The Man With Few Words
"If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well." –Proverb
Chapter Twelve
January Jansen was missing when Jacob Black woke up.
He is used to this. She's always up before he is but he's always the one who trudges off to bed hours before she does. He thinks she doesn't sleep. Actually, he's pretty sure that she doesn't. And the few times he's woken up to her presence, it's already deep into the night when there's no longer anything on TV and the sky is just a looming, velvet black.
She always looks sleepy to him, even though she claims she isn't so. The way her sloppy black hair tumbled in a messy, loopy way he's getting way too used to. Or how pale she is compared to the pictures he saw of her back in North Carolina or how much thinner; it was as if somebody had tossed January into the dryer, bleaching her several shades lighter and shrinking her already delicate frame. Janie would sit on the couch or sometimes stare out the window and she'd look like she was ready to fall asleep but then she would immediately dive for her cigarettes or some coffee or a pint of ice cream.
Jacob knows that she didn't have a problem sleeping. He knows that she's just afraid of what happens during the process. He knows how she just doesn't want to dream.
So he lets it go on. Who is he to tell her to come to bed? Janie has never forced him to tell her anything nor has she tried to control him. He's just returning the favor. But that doesn't stop his chest from throbbing whenever he wakes up to see that she's sitting in the exact same spot he left her. Usually it's by the window overlooking the backyard. She's perched on the windowsill with her endless, spidery legs curled all around her, her forehead against the glass pane. All around her would be crushed cans of Red Bull and empty cigarette packs.
He goes through the same thing with her almost every morning. He'd rub the back of his neck and sigh, "What are you doing, Janie?"
January turns so slowly that the motion seems almost mechanical. Jacob notes that there are deep, shadowy indentations on her temples that wasn't there before. Her normally silvery eyes are charcoal and smoky; dazed. She blinks rapidly a few times, valiantly attempting to clear the growing fog in her head. She crushes the empty bottle in her hands. Her fingers are trembling but her voice is steady and as clear as bell chimes. "Watching the grass grow. What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're suicidal." He remarks back bluntly, leaning against the archway to the living room. Pushing his thick matted locks back, "You didn't come to bed last night."
She dismisses the issue, "I'm not suicidal. I just couldn't sleep." Turning back to the backyard and fumbling for the lighter resting near her ankle, she shrugs nonchalantly, "I like the sound of rain. I don't mind spending the night with it."
"You can't keep doing this." He tells her firmly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms. He wants to say more. He wants to gather her into his arms and convince her that she doesn't have to do this to herself. That it's all going to pass eventually. He wishes he could promise to make all the pain goes away. But he can't. Because he's going through the same thing himself. And because the person she wants to hear all these promises from...that person isn't him. He wants to be the one to reassure her. Yet, "Don't, Janie," is all he can manage at the moment.
She burns her wide dilated eyes at him, then as if they itched, she brought her hand up to rub them, only to freeze just millimeters away, resorting to pinch the bridge of her nose instead. She's been doing that a lot and it makes him wonder if she wears contacts or if it's just one of her nonsensical habits. She settles for massaging her temples, her fingers sinking into the ghostly hollows there as if imprinted into that exact shape.
"I'll try some sleeping pills tonight." She tries to appease him before promptly fleeing out the door for another vigorous round of chain-smoking.
January always seems to have plenty of excuses of why she can't sleep. She can't sleep when it's raining. She can't sleep if the room is even the slightest bit chill—which isn't a problem now that Jacob's moved in. She especially can't sleep if there's even a sliver of light in the room. Other times, when she indulges him in his requests, she would lay in bed and shift and toss restlessly the entire time. Or at least until Jacob would nudge his elbow gently into her side and sluggishly tell her to go read a book or something.
Then when she exits, when she thought he had fallen back into his heavy slumber, she'd hiss in pain and clutch her scarred leg to her chest. When she thinks he can't hear, she groans and bangs the back of her head against the wall. When she thinks he can't see, she tosses back a half bottle of aspirin. She thinks he doesn't know—but he knows all about how on stormy days, she waits for him to go to bed, then rips off her stocking and sticks her aching calf in a bucket of ice.
One night, there had been a mysterious call. Jacob had been exhausted because he had been charged with the graveyard shift earlier that morning, so he crashed into bed almost immediately after pizza with Janie. It couldn't have been more than an hour when a persistent ringing echoed in his ear and sent his senses into overdrive. Jacob isn't one to just pick up Janie's phone calls because that would imply a relationship more personal than the one he's sharing with her, but he had thought his head was going to explode. He was drowsy and angry so when he heard the soft, surprised boyish voice over the phone, he didn't think much of it. He had handed it off to January, who clicked it off almost as soon as she received it.
"Who was that?" He demands, annoyed that he made all this effort for nothing.
January turns up the volume on the TV, "Peter." She replies simply.
Irritated, "How do you know it's even him?"
She blinks her owl-gray eyes, unfazed with his annoyance or attitude. "I just know." She had answered mysteriously.
She didn't sleep that night either.
Jacob Black couldn't find January Jansen after he woke up. Usually, he can hear humming or fumbling or the television going on but the house is oddly silent today. He props himself wearily onto his elbows, scrubbing a hand over his face. For a partial second, he considers getting out of bed and looking for her but then he just flops restlessly back onto the bed.
Janie'll be fine. He, on the other hand, has that stupid bonfire he needs to get to tonight. The mere thought gives him a headache. Surrounded by all the heat and the chattering—Jacob has a migraine.
The front door smashed open. Jacob jolts, scrambling to press his back against the bedframe. The front door slams shut. Heat floods his veins, his muscles are crawling below his skin. There's sound of furniture being tossed around and bumped into.
First thought that crosses Jacob's mind: OhDearGod. FuckJared, he must've told and now Sam's here to snaphishead off. Oh God, he has to run. Sam's going to kill him. Oh no, not on Janie's carpet! It was a long thought. But a singular, flowing stream of consciousness nonetheless.
But then there's the light, uneven pattering of footsteps followed by the floral scent of gardenias before January Jansen finally poked her tousled raven head into the room. She's wrestling with her boot, struggling to toss it off, casting her awkward colored scarf to one side, and tugging a wooly hat off her forehead. The elastic left ribbed marks against her forehead, which she tries to scrub off.
She's absolutely glowing. Her snowy skin, usually ghastly pale, is flushed with red. He can feel that she's about a whole degree warmer than she usually is. Her charcoal eyes had almost a feverish gleam to it, the glitter of her flashing beam holding a maniacal edge. She jumped onto the bed and flings the covers off him. For a moment there, he thought he was going to be sexually harassed and widened his dark gaze marginally in surprise, prying her flailing limbs off his side in panic.
"W-wha?" He stutters, eventually conquered with Janie sitting cross-legged on his stomach and her palms pressed eagerly up against his chest. He almost swats her away again until he realized that her hands were cold and that she was just trying to use him as a radiator. Annoyed, but not as bewildered, he lets her. He scowls though, complaining throatily, "—fucking scared me to death."
January is waving something in front of his face. A little green paper, too fast for him to catch the texts, "I got a job!" She cries triumphantly. She's throwing facts at him rapid-speed, "I saw that they were hiring at that dance studio up in Forks. They need an instructor and I figured that I could do it. Not like I can really go professional with—you know, but my doctor had said that if I take it easy, I could handle moderate exercise. Isn't this exciting, Jay-cub?" She's basically squatting on his chest, her neck extended forward as if seeking his approval.
He shakes his head, making a move to sit up, but that didn't turn out to be such a good idea as Janie's lithe body slid down south and landed somewhere that made his eyes go cross. He lays back down, breathing deeply, "You got a job?!" It was hard to sound incredulous when he's focusing on burning a hole into the ceiling. "Wha—why?"
January complains, "Some of us have to make a living, you know." He scrunches his face. She gives him a pointed stare, scolding, "You're just jealous because I can find a job and you can't."
"I can find a job anytime I want!" He scoffs childishly, puckering his brows together. Old Man Ben at the mechanic store was practically begging him to work at the Rest Shop, he'll have her know! "I just don't have time for one."
January refuses to listen to him explain. Instead, she goes on to rant about how hard the interview was and just how much they tested her before she dazzled them with her amazing charm. Then she starts jibing about how he's too lazy and how he never does anything except for sleep and how she wonders what he was like before he cracked up.
He doesn't like the way she talks about him. Cracked up. As if he couldn't be mended. But Janie was so goddamn happy, he found that he didn't mind much. He doesn't mind as long as if feels as if Janie's the one to fix him.
"Janie, we're going to be late!" Jacob Black scowled impatiently at the fireplace. He's standing in the middle of the living room with January flying all over the place for shoes and shirts and purses. "Just put something on and let's get out of here."
January's hands are buried deep in her long, tangled locks as she shimmied around in a lithe, svelte sweaterdress that matched her haunting eyes. "...Can't find my—where are, did I put them? Wh..." If Jacob didn't know any better, he'd say she was nervous. But he does know better. He knows she's always like this, frantic and sloppy. Janie always appears to be chaotic, all her colors flying around and vivid phrases, but on the inside...well—he can never be too sure, he guesses. She tugs on her worn red boots, skinny fingers threading grassy green ribbons through her raven tress.
Jacob blinks. "You look like a Christmas tree." He states bluntly.
He had meant that the green in her ebony waves was the color of Christmas morning. The color of evergreen trees that he remembers as a child when mom thought he still believed in Santa Claus. He had meant that January reminds him of Christmas morning.
But Janie, being Janie, didn't need any explanation. She tugged the worn leather of her shoe up her scarred calf gently, murmuring, "Thank you." Then she touched her hair, looking slightly worried. He lets his thumb graze her wrist, lips twitching upwards reassuringly. She beams right back.
He takes her out the door and shows her his Rabbit. It's such a quaint little thing that probably hasn't seen rain or shine for years. He couldn't have let the dirty Washington rain spoil the polished crimson exterior when his own scruffy hide could soak it in. He can't remember the last time he let someone into his car.
They would get it dirty. They would get it wet. They will scratch the leather.
There were a hundred million reasons why, but Jacob Black could not figure out—not for the life of him, how January Jansen somehow managed to convince him to let her drive. He was reluctant to give her the keys at first, as all men are, but then she burned those silvery eyes into his darker ones and he noticed with a compelling fascination that her gaze seems shades lighter than they were this morning. In that hesitant pause of silence, January had breezed past him, snatched the keys away from him and launched herself into the driver's seat.
Jacob follows, dazed as well as a little bewildered, then snuck a peek at Janie's eyes. He wouldn't even call them gray anymore. She's lost that stormy, charcoal texture in her irises. Instead, it looks metallic...or glossy, more lily-white than slate gray.
He frowns, demanding, "Do you wear contacts?"
January stares at him, then blinks her wide-eyes worriedly. Her hand flies up in that familiar motion, going to rub them as if. But once again, she stops just millimeters away. She taps the space between her arched brows, exhales deeply, then pushes her hair back. "No." She answers as if it were something he should already know.
Then she starts the car, working the gearshifts roughly. Her small hands keep a loose grip on the wheel, but an iron grip on the manual stick. All her timings are off when she stomps on the clutch pedal so that Jacob's precious Rabbit moved in a spastic, jerky manner. At the cross intersection on their way down to the location of the bonfire, January didn't even bother with the gears as she rushed past a red light without a single glance backwards.
Jacob supposes he would've been agitated if he weren't so sublimely confused by the color of her eyes in the first place. When he pointed out her traffic violation, she only shrugged it off, claiming that no one was there to witness anything anyways. But Jacob can't help but think it's something different. Something too nonchalant in the way she says it, as if she's not only trying to reassure him, but reassure herself as well.
It was the blank look she's wearing that scared him. As if red no longer means anything to her.
At the bonfire, they're singing Happy Birthday to Claire. Quil's cheeks are rosy with happiness as he carried the birthday girl around and sported a tiara atop his shortly cropped hair. Emily is sitting on a fallen branch with Sam's arms around her. Jared is roasting Kim a hot dog. Leah pines for Sam in a corner like she always does, hunting for firewood then angrily splitting it open with an axe. Even Seth is there with a date—a girl from his high school, and he's introducing her to Embry, who smiles politely before going back to digging seashells out of the sand.
When Jacob approached, it's Embry who spies him first. He stands, brushes his hands against the fabric of his jeans, then jogs forward. Jacob can feel himself shrinking back, can feel his stoic mask slipping back on, as if all the muscles in his body are folding in. He halts in his step; January's fingers still loosely tangled with his.
He drops all contact with her at once.
"Hey, Jake. 'Bout time you showed up. Seth is about to talk my ears off about his dream girl." Embry grins wolfishly, pushing his hair back. His eyes scanned over Janie like an X-ray machine, memorizing every last detail. The action made Jacob wary. When he finally thrusts out his hand, he greets, "I'm Embry. It's good to meet you."
January seems oblivious to Jacob's withdrawn behavior, or if she did notice, she pretended otherwise. She bounces forward, hair flouncing with the wind, and accepts the gesture with a beam, "Nice to meet you too. Call me Jan."
Then January is led away from him. Embry fills the gap between them with charming remarks and warm smiles and puts all these silly, foolish thoughts about normality into her head. Jacob is still rooted into the same spot because it's been too long since he's socialized. Hell, he hasn't really been running with the Pack for years now. These days, he only talks to them because he has to.
The homey, cozy atmosphere of a birthday party intimidated him. The comfortable vibe mocked him and his inability to be content. That vague, angry emotion is still deep inside him. It would seem clumsy if he tried to act like how he used to, before Bella and everything. He feels clumsy, just watching Janie being ushered around by Embry. A feeling of loss overcomes him.
All he wants to do is grab her, stuff her back into his car, and return her to the house. She doesn't belong here with all these people. She belonged to him. And having to share her uncovers the nasty scars she does so well at concealing for him when they're alone. He feels like the same angsty, brooding beast he used to be. The rush of depression and misery is back with a vengeance. His chest throbs.
This is a bad idea. He knows it is. He's got her involved now and a part of him feel guilty because she had really no idea what she was getting herself into. Maybe he should've said something to her. Maybe he should've told her. But what else is there to say? For it's not until this very moment, when he's staring at January Jansen as she sits next to Emily, that Jacob realizes he knows very little about her.
He knows about her past, of course. Where she grew up. Her family. But he doesn't know any secrets; doesn't know any stories.
He doesn't know why she can't sleep. Doesn't know what really happened to her after the accident. Did she change? Did she learn to accept the grotesque reminder? He doesn't know why she loves Peter. He doesn't know why she left him—because with the fond memories always hanging around the house like a haunting ghost, he doubts that she can just give him up just for the good of him. He doesn't know how she copes with all this.
He doesn't know why her eyes seem shades lighter or darker in certain lights. Doesn't know the significance of her fascination with color. Doesn't know why she ran that red light or why she flinches away from the bonfire every time it crackles as if it's screaming at her.
Secrets. He has them. She has them. Dreadful secrets. Everyone has them, he supposes.
Jacob Black doesn't really know anything about January Jansen. But there is something he wants her to know...something he wants her to know about him—which is, even if she revealed to him her deepest, darkest, most awful secret...he would not think any less of her; even if the rest of the world does.
End Note:
This is not my greatest work, I will admit that and I once again apologize for the long wait between chapters. I wrote and wrote and then deleted and then erased and then REWROTE and nothing just seems to fit so I settled for churning out a mediocre chapter that seems to delve a little deeper into January's past and a little into her problem now. The next chapter should be coming out pretty soon because I've got so many great ideas for it and it's just coming along real well. But you never know, maybe I'll run into a bump in the road. Let's cross our fingers, shall we?
I think that the story is really jumping into the rising action now and I think that you'll be VERY happy to know that the next chapter will be written in January's perspective. It's going to be explain her psyche and her past relationships and her 'issues' rather than her everyday life and Jacob because I think that it's best to leave how she feels for Jacob in a sort of ambiguity zone. Wouldn't want to give EVERYTHING away, would we? Anyways, the next chapter explores the men in Jan's life and the different way she loves and I think you'll really love her. She's definitely got a more poetic way of thinking and she's definitely whimsical, unabashed, and confident so it's gonna be a good one, you guys. (I hope).
I really hate switching POVs especially in the middle of a story but I think this one will really kick the story into overdrive so stay tuned! I love you all for your comments and supportive reviews and you guys really just make my day with every comment.
Question of the day: What do you think January's past relationship are like? And I'm going to ask you guys for help in what kind of character you'd like to see as Janie's past lovers. I've already got this pretty solid image in my head but it never hurts to hear you guys' awesome input. And of course, I always love it when you guys quote back to me or tell me your favorite moments.
Lots of love, Kitty.
