuck was that guy who just left? A new boyfriend? You fuckin’ someone else, Lyn?”

“Jesus, Patrick, lower your voice,” I whisper harshly. His voice carries on the wind and slices through the night air. “That was the babysitter.”

He laughs humorlessly. “Your babysitter? You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes, I do. He watched the kids so I could attend my clinicals,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm and emotionless, but his nostrils flare and his jaw clenches at the mention of my nursing program.

“So, you’re just letting anyone watch the kids so you can play at being something you’re not?”

“You knew I needed those clinical hours, Patrick, and you bailed on keeping them because of it,” I say calmly, firmly. I don’t sugarcoat my accusation, but the pride I feel at his shocked expression lasts only half a second before he takes another forceful step forward, causing me to back up against the door.

“Jesus Christ, Lyn,” he scolds, his words sharp enough that I have to fight against the need to curve my shoulders inward. “Listen to yourself. You can’t make your kids a fucking priority?”

“No, that’s not—"

“You care more about this fucking program than your kids.”

“That’s bull and you know it. I do everything f—"

“You’re being a shit mom just like you were a shit wife. You only care about yourself and this fucking bullshit dream.” He spits out the last word like it’s garbage, then moves forward and presses into me, bringing his mouth to my ear. “Maybe I should just take the kids off your hands, then. Maybe that will make you happy. That what you want?”

The threat makes my stomach drop to my knees. It’s not the first time he’s hinted at taking me back to court, and it terrifies me. More than his closeness. More than the smell of alcohol on his breath. More than anything. Because even though I know he doesn’t want full custody of our kids, I can’t be sure he wouldn’t do it just to hurt me. And he does want to hurt me. He wants to break me.

And if he took me back to court, he’d win.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with this school shit anyway,” he whispers into my hair, crooning like a lover. “You couldn’t follow through the last time. You’re just setting yourself up for failure. Fucking give up already before you embarrass yourself.”

I shake my head, eyes clamped shut. “You’re wrong. I could have finished, but—”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He rears back, voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Or is it Jude’s fault? Gonna blame everyone else because you’re not good enough? You’re fucking pathetic, Lyn. Always everyone else’s fault when, really, it’s just that you’re not fucking good enough.”

The cruelty flows off his tongue like venom from a snake bite, and my body reacts in kind. My spine crumples, and I fold into myself almost involuntarily. He angles his head and peers at me in that way I hate, like he wishes I were shorter, so he could truly look down on me. So my stature would reflect the way he wants to make me feel. Small. Weak. Worthless.