Chapter 20 Episode 20

As it turns out, I don’t have to. Because Anton breaks the kiss first. I’m breathing heavily, staring up at him, my chest bruising against his wall of muscle. He traces his finger along the curve of my bottom lip. “Sure you aren’t just chasing the drama?” He might as well have slapped me across the face. “You really are a son of a b***h,” she snarls, face twisted up in anger. She slams her palms against my chest. I can tell she’s throwing all her rage behind the move, but I barely feel a thing. I keep her trapped between my arms. She thinks it’s to make a point. But I made my point a while ago. This is about what I want. And even if she doesn’t know it… it’s what she wants, too. The girl has viper eyes and an angel’s smile. She can give as good as she gets. But there’s an innocence that still clings to her no matter how hard she tries to buck it. She’s desperate to hold her own against me, but she’s too proud to admit that she’s completely out of her depth. I don’t mind. It just makes the game that much more fun. I roll my eyes. “I’d listen if I believed that was what you really wanted.” “I’m f*****g serious,” she growls at me—or, more accurately, at the floor between her feet, since she’s avoiding my eyes like she’s worried she’ll turn into stone if she meets them. “Let me go or I’ll scream so loud the whole building will hear.” I tsk quietly. “You don’t want to wake up Mrs. Donnelly, do you?” She freezes between my arms. “How do you know Mrs. Donnelly?” I ignore the question. I only met the woman a few minutes ago, but if Jessa wants to think that I know more than I do, that’s no problem. “Sweet old lady. Doesn’t have much patience with the grandkids.” “Jesus. How long have you been watching me?” she asks as panic starts to edge in. “Long enough to know that you’re going to cave long before I have to break you.” Her eyes harden to steel. “Then you don’t know me at all.” I drop my arms and walk away before she can. I meander toward her bookshelf. It’s chaotic, spines facing in and out and up and down, pages dog-eared, covers missing. “Have you really read all these?” I ask, grabbing a paperback and flipping through the pages. “I’ve read all the recipe books,” she says hesitantly. “And most of the others.” “What about this one?” I snap the book shut and hold up the cover. “You like him?” “He’s unoriginal,” I correct. “Afraid of the truth.” She moves into the living room, making sure to keep the coffee table between us. As if that could possibly stop me. “How do you figure that?” she asks. “The good guy always wins in the end,” I tell her. “He writes lies.” “Oh, I see,” she scoffs. “You’re trying to tell me that this is real life and in real life, the villain always wins. A.K.A… you.” I smile. “I’m trying to tell you that in real life, there are no heroes and villains, Jessa. In real life, it’s just eat or be eaten.” “That kind of naivete is exactly why your fiancé cheated on you as long as he did,” I snarl. “If you keep thinking of life as a fluffy romance novel, you’re going to keep getting hurt.” She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. It doesn’t matter. Nothing she can say will change what I know is happening behind those pretty little eyes. The fear. The doubt. The longing. “Give me the phone,” I tell her quietly. For a moment there, I’m certain I have her. She’s crumbling in my hands. Putty to be molded. A soft, warm, wet— Then she takes a seat on her L-shaped sofa and props her feet up on the table. I’m secretly proud. It would have been a much less interesting night if she had just caved under pressure and given me what I asked for. “If you’re hungry, there’s some leftover coq au vin in the fridge,” she tells me. “It’s good. I made it myself.” I sit down at the opposite end of the sofa and throw one foot up to rest on the edge of the coffee table. She tenses slightly, but she keeps her expression neutral, bordering on unconcerned. Again, I have to admire her bravery. This one has fire. “What do you think you’re proving right now?” I ask. “I’m genuinely curious.” She gives me a shrug. “You’re a bully. I’ve dealt with bullies before.” “I switched schools when I was eight,” she tells me. “Mom and Dad decided I would benefit from a private school education. There was a group of girls who hated me. Honestly, I don’t even know why. I don’t think they needed a legitimate reason. I was new, and they had each other, and so they just picked me as the enemy.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Or maybe it was because I had buck teeth and a bowl cut.” “Neither is being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she points out. “And yet here we are.” I suppress my smile. “Finish your story. What happened?” “I endured,” she tells me. “I waited them out. I faced them head-on sometimes and even if I got my ass kicked, eventually, they realized something: I was made of stronger stuff.” Her eyes grow cloudy, but not with tears. She made peace with her past a long time ago. She can refer to it without breaking down. She doesn’t let fear rule her. “What were your parents like?” I ask. Jessa frowns. “Is this an interview?” The war in her eyes rages for a moment over whether or not to indulge me. It’s strange: her childhood shouldn’t be of any interest. And yet, I want her to continue talking. I want her to tell me all the stories that contributed to creating the woman she is now. I want to see what shaped her, if only so I know what kind of history I’m destroying when I bend her to my will. In the end, she gives in. They always do. She purses her lips and sighs. “We don’t have much in common. My mother saw me as a chore. Dad worked a lot to make sure he could afford the private school he sent me to.” “You said he was a police officer?” She nods. “He worked really hard all his life. I think that was his way of showing me that he loved me, since God knows he never said it much. It took a beat, but I figured it out when I was about eleven. With Mom… it was just different with her. She worked, too—part-time because she claimed she wanted to be at home when I came back from school. But she never actually spent any real time with me. You know what she said to me the day after my almost wedding?” she asks. “She told you that you should forgive Dane.” Jessa looks momentarily impressed. “How’d you know?” I shrug. “I just know the type.” “She told me I should have gone through with the wedding and dealt with things later. I told her that I wasn’t about to forgive Dane or Salma for what they did to me. You know what she said to me then?” “Something judgmental and superior, no doubt.” Jessa smiles at that one. “Sure you haven’t met my mother?” “I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it thus far.” Her smile gets wider, perhaps a little more comfortable. “She told me that ‘wasn’t very Christ-like.’” “She’s one of those, huh?” Jessa nods with a tired grimace on her face. “My fiancé and best friend had cheated and lied to me for years, but somehow, I was still the one in the wrong for not being forgiving enough.” “So what did you say?” “I told her I didn’t want to speak to her anymore. My father stepped in and told me not to be rude to my mother.” She shakes her head. “I walked out on them both.” “Have you heard from them since?” “No. And I’m not likely to, either. In my family, the child always has to apologize first.” “You planning to?” I ask curiously. She bites her lip. The gesture is surprisingly endearing. She hesitates for a moment before she answers. “Eventually, I will.” “You’re giving me advice now?” she scoffs. “I feel like you asked for it.” She considers that a moment and nods. “Mom’s birthday is coming up. I have to call her for that.” “Who says you have to do anything?” She frowns. “She’s my mother.” She shakes her head. “You clearly don’t understand. You’re not used to compromising or… or being the bigger person.” “Look at me, Jessa. I’m always the bigger person.” She guffaws with laughter then looks embarrassed. It’s surprisingly easy to sit here in her claustrophobic little apartment and listen to her ramble. I’m not restless, stirred up the way I usually am. I can just… breathe. “So,” I press, “you’re brave when it comes to bullies but not when it comes to your parents?” “It’s not the same thing.” She considers that for a moment. “My parents do care about me, even if it’s not always obvious to me. They just think they know best.” “And do you agree that they do?”