Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(30)

He loved that I was independent and emotional and that I was “different” from all the other girls.

I, in turn, loved that he didn’t care about his parents’ money and chose welding because he loves to work with metal. I loved the way he didn’t look twice at other girls while I was sitting around with him. I loved the way he’d tell me to invite my friends out with us. I loved the way he couldn’t go a whole night apart from me. He even tried, once. He came down to Miami for a friend’s stag and ended up driving all the way home that same night to curl up in bed with me at five a.m.

I loved the way he chose me in an instant. How he wanted me in his life. He was the only man who seemed willing to commit to forever with me.

I loved the way he loved me.

With a sigh, I tuck the picture in and pull out the creased sheet of paper beneath it, the note that Jared delivered to Lina’s door.

Reese—

I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Caroline and I ran into each other and . . . I still love her. What you and I had will always be special to me. I’ll pay all the fees. Please, just sign the documents so we can all move on.

I’m sorry.

Jared

I never thought that a flimsy sheet of paper could have the power to impale a human being. It came with one of those “do it yourself” online applications for a divorce from the State of Florida and colorful little Post-it tags indicating where I needed to sign.

I knew that Jared didn’t put those there.

I’ve kept this note to remind me of how badly Jared hurt me and how I want nothing more to do with him. And yet, now that he’s here in Miami, now that I’ve had a taste of what it feels like to have his attention again . . . I don’t know that I can just walk away. I certainly can’t stop thinking about it.

I heave a sigh as I check my phone once again. Is it really worth it, though? That Chick-fil-A woman is probably right. Or, at least, she may be right.

It’s been a while since I opened up this box. Digging deeper, I find even older memories. Even more painful ones.

A picture of a little girl with pigtails, her hands stretched as far as they could to reach the handlebars of her daddy’s Harley while she pretended to ride it. I pull that one out and study it intently, just as I’ve done for years, until a light knock on the door startles me. Jack pokes his head in, ducking it slightly as if tentative about my reaction. “How was working with Ben today?”

I can’t help but smile. He’s worried that I’m mad at him for pulling the boss card. And making me work on a Saturday, no less. “Fine. We got through a lot. I told him I’d meet him at the office tomorrow.”

“And he’s been . . . professional?”

I stifle a snort. I know exactly what Jack’s asking. “You don’t have to worry, Jack.” I think that’s all Jack does regarding me.

Worry.

Worry that this new-and-improved Reese he has helped create is only temporary. That it’s only a matter of time before I fall off the law-abiding wagon, so to speak, or he has to bail me out of some jam, or I run off and get married again.

I notice Jack’s shoulders drop as if relieved of a weight. Walking into my room, he reaches for the picture in my hand. “You used to fall asleep with this. I always put it away before your mother found you with it. She would have burned it.”

“Good thing Annabelle was never one to tuck me in, then,” I mumble dryly, though I feel the warmth spreading in my chest over Jack’s admission. I actually never realized that I hadn’t secreted the picture away, myself. Or that Jack had come to check on me at night.

He harrumphs, studying the picture for a minute before handing it back.

“Hey, are you really never going to get remarried, Jack?” I ask, tucking it away and pushing the box under the bed.

“Oh . . .” A deep frown furrows his brow. “I figure twice is enough for me.”

“Is it because of Annabelle? Did she screw you up that bad?”

“It’s because of a lot of things, Reese’s Pieces.” He smiles sadly. “I let go of that hurt a long time ago. Holding on to people who don’t want your love is never healthy.” He heaves a big sigh. “Maybe if I meet the right woman, things will change.”

“Well, you’ve certainly caught Ms. Sexton’s attention,” I tease with a smile, knowing I can get away with it. Jack’s a real easygoing, tolerant guy.

He cringes. “I prefer someone a little more . . . refined.” Despite what her last name may suggest, with a chronic case of black roots and a cigarette always hanging out of her mouth, Ms. Sexton is about as far from the sexy single neighbor as you can get. Divorced twice, the Boston native’s nasally voice makes her accent decidedly unattractive. You can usually find her watering her lawn. She’s the one wearing lime-green spandex leggings, a sports bra, and Crocs. The fact that she has birthed four kids and has an old-school caesarian scar running vertically down her stomach doesn’t dissuade the fifty-year-old from flaunting what she may have had at some point, twenty-five years ago. I’m surprised there haven’t been official complaints from the community. It’s an upper-middle-class neighborhood of sizeable detached homes and landscaped properties.

Jack leans down to place a soft kiss on top of my head. “Good night.”

“’Night, Jack,” I mumble, but then call out, “Jack?”