Chapter Thirty-Two

John

* * *

Back to running. Running is good, the painful burn in my lungs and legs pure, uncomplicated. If I run long enough, my mind goes perfectly blank. I love those times. I live for empty thoughts. The second something unwanted tries to push its way to the surface, I run harder, faster. I can do this; I excel at diversion.

But eventually, I have to return home from my run. The sight of that stone staircase leading up to those damn ornately carved-wood doors hurts my chest. Entering my code on the number pad hurts my chest. Even the damn sanitized smell of the elevator hurts my chest. She is everywhere, and I can’t hide at home. So I stay out running as long as I can.

Facts are facts: I can dither no longer. I have to move on. I need out of New York. Out of the U.S.

I’ll go to England. No, fuck that. I’ll go visit Killian in Australia. He’s staying in Scottie’s house; there’s room for me.

The Raconteurs’ “Steady, as She Goes” starts thumping through my earbuds. Usually, I love this song, but music makes my skin crawl right now. I yank the earbuds out as I turn down the street to home. There’s a massive stone pressing down on my chest. I’d worry I’m having a heart attack but that heinous stone has been there since … Well, I’m not going there.

Exhaustion makes my pace wobble, and I nearly stumble by the time I get to the stairs. There’s a guy lounging on the stoop, his long legs sprawled in my way. For a weird, hazy second, I think he might be a hallucination; I’m certainly weak enough to be seeing things, but then he looks up and gives me that supercilious smirk I’ve seen more than half my life, and I know I’m not dreaming.

“You look like shit,” Killian says. To the point as always.

I take the bottle of lemonade he holds out for me and guzzle it down. It’s cold and sweet and gives me a chance to get my brain working again. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I take a breath and then another.

“You’re back.” Obviously.

“Aw …” He smiles. “You noticed.”

“Asshole.” I toss the empty bottle his way and he catches, clearly anticipating the move. Killian and I have always known each other on a level that goes deeper than words or action. He is part of me. Or he was. When I tried, it fractured something between us that did not heal well but thickened and twisted like a keloid scar.

Scarred or not, I’ve missed the guy and have the weird urge to break down right here. The burn behind my lids is so unexpected, I can’t look him in the eye. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Yeah, you do.” Killian stands and dusts his ass off. “You’re ripe.”

It hits me again that Killian is here. And that means Stella is gone. My hand grips the stone balustrade as my knees go weak and pain punches into me. Maybe I am having a heart attack; it hurts badly enough. “When did you get back?”

When did she leave? Why do you care? You told her to go.

“Late last night.” Killian stares at me, deliberating. “Stella called me.”

“What?” It comes out as a croak.

“She said I should be home.”

I jog up the stairs. Killian follows in silence. When we get to our floor, he walks into my apartment.

“Good God, Jax.” He gapes around. “Did you add more antiques since I’ve been gone? How the hell did you manage to turn this modern loft into a stuffy English manor?”

“Talent. Piss off back to your cold, soulless loft if you don’t like it.”

He laughs low and easy. “I’m going to get you a satin smoking jacket to wear around the house.”

“I don’t smoke, but I kind of like the idea of that jacket.” I head toward my room. “Taking a shower now.”

Killian is still in my living room when I return. He doesn’t look pleased, and I’m guessing he’s going to give me a lecture about Stella. God knows I deserve one. But frankly, having Killian on my case right now might make me snap.

I eye him warily. “It’s good to have you back, man, but I’m not in the mood for company right now.”

He nods but then plops his ass down next to me on the couch. “It will only take a minute.”

A dull pounding starts at my temples. “Kills, I can’t talk about her.”

Silence follows, and I find myself glancing his way. Worst of it is, he looks sad.

“I’m not here to talk about her,” he says, thankfully knowing me well enough not to use her name. Killian leans back against the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose before facing me again. “Jax … Man, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Sorry? What the hell is he talking about? Sorry for leaving? I wouldn’t have met Stella if he hadn’t.

You’re not supposed to think about her.

Fuck, I miss her like air.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice as raw as it gets when we’ve been singing all night. “I let you down so fucking badly.”

I can only stare, my pulse pounding, the urge to get the hell out of the room making me twitch.

Killian’s bloodshot eyes hold mine. “When you tried, I was so … It scared the shit out of me.”

I wince, looking away. “I know. I understand. I really do. I just can’t apologize anymore. I—”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m trying to explain.” He swallows convulsively. “I was so fucking angry. You didn’t confide in me. You didn’t tell me what was going on in your head.”

Goddamn, I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to break down, but my sinuses are burning and my throat keeps convulsing. “I couldn’t,” I rasp.

“I know,” he says. “I know, man. And the truth is, I was pissed at myself for missing the signs. For leaving you out there alone.”

Fuck. I’m going to… I press my fingers to my eyes and take a breath. “I’m good at hiding it. Don’t be sorry.”

“But I am,” he cuts in. “I reacted like an asshole. I packed up and ran away with my tail between my legs, feeling sorry for myself when I should have been there for you.”

He did that. He did that.

Rage bubbles up so swiftly, I can’t hold it in. “You left me behind!” The shout echoes in the rafters. “I tried to take my own life, and you left. Like I was a disease you were afraid you might catch.”

Tears well in Killian’s eyes, and the sight is so foreign to me, it turns my stomach. But the rage, the hurt, won’t settle down. “I needed you. I needed my best friend. And you fucking left—”

Killian hauls me into a hug so tight my air cuts off. The hold hurts, and until he’d hugged me, I hadn’t known I needed that too. A deep sob hitches his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He keeps saying it, barely a whisper, as we huddle together crying. He says it until our shaking dies down. I feel exposed, rubbed raw and open. At least on the surface. Inside, I begin to calm. I’m drained, but it doesn’t leave me hollow. It leaves me lighter.

Killian’s big, sweaty hand is on my head, clutching me as he shudders. “Shit, man, the first day I faced you again I hit you…” He trails off with a ragged breath. “Fuck, that was not okay.”

My memory of that day is crystal clear. I hadn’t seen Killian for a year after my attempt, and suddenly there he was—seething, hurt, afraid, and awkward as hell. I’d understood him perfectly in that moment because I felt the same.