One of These Days (Jenlisa) Chapter 23, a misc. books fanfic

Chapter Twenty Three

Jennie

Sound triggers.

They happen a lot, but mostly when I hear certain songs. Especially songs Kai and I both loved. If I listen to a song during a particularly depressing period, then hear it later on down the road, it brings back all the old feelings associated with that song. There are songs I used to love that now I absolutely refuse to listen to. They trigger memories and feelings I don't want to experience again.

My text tone has become one of those sound triggers.

Namely, Lisa's text tone. It's very distinct, a snippet from the demo of our song "Maybe Someday." I assigned it to her after I heard the song for the first time. I'd like to say that sound trigger is a negative one, but I'm not so sure it is. The kiss I experienced with her during the song certainly led to negative feelings of guilt, but the kiss itself still turns my heart into a hot mess just thinking about it. And I think about it a lot. Way more than I should.

In fact, I'm thinking about it right now as the snippet of our song pours from the speakers of my cell phone, indicating that I'm receiving a text.

From Lisa.

I honestly never expected to hear this sound again.

I roll over on my bed and stretch my arm to the nightstand, my now-trembling fingers grasping at my phone. Knowing that I've received a text from her has once again wreaked havoc with my organs, and they've forgotten how to function properly. I pull the phone to my chest and close my eyes, too nervous to read her words.

Beat, beat, pause.

Contract, expand.

Inhale, exhale.

I slowly open my eyes and hold up the phone, then unlock the screen.

Lisa: Are you home?

Am I home?

Why would she care if I were home? She doesn't even know where I live. Besides, she made it pretty clear where her heart's loyalty resided when she told me to move out three weeks ago.

But I am home, and despite my better judgment, I want her to know I'm home. I'm tempted to respond with my address and tell her to come find out for herself whether or not I'm home.

Instead, I go with something safer. Something less telling.

Me: Yes.

I pull the covers off and sit up on the edge of the bed, watching my phone, too afraid even to blink.

Lisa: You're not answering the door. Am I at the wrong apartment?

Oh, God.

I hope she's at the wrong apartment. Or maybe I hope she's at the right apartment. I can't really tell, because I'm happy she's here, but I'm pissed off that she's here.

These conflicting feelings are exhausting.

I stand and run out of my bedroom, straight to my front door. I peer through the peephole, and sure enough, she's at my front door.

Me: You're outside my door, so yeah. Right apartment.

I look out the peephole again after hitting send, and she's standing with her palm flat against the door, staring at her phone. Seeing the pained expression on her face and knowing it derives from the battle her heart is going through makes me want to swing open the door and throw my arms around her. I close my eyes and press my forehead to the door in order to give myself time to think before making any rash decisions. My heart is being pulled toward her, and I can't think of anything I want more right now than to open this door.

However, I also know that opening the door won't do either of us any good. She just broke up with Irene a matter of weeks ago, so if she's here for me, she can turn right around and leave. There's no way anything could work between us when I know she's still heartbroken over someone else. I deserve more than what she can give me right now. I've been through too much this year to let someone screw with my heart like this.

She shouldn't be here.

Lisa: Can I come in?

I turn until my back is pressed against the door. I clutch the phone to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to read her words. I don't want to see her face. Everything about her makes me lose sight of what's important, what's best for me. She isn't what's best for my life right now, especially considering what she's gone through in her own life, and I should walk away from this door and not let her in.

But everything in me wants to let her in.

"Please, Jennie."

The words are almost an inaudible whisper through the other side of the door, but I definitely heard them. Every single part of me heard them. The desperation in her voice, combined with the simple fact that she spoke, completely slays me. I allow my heart to make my decision for me this time as I slowly face the door. I turn the lock and slide the latch loose, then open the door.

I can't describe what it feels like to see her standing in front of me again without using the term terrifying.

Everything about the way she makes me feel is absolutely terrifying. The way my heart wants to be held by her is terrifying. The way my knees seem to forget how to hold me up is terrifying. The way my mouth wants to be claimed by her is terrifying.

I do my best to hide what her presence does to me by turning away from her and walking toward the living room.

I don't know why I'm trying to hide my reaction from her, but isn't that what people do? We try so hard to hide everything we're really feeling from those who probably need to know our true feelings the most. People try to bottle up their emotions, as if it's somehow wrong to have natural reactions to life.

My natural reaction in this moment is to turn and hug her, regardless of the reason she's here. My arms want to be around her, my face wants to be pressed against her chest, my back wants to be cradled by her—yet I'm standing here trying to pretend that's the last thing I need from her.

Why?

I inhale a calming breath, then turn around when I hear her close the front door behind her. I lift my eyes to meet her, and she's standing several feet in front of me, watching me. I can tell by the tightness in her expression that she's doing exactly what I'm doing. She's holding back everything she's feeling for the sake of . . . what?

Pride?

Fear?

The one thing I've always admired about my relationship with Lisa is that we're so honest and real with each other. I've always been able to say exactly what I was thinking, and so has she. I don't like this shift we've made.

I try to smile at her, but I'm not sure if my smile is working right now. I speak to her and enunciate clearly so she can read my lips. "Are you here because you need a flaw?"

She laughs and exhales at the same time, relieved that I'm not angry.

I'm not angry. I've never been mad at her. The decisions she's made during the time she's known me aren't decisions I can hold against her. The only thing I hold against her is the night she kissed me and ruined me for every other kiss I'll ever experience.

I take a seat on the couch and look up at her. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She sighs, and I quickly look away. It's hard enough being in the same room as her right now, but even harder to make eye contact with her. She completes the walk into the living room and sits on the couch next to me.

I debated buying more furniture, but one couch was all I could afford. A love seat at that. I'm not so sure I'm sad about my lack of furniture, though, because her leg is touching my thigh, and the simple contact causes heat to roll through me like a riptide. I look down at our knees when they brush together and realize I'm still wearing the T-shirt I threw on right before I went to bed. I guess I was so shocked by the fact that she said she was at my apartment door that I didn't concern myself with how I looked. I'm in nothing but an oversized cotton T-shirt that falls to my knees, and my hair is more than likely a wreck.

She's in jeans and a gray Sounds of Cedar T-shirt. I would say I feel underdressed, but I'm actually dressed appropriately for what I was doing before she showed up, which was going to bed.

Lisa: I don't know if I'm okay. Are you okay?

I forgot I even asked her a question for a second.

I shrug. I'm sure I will be fine, but I'm not going to lie and tell her I am. I think it's obvious that neither one of us can really be okay with how everything has turned out. I'm not okay with losing Lisa, and Lisa isn't okay with losing Irene.

Me: I'm sorry about Irene. I feel awful. She'll come around, though. Five years is a lot to give up for a misunderstanding.

I hit send and finally look up at her. She reads the text, then eyes me. The concentration in her expression makes the breath catch in my lungs.

Lisa: It wasn't a misunderstanding, Jennie. She understood a little too well.

I read her text several times, wishing she would expand on it. What wasn't a misunderstanding? The reason they broke up? Her feelings for me? Rather than ask her what she means, I cut to the question I want the answer to the most.

Me: Why are you here?

She works her jaw back and forth before responding.

Lisa: Do you want me to leave?

I look at her and slowly shake my head no. Then I pause and shake my head yes. Then I pause again and just shrug. She smiles endearingly, completely understanding my confusion.

Me: I guess whether or not I want you here depends on why you're here. Are you here because you need me to try to help you win back Irene? Are you here because you miss me? Are you here because you want to try to work out some sort of friendship?

Lisa: Would I be wrong if I answered none of the above? I don't know why I'm here. Part of me misses you so much it hurts, while part of me wishes I never even met you to begin with. I guess today is one of the days I was hurting, so I stole Bobby's keys and forced him to give me your address. I didn't think this through or come up with any kind of speech. I just did what my heart needed me to do, which was to see you.

Her brutally honest reply melts my heart and pisses me off all at the same time.

Me: What about tomorrow? What if tomorrow is one of the days you wished you never met me? What am I supposed to do then?

The intensity in her stare is unnerving. Maybe she's trying to gauge if that was an angry response. I'm not sure if it was or not. I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that she doesn't even know why she's here.

She doesn't respond to my text, and it proves one thing: she's having the same internal conflict with herself that I've been having.

She wants to be with me, but she doesn't.

She wants to love me, but she doesn't know if she should.

She wants to see me, but she knows she shouldn't.

She wants to kiss me, but it would hurt just as much as it did the first time she kissed me and had to walk away. I suddenly feel uncomfortable staring at her. We're way too close together on this couch, yet my body is making it very clear to me that it doesn't think we're close enough at all. What it's wishing would happen right now are all the things that aren't.

Lisa looks away and slowly scans my apartment for a few moments, then returns her attention to her phone.

Lisa: I like your place. Good neighborhood. Seems safe.

I almost laugh at her text and the casual conversation she's trying to make, because I know we're no longer in a place for casual conversation. We can't be friends at this point. We also can't be together with so much against us. Casual conversation has no place between us right now, yet I can't bring myself to reply any differently.

Me: I like it here. Thank you for helping me out with the hotel until I could move in.

Lisa: It was the least I could do. Absolutely the least I could do.

Me: I'll pay you back as soon as I get my first paycheck. I got my job back at the campus library, so it should only be another week.

Lisa: Jennie, stop. I don't even want you to offer.

I have no idea what to say in response. This whole situation is awkward and uncomfortable, because we're both dancing around all the things we wish we had the courage to do and say.

I set my phone facedown on the couch. I want her to know that I need a break. I don't like that we aren't being us.

She takes the hint and lays her phone down on the armrest beside her, then sighs heavily as she drops her head against the back of the couch. The silence makes me wish I could experience the world from her perspective for once. I find it almost impossible to put myself in her shoes, though. People with the advantage of hearing take so much for granted, and I've never understood that to the extent that I understand it now. There's nothing being spoken between us, yet I understand by her heavy sigh that she's frustrated with herself. I understand how much she's holding back by the way her breaths are being sharply pulled in.

I suppose her expertise in a silent world gives her an ability to read people, just in different ways. Instead of focusing on the sounds of my breaths, she focuses on the rise and fall of my chest. Rather than listening to quiet sighs, she more than likely watches my eyes, my hands, my posture. Maybe that's why her face is tilted toward mine now, because she wants to see me and get a feel for what's going through my head.

I feel as if she reads me too well. The way she's watching me forces me to try to control every facial expression and every breath. I close my eyes and lean my head back, knowing she's staring, trying to get a sense of where I am.

I also wish I could just turn to her and tell her. I want to tell her how much I've missed her. I want to tell her how much she means to me. I want to tell her how horrible I feel, because before I showed up in her life, everything seemed perfect for her. I want to tell her that even though we both regretted it, that minute we spent kissing was the one minute out of my entire life that I wouldn't trade for the world.

At moments like these, I'm thankful she can't hear me, or there would have been so many things spoken that I would regret.

Instead, there are so many things left unsaid that I wish I had the courage to say.

Lisa's weight shifts on the couch, and my eyes naturally open out of curiosity. She's leaning across the arm of the couch, reaching for something. When she turns back around, she's holding a pen in her hand. She smiles softly, then picks up my arm. She turns her body toward mine and presses the pen to my open palm.

I swallow hard and slowly look up at her face, but she's looking down at my hand as she writes. I could swear I almost see a faint smile flash across her lips. When she's finished, she brings my palm to her mouth and blows softly to dry the ink. Her lips are moist and puckered into a pout, and holy hell, it just got really warm in this apartment. She lowers my hand, and I look down at it.

Just wanted to touch your hand.

I laugh softly. Mostly because her words are so innocent and sweet compared to the things she's written on me in the past. I've been sitting here on this couch with her for ten minutes, wishing she would touch me, and then she goes and admits she was thinking the exact same thing. It's so juvenile, as if we're teenagers. I'm almost embarrassed that it pleases me this much that she's touching me, but I can't recall a time I've ever wanted anything more.

She hasn't released my hand yet, and I'm still looking down at her writing, smiling. I brush my thumb across the back of her hand, and she gasps quietly. The permission I just gave her with that tiny movement seems to have broken some invisible barrier, because she immediately slides her hand over mine and presses our palms together, then intertwines our fingers. The warmth of her hand doesn't come close to the warmth that just shot through my entire body.

God, if just holding hands with her feels this intense, I can't imagine what everything else with her would feel like.

We're both watching our hands now, feeling every bit of the connection pulsating through our palms. She brushes over my thumb and flips our hands over, then takes the pen and presses it to my wrist. She moves the pen slowly up my wrist, drawing in a straight line all the way up my forearm. I don't stop her. I simply watch her. When she reaches the crease in my elbow, she begins to write again. I read each word as she writes it.

Just an excuse to touch you here, too.

Without releasing my hand, she lifts my arm and keeps her eyes focused on mine as she bends forward and blows softly up and down my arm. She presses her lips lightly against her words and kisses them without once breaking eye contact. When her lips meet my arm, I feel a soft flick of her tongue tease my arm for a split second before her mouth closes over my skin.

That might have just made me whimper.

Yep. Pretty sure I just whimpered.

God, I'm so glad she couldn't hear that.

She pulls her lips away from my arm and continues to watch me, gauging my reaction. Her eyes are dark and piercing, and they're focused all over me. On my lips, on my eyes, on my neck, on my hair, on my chest. She can't seem to take me in fast enough.

She presses the pen against my skin again, starting where she left off. She rolls the pen slowly up my arm, watching it intently the whole time. When she reaches the sleeve of my T-shirt, she pushes it up carefully until my shoulder is exposed. She makes a small mark with the pen, then slowly leans over me. My head falls back against the couch when I feel her lips meet my skin. Her breath is close and warm against my shoulder. I'm not even thinking about the fact that she's drawing all over me. That can be washed off later. Right now, I just want her pen to keep going and going until it's completely out of ink.

She pulls away and releases my hand, switching the pen to her other hand. She pulls my sleeve back down over my shoulder, then slips her fingers inside the collar of my T-shirt, tugging it to expose more of my collarbone. She puts the tip of the pen on my shoulder and glances up at me while she proceeds with caution, making her way to my neck. Her expression is heated, and I can tell she's proceeding with caution despite the fact that I know exactly what she wishes were happening right now and where she plans to go with this pen. She doesn't have to verbalize it when her eyes clearly state it for her.

She moves the pen slowly up my neck. I naturally tilt my head to the side, and as soon as I do, I hear a rush of air hiss quietly through her teeth. She comes to a stop just below my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope my heart doesn't explode when she leans in, because it definitely feels as if it could. Her lips press gently against my skin, and I swear the room flips upside down.

Or maybe that was just my heart.

One of my hands slides up her arm and grasps the back of her head, not wanting her to pull away from this spot. Her tongue makes another quick appearance against my neck, but she doesn't let my desperation stall her. She lifts away and looks back down at me. Her eyes are smiling, knowing how crazy she's driving me.

She rolls the pen from the spot below my ear, back down my neck, and around to the dip in the base of my throat. Before kissing the spot she just marked, she grabs me by the waist and lifts me up, sliding me onto her lap.

I grasp her arms and suck in a rush of air the second she pulls me against her. My T-shirt slides up my thighs, and the fact that I'm not wearing anything under it except underwear pretty much guarantees that I've gotten myself into something that's going to be damn hard to pull away from.

Her eyes drop to the base of my throat as she slides a hand up my thigh, over my hip, and all the way up and into my hair. She grasps the back of my head, then pulls my neck against her mouth. This kiss is harder and not at all cautious like the rest of them. I slide my hands into her hair and keep her mouth pressed against my neck.

She works her kisses all the way up my neck until her mouth meets my chin. Our bodies are meshed firmly together, and one of her hands has found my lower back and is keeping me flush against her.

I can't move. I'm literally panting for breath, wondering where in the hell the strong Jennie went. Where's the Jennie who knows this shouldn't be happening?

I'll look for her later. After she finishes with her pen.

She pulls away when her lips come close to my mouth. Our bodies are as close as they can get without her mouth being on mine. She removes her hand from my lower back and brings the pen back around to my throat. When she touches the tip of it to my skin, I gulp, anticipating which direction she's about to go with it.

North or south, north or south. I don't really care.

She begins to scroll upward, but then she stops. She pulls the pen away from my neck and shakes it, then touches it to my neck again. She makes another movement upward with the pen but stops again. She pulls back slightly and frowns at the pen, which I'm assuming has just run out of ink. She looks back at me and tosses the pen over my shoulder. I hear it land on the floor behind me.

Her eyes drop to my lips, which I'm assuming would have been the pen's final destination. We're both breathing heavily, knowing exactly what's about to come next. What we're about to experience again for the second time, knowing how much our first kiss affected us.

I think she's as terrified as I am right now.

I'm leaning all my weight into her, because I've never been this weak. I can't think, I can't move, I can't breathe. I just . . . need.

She brings both hands to my cheeks and looks directly into my eyes.

"Your call," she whispers.

Jesus Christ, that voice.

I stare at her, not sure if I like that she just put the control in my hands. She wants this to be my decision.

It's so much easier having someone else to blame when things go where they shouldn't. I know we shouldn't be putting ourselves into a situation we're only going to regret once it's over. I could put a stop to it right here. I could make it easier by asking her to leave now, rather than when things get even more complicated between us. I could slide off her lap and tell her she shouldn't be here because she hasn't even had time to forgive herself for what happened with Irene. I could tell her to go away and not come back until her heart isn't confused anymore about who it wants.

If that day ever comes.

There are so many things I could and should and need to do, but none of them is what I want to do.

The pressure picks the worst possible time to break me. The worst possible time.

I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel a tear begin to work its way out. It trickles down my cheek, falling slowly toward my jaw. It's the absolutely slowest descent a tear has ever made. I open my eyes, and Lisa is watching it. She's following the wet trail with her eyes, and I can see her jaw growing more tense with every second that passes. I want to reach up and wipe it away, but the last thing I want to do is hide it from her. My tears say a whole lot more about how I'm feeling right now than I'm willing to say in a text.

Maybe I need her to know that this is hurting me.

Maybe I want it to hurt her, too.

When the tear finally curves and disappears under my jaw, she brings her eyes back to mine. I'm surprised by what I see in them.

Her own tears.

Knowing that she's hurting because I'm hurting shouldn't make me want to kiss her, but it absolutely does. She's here because she cares about me. She's here because she misses me. She's here because she needs to feel what we felt in our first kiss again, just as I do. I've wanted that feeling back since the second her mouth left mine and she walked away.

I remove my hands from her shoulders and grab the back of her head, then lean into her, bringing my mouth so close to her that our lips brush.

She grins. "Good call," she whispers.

She closes the space between our mouths, and everything else falls away. The guilt, the worries, the concern over what happens after this kiss ends. It all melts away the second her mouth claims mine. She gently coaxes my lips apart with her tongue, and all the chaos running through my heart and head is eliminated when I feel her warmth inside my mouth.

Kisses like her should come with a warning label. They can't be good for the heart. She runs a hand around to my upper thigh, then slips it beneath the hem of my T-shirt. Her hand glides across my back, and she grips me tightly, then lifts her hips at the same time as she pulls me harder against her.

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

I become weaker and weaker with every rhythmic movement she creates with our bodies. I find whatever parts of her I can hold on to, because I feel as if I'm falling. I grab her shirt and her hair while I moan softly into her mouth. When she feels the sound escape my throat, she quickly pulls away from my mouth and squeezes her eyes shut, breathing heavily. When she opens her eyes again, she's staring at my throat.

She pulls her hand from beneath my shirt, then slowly brings it up to my neck.

Oh, my dear, sweet God.

She wraps her fingers around my neck, gently pressing her palm into the base of my throat while she stares at my mouth. The thought of her wanting to feel what she's doing to me makes my head swarm and the entire room spin. I'm somehow able to glance into her eyes long enough to see them transform from a calm desire to an almost carnal need.

With her other hand still curved around the back of my head, she pulls me to her with more urgency, covering my mouth with her. The second her tongue finds mine again, I give her more moans than she can possibly keep up with.

This is exactly what I've wanted from her. I've wanted her to show up and tell me how much she missed me. I've needed to know that she cares about me, that she wants me. I've needed to feel her mouth on mine again so I could know that the way her first kiss made me feel wasn't just in my head this whole time.

Now that I have it, I'm not sure I'm strong enough for it. I know that the second this ends and she walks out the front door, my heart will die all over again. The more I open up to her, the more I need her. The more I admit to myself that I need her, the more it hurts to know that I still don't exactly have her.

I'm still not convinced that she's here for the right reasons. Even if she is here for the right reasons, it's still wrong timing. Not to mention all the questions still running through my head. I try to push them away, and for brief moments, it works. When her hands graze my cheek or her lips close over mine, I forget all about those questions that I can't seem to run away from. But then she'll pause to catch her breath, and she'll look me in the eye, and all those questions just cram right back into the front of my head, until they're so heavy that they're forcing more tears to want to escape.

I clench her arms when the uncertainty begins to take over. I shake my head and try to push against her. She pulls away from my mouth and sees my doubt building, and she shakes her head to get me to stop analyzing this moment between us. Her eyes are pleading as she strokes my cheek, pulls me flush against her, and tries to kiss me again, but I struggle out of her arms.

"Lisa, no," I say. "I can't."

I'm still shaking my head when her hand grips my wrist. I slide off her lap and keep walking until her fingers fall away from me.

I walk straight to the kitchen sink and dispense soap into my hands, then begin scrubbing the ink off my arm. I reach into a drawer and pull out a rag, then wet it and press it to my neck. Tears are streaming down my cheeks as I try to wash away the reminders of what just happened between us. The reminders are going to make her that much harder to overcome.

Lisa comes up behind me and places her hands on my shoulders. She turns me around to face her. When she sees that I'm crying, her eyes fill with apology, and she pulls the rag from my hand. She brushes the hair off my shoulder and gently rubs my skin, washing away the ink. She looks incredibly guilty for making me cry, but it's not her fault. It's never her fault. It's no one's fault. It's both our faults.

When she's finished rubbing away the ink, she tosses the rag behind me onto the counter, then pulls me against her chest. The comfort that surrounds me makes this even harder. I want this all the time. I want her all the time. I want these tiny snippets of perfection between us to be our constant reality, but that can't happen right now. I completely understand her earlier comment, when she said that there are times she misses me and times she wishes she never met me, because right now, I'm wishing I never set foot out onto my balcony the first time I heard her guitar.

If I never experienced how she could make me feel, then I wouldn't miss it after she's gone.

I wipe my eyes and pull away from her. There's so much we need to discuss, so I walk to the couch, retrieve our phones, and bring hers to her. I move away from her to lean against the other counter while I type, but she grabs my arm and pulls me back. She leans against the bar and pulls my back against her chest, then wraps her arms around me from behind. She kisses the side of my head, then moves her lips to my ear.

"Stay here," she says, wanting me to remain pressed against her.

It's crazy how being held by someone for just a few minutes can forever change how it feels not to be held by her. The second she releases her hold on you, it suddenly feels as if a part of you is missing. I guess she feels it, too, which is why she wants me near her.

Does she feel this way about Irene, too?

Questions like this refuse to leave my mind. Questions like this keep me from believing she could ever be happy with the outcome of her situation, because she lost her in the end. I don't want to be someone's second choice.

I lean my head against her shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, trying my best not to let my mind go there again. However, I know I have to go there if I ever want to find a sense of closure.

Lisa: I wish I could read your mind.

Me: Believe me, I wish you could, too.

She laughs quietly and squeezes me tightly in her arms. She keeps her cheek pressed against my head as she types out another text.

Lisa: We've always been able to say whatever is on our minds. You still have that with me, you know. You can say whatever you need to say, Jennie. That's what I've always loved about us the most.

Why do all the words she says and writes and texts have to pierce my heart?

I inhale a deep breath, then exhale carefully. I open my eyes and look down at my phone, terrified to ask the one question I don't really want the answer to. I ask it anyway, because as much as I don't want to know the answer, I need to know the answer.

Me: If she texted you right now and said she made the wrong choice, would you go? Would you walk out my front door without thinking twice?

My head stills when the rapid rise and fall of her chest comes to a sudden halt.

I can no longer hear her breaths.

Her grip around me loosens slightly.

My heart crumbles.

I don't need to read an answer from her. I don't even need to hear it. I can feel it in every part of her.

It's not as if I were expecting her answer to be any different. She spent five years with her. It's obvious that she loves her. She's never said otherwise.

I was just hoping she was wrong.

I immediately break away from her and walk swiftly toward my bedroom. I want to lock myself inside until she leaves. I don't want her to see what this does to me. I don't want her to see that I love her the same way she loves Irene.

I reach my bedroom and swing open the door. I rush inside and begin to shut the door behind me, but she pushes the door open. She steps into my bedroom and turns me around to face her.

Her eyes are searching mine, desperately trying to get across whatever it is she wishes she could say. She opens her mouth as if she's going to speak, but then she closes it again. She releases my arms, then turns around and runs her hands through her hair. She grips the back of her neck, then kicks my bedroom door shut with a frustrated groan. She leans her forearm into the door and presses her forehead against it. I do nothing but stand still and watch her try to fight the war within herself. The same war I've been fighting.

She remains in the same position while she lifts her phone and responds to my text.

Lisa: That's not a fair question.

Me: Yeah, well, you didn't really put me in a fair situation by showing up here tonight.

She turns until her back is flat against my bedroom door. She brings two frustrated hands to her forehead, then lifts her leg at the knee and kicks the door behind her. Seeing her struggle with who she really wants is more pain than I'm willing to endure. I deserve more than she can give me right now, and her conflict is screwing with my heart. Screwing with my head. Everything with her is just too much.

Me: I want you to leave. I can't be around you anymore. It terrifies me that you're wishing I were her.

She hangs her head and stares at the floor for several moments while I continue to stare at her. She isn't denying that she'd rather be with Irene right now. She isn't making excuses or telling me she could love me more than she loves her.

She's completely quiet . . . because she knows I'm right.

Me: I need you to leave. Please. And if you really care about me, you won't come back.

She slowly turns and faces me. Her eyes lock with mine, and I've never seen more emotions flash through them than in this moment.

"No," she says firmly.

She begins walking toward me, and I begin backing away from her. She's shaking her head pleadingly. She reaches me just as my legs meet my bed, and then she grabs my face between her hands and presses her lips to mine.

I shake my head and push against her chest. She steps away from me and winces, looking even more frustrated with her inability to communicate with me. Her eyes search the room for whatever will help her convince me I'm wrong, but I know nothing can help our situation. She just needs to realize this, too.

She looks down at my bed, then back at me. She grabs my hand and pulls me around to the side of the bed. She places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me down until I'm seated. I have no idea what she's doing, so I don't resist.

Yet.

She continues to lower me until I'm lying with my back flat on the bed. She stands straight up and removes her T-shirt. Before she even has it completely over her head, I'm already attempting to roll off the bed. If she thinks sex will fix our situation, she's not as smart as I thought she was.

"No," she says again when she sees me trying to escape.

The sheer conviction in her voice causes me to freeze, and I fall back against my mattress again. She kneels down on the bed, grabs a pillow, and lays it beside my head. She lies down next to me, and my whole body tenses from her close proximity. She picks up her phone.

Lisa: Listen to me, Jennie.

I stare at the text in anticipation of what she'll type next. When I notice that she's not even texting me a follow-up, I look at her. She shakes her head and pulls my phone from my hands, then tosses it beside her. She takes my hand and places it over her heart.

"Here," she says, patting my hand. "Listen to me here."

My chest tightens when I realize what she wants me to do. She pulls me to her, and I willingly allow it. She gently lowers my head to her heart as she adjusts herself beneath me and helps me get comfortable.

I relax against her chest, finding the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Beat, beat, pause.

It's absolutely beautiful.

The way it sounds is beautiful.

The way it cares is beautiful.

The way it loves is beautiful.

She presses her lips to the top of my head.

I close my eyes . . . and I cry.

Lisa

I hold her against me for so long I'm not even sure if she's awake. I still have so much I want to say to her, but I don't want to move. I love the way she feels when we're wrapped together like this. I'm afraid if I move, she'll come to her senses again and ask me to leave.

It's barely been three weeks since Irene and I broke up. When Jennie asked if I'd take Irene back, I didn't answer, but only because I know she wouldn't believe my answer.

I love Irene, but I honestly don't think Irene and I are best for each other anymore. I know exactly where we went wrong. The beginning of our relationship was romantic to the point where it was almost fictionalized. We were nineteen years old. We barely knew each other. The way we waited for an entire year only built up feelings that weren't based on anything except false hopes and idealized love.

By the time Irene and I were finally able to be together, I think we were more in love with the idea of us, rather than with the actual us. Of course, I loved her. I still love her. But until I met Jennie, I had no idea how much my love for Irene was built up from my desire to swoop in and save her.

Irene was right. I've done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don't need protecting.

When Jennie put me on the spot earlier, I wanted to tell her no, that I wouldn't take Irene back. When she said she was terrified that I was wishing she were Irene, I wanted to grab hold of her and prove to her how I've never, not once, wished I were anywhere else when I'm with her. I wanted to tell her the only regret I have is not realizing sooner which one of them I was better for. Which girl I made more sense with. Which girl I grew to love in a realistic, natural way, not in an idealized sense.

I didn't say anything because I'm terrified she won't understand. I've chosen Irene over her time and time again, and it's my own fault that I've put doubt into Jennie's head. And even though I know that the scenario she's painting could never happen because Irene and I both accept that it's over, I'm not so sure I wouldn't take Irene back. However, my decision wouldn't be because I want to be with Irene more. It wouldn't even be because I love Irene more. But how do I possibly convince Jennie of that when it's hard for me to comprehend?

I don't want Jennie ever to feel like my second choice, when I know in my heart that she's the right choice. The only choice.

I keep my arm around her, and I pick up my phone. She lifts her head and rests her chin on my chest, looking up at me. I hand her back her phone, and she takes it, then turns away from me and presses her ear against my heart again.

Me: Do you want to know why I needed you to listen to me?

She doesn't respond with a text. She just nods her head yes, remaining pressed against my chest. One of her hands is slowly tracing up and down from my waist to my arm. The feel of her hands against my skin is something I never want to become a memory. I lower my left hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair.

Me: It's kind of a long explanation. Do you have a notebook I can write in?

She nods and slides off me. She reaches into her nightstand and takes out a notebook and a pen. I readjust myself against her headboard. She hands me the notebook but doesn't move closer to me. I grab her wrist and part my legs, then motion for her to lie against me while I write. She crawls toward me and wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her ear to my heart again. I put my arms around her and prop the notebook on my knee, resting my cheek on top of her head.

I wish there was an easier way for us to communicate so all the things I have to say to her could be instant. I wish I could look into her eyes and tell her exactly how I feel and what's on my mind, but I can't, and I hate that for us. Instead, I lay my heart out on paper. She remains still against my chest while I take almost fifteen minutes to gather my thoughts and get them all down for her. When I'm finished, I hand her the notebook. She readjusts herself until her back is pressed against my chest. I keep my arms around her and hold her while she reads the letter.

Jennie

I have no idea what to expect from the words she's just written, but as soon as she hands me the paper I begin to soak every sentence up as quickly as my eyes can scan them. The fact that a barrier exists in the way we communicate makes every word I receive from her, in whatever form, something I feel the need to consume as quickly as possible.

I don't know if I'm actually more aware of my own heartbeat than other people are of theirs, but I tend to believe I am. The fact that I can't hear the world around me leaves me to focus more on the world inside me. Bambam told me the only time he's aware of his own heartbeat is when it's quiet and he's being still. That's not the case for me, because it's always quiet in my world. I'm always aware of my heartbeat. Always. I know its pattern. I know its rhythm. I know what makes it speed up and slow down, and I even know when to expect that. Sometimes I feel my heart react before my brain has the chance to. The reactions of my heart have always been something I was able to predict . . . until a few months ago.

The first night you walked out onto your balcony was the first night I noticed the change. It was subtle, but it was there. Just an extra little skip. I brushed it off because I didn't want to think it had anything to do with you. I liked how loyal my heart was to Irene, and I didn't want my loyalty to her to change.

But then, the first time I saw you singing along to one of my songs, it happened again. Only that time, it was more obvious. It would speed up a little faster every time I saw your lips moving. It would start beating in places I never felt my heart beat before. That first night I saw you singing, I had to get up and go inside to finish playing, because I didn't like how you made my heart feel. For the first time, I felt as though I had absolutely no control over it, and that made me feel horrible.

The first time I walked out of my bedroom to find you standing in my apartment, soaking wet from the rain—my God, I didn't know hearts could beat like that. I knew my heart like the back of my hand, and nothing had ever made it react like you did. I put the blankets on the couch for you as quickly as I could, pointed you in the direction of the bathroom, and immediately went back to my bedroom. I'll spare you the details of what I had to do while you were in my shower in order to calm myself down after seeing you up close for the first time.

My physical reaction to you didn't worry me. Physical reactions are normal, and at that point, my heart still belonged to Irene. My heartbeats were all for Irene. They always had been, but the more time I spent with you, the more you started to unintentionally infiltrate and steal some of those heartbeats. I did everything I could to prevent it from happening. For a while, I convinced myself that I was stronger than my heart, which is why I allowed you to stay. I thought what I felt for you was nothing but attraction and that if I let myself have you in my fantasies enough, that would suffice in reality. However, I soon realized that the way I fantasized about you wasn't at all how guys normally fantasize about girls they're attracted to. I didn't imagine myself stealing kisses from you when no one was around. I didn't imagine myself sliding into your bed in the middle of the night and doing to you all the things we both wished I would do. Instead, I was imagining what it would feel like if you fell asleep in my arms. I was imagining what it would feel like to wake up next to you in the morning. I was imagining your smiles and your laughter and even how good it would feel to be able to comfort you when you cried.

The trouble I had gotten myself into became obvious the night I put those headphones in your ears and watched you sing the song we created together. Watching those words pass your lips and knowing I couldn't hear them and feeling how much my heart ached for us in that moment, I knew what was happening was so much more than I could control. My strength was overpowered by my weakness for you. The second my lips touched yours, my heart split completely in two. Half of it belonged to you from that point on. Every other beat of my heart was for you.

I knew I should have asked you to leave that night, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The thought of saying good-bye to you hurt way too much. I had planned on asking you to move out the next day, but once we talked through everything, the ease with which we dealt with our situation gave me more excuses to ignore it. Knowing we were both fighting it gave me hope that I could give back to Irene the part of my heart I had lost to you.

The weekend of Bobby's party was when I realized it was too late. I spent the entire night of the party trying not to watch you. Trying not to be obvious. Trying to keep my attention focused on Irene, where it should have been. However, all the effort and denial in the world couldn't have saved me from what happened the next day. When I walked into your room and sat down beside you on the bed, I felt it.

I felt you give me a piece of your heart.

And Jennie, I wanted it. I wanted your heart more than I've ever wanted anything. The second I reached down and held your hand in mine, it happened. My heart made its choice, and it chose you.

My relationship with Irene was a great one, and I never want to disrespect what I had with her. When I told you I've loved her since the moment I met her and that I'd love her until the moment I die, I was being honest. I have always loved her, I do love her, and I always will love her. She's an incredible person who deserves so much more than what life has handed her, and it pisses me off to this day when I think about it. I would switch my fate with hers in a second if I had that option. Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way. Fate doesn't work that way. So even after I knew I had found in you what I would never find in my relationship with Irene, it still wasn't enough. No matter how much I cared for you or how deep my feelings for you ran, it would have never been enough to get me to leave Irene. If I couldn't change her fate, I was at least going to give her the best damn life I could give her. Even if it meant sacrificing aspects of my own, I would have done it without pause, and I never would have regretted it. Not even for a second.

However, until three weeks ago, I didn't realize that the best life I could give her was a life without me in it. She needed the opposite of what I could offer her, and I know that now. She knows that now. And we accept it.

So when you ask if I would choose her over you, you're presenting a situation that I can't give you a straight answer to. Because yes, at this point, I probably would walk away from you if she asked me to. The majority of my loyalty still lies with her. But if you're asking who I need more? Who I want to be with more? Who my heart craves more? My heart decided that for me a long time ago, Jennie.

When I've read the last word, I pull the notebook against my chest and cry. She slides me off of her until I'm on my back, and she hovers over me, guiding my eyes up to meet her.

"It's you," she says aloud. "My heart . . . wants you."

A sob breaks free from my chest when I hear her words. I immediately grab her shoulders and lift myself up, pressing my lips to the area directly over her heart. I kiss her over and over, silently thanking her for giving me reassurance that I haven't been in this alone.

When I lower my head back to the pillow, she lies beside me, then pulls me against her. She touches my cheek with her hand and slowly leans in to kiss me. Her mouth caresses mine so carefully it feels as if she's holding my heart in her hand and is afraid she might drop it.

As much as I'm convinced she would do everything she could to protect my heart, I'm still too scared to hand it over. I don't want to give it to her until I know it's the only heart she's holding.

• • •

I don't open my eyes, because I don't want her to know I hear her leaving. I felt her kiss me. I felt her slide her arm out from beneath me. I heard her pull her shirt over her head. I heard her search for a pen. I heard her write me a letter, and I heard her place it on the pillow beside me.

I feel her hand as it presses into the mattress beside my head. Her lips meet my forehead before she pulls away and walks out my bedroom door. When I hear the front door shut, I roll onto my side and pull the covers over my head to block out the sunlight. If I didn't have to work today, I'd stay right here in this position and cry myself dry.

I brush my hand across the mattress in search of her letter. When I find it, I pull it under the covers with me and read it.

Jennie,

A few months ago, we thought we had it all figured out. I was with the one girl I thought I would be with forever, and you were with a guy you thought deserved you way more than he did.

Look at us now.

Wanting more than anything to be free to love each other but cursed by bad timing and loyal hearts. We both know where we want to be; we just don't know how to get there. Or when we should get there. I wish things were as easy as they seemed when I was nineteen. We'd grab a calendar and pick a date, and we'd start a countdown until I could show up at your front door and start loving you.

However, I've learned that the heart can't be told when and who and how it should love. The heart does whatever the hell it wants to do. The only thing we can control is whether we give our lives and our minds the chance to catch up to our hearts.

I know that's what you want more than anything. Time to catch up.

As much as I want to stay here and allow this to begin between us, there's something I want from you even more than that. I want you to be with me in the end, and I know that can't happen if I keep trying to rush our beginning. I know exactly why you were hesitant to let me in last night: you aren't ready yet. Maybe I'm not, either. You've always said you wanted time to yourself, and the last thing I want is to start a relationship with you when I've barely given enough respect to the one that just ended with Irene.

I don't know when you'll be ready for me. It might be next month or next year. Whenever it is, just know that I have absolutely no doubt that we can make this work. I know we can. If there are two people in this world capable of finding a way to love each other, it's us.

Lisa

P.S. I spent most of the night watching you sleep, so that's one fantasy I got to check off the list. I also wrote lyrics to an entire song, which was unfortunate for Bambam. I didn't have my guitar, so I forced him to make a rough cut of it at five o'clock this morning so I could leave it with you.

One of these days, I'll play it for you, along with all the other songs I plan to write for you while we're apart. Until then, I'll be waiting patiently.

Just say when.

I fold the letter and pull it against my chest. As much as it hurts to know she's walking away, I also know that I need to let her. I asked for this. We need this. I need this. I need to get myself to a point where I know that we can finally be together without all the doubt running through my head. She's right. My mind needs to catch up to my heart.

I run the back of my hand across my eyes, then open my texts.

Me: Can you come over? I need your help.

Bobby: If this has to do with the fact that I gave Lisa your address last night, I'm sorry. She forced it out of me.

Me: This has nothing to do with that. I need to ask you for a huge favor.

Bobby: Be there when I get off work tonight. Should I bring condoms?

Me: Funny guy.

I close out the text to Bobby and open up the song Lisa just sent me. I reach into my drawer for my headphones, then fall back against my pillow and hit play.

IT'S YOU

Baby, everything you've ever done

Underneath this here sun

It doesn't even matter anymore

Oh, of this I'm sure

'Cause you've taken me

Places I want to be

And you show me

Everything that I could ever

Want to see

You, you know it's

You know it's you

I think about you every single day

Trying to think of something better to say

Maybe hi, how are you