Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

Jazz abruptly stops in the middle of the living room, finally noticing my bloody lip and marked face. “What did you do?” She arrogantly flips her long platinum hair over her shoulder. “He’s never been violent with me.”

Still standing at the door, Justin closes it while I try to contain my dislike for the woman scowling at me. I’ve disliked her for so long, it’s hard to keep the emotion off my face. “Guess you don’t say no.”

Her lip curls in disgust. “Bullshit. He came over here to talk to you about the shop and Ben.”

“And about getting back together.”

Now Jazz looks like she wants to hit me.

Guess it’s my night.

“Whoa,” Justin says, moving in front of her and pointing at a chair. “Sit down and talk or leave.”

Jazz gives him a hard glare but moves to the chair by the window. She crosses her legs and one red cowboy boot bounces. “You know he’s been staying with me this whole time, right?”

Justin sits back down on the arm of the couch, almost a foot from me. Too far away.

Suddenly, I’m tired. Tired of Trevor. Tired of arguing. Tired of hating this girl across from me. “Yes, I gathered he was staying with you.” My arms loosen around my knees. “You know what, Jazz?”

At my blunt tone, Jazz pauses bouncing her cowboy boot.

“I think Trevor is in love with you.” She visibly deflates and falls back into the chair. “I’m just what he thinks he needs. Now and then. In fact, he’s probably always been in love with you, but he loves himself more because you’ve never been good enough for him. Not when we were in high school. Not when he went to California. And not now when he’s obviously desperate enough to try and force me to take him back.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and wraps her arms around her waist. “He’s broke.”

I sigh. “I figured as much.”

“He lost the shop in California.”

“After tonight, I was guessing that too.”

“He, he is—”

“Snorting all his money up his nose?” Justin says sarcastically.

Her nostrils flare from evident anger. “Things are tough for him right now.”

“Quit making excuses for him,” I say. “He’s been walking all over you since you two were twelve. He walks all over everyone.”

Her heated eyes flash at me. “You don’t know what he’s been through. What his childhood was like. Going from foster home to foster home sucks. Trust me, I know.”

Justin leans forward. “So that gives him a right to treat you like shit?”

“Like you’ve got room to talk,” Jazz spits at Justin.

“You’re right.” Justin leans back against the wall and folds his arms. “But that all ended when I fell in love.”

A burst of warm emotions hits me as Jazz stares slack-jawed at Justin. She snaps her mouth shut and turns to me. “What are you going to do?”

Still fuzzy from Justin’s declaration, it takes me a few seconds to understand her question. “I’ll be filing a restraining order and pressing charges.”

“You wouldn’t.” Her hands clasp her knees. Red nails dig into her skin. “Why would you do that to your son’s father?”

“Ben is my reason,” I say. “As much as I’d like Trevor to rot in hell, he’s my son’s father. He needs to get off the drugs and get himself together. Or he won’t be seeing Ben. At this point, if it weren’t for Ben I wouldn’t care if Trevor snorted coke until it killed him. But because of Ben, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure Trevor has no choice except to get clean.”

“When did you turn into the judge and jury?” she sneers.

“When I became a mother.”

“You can’t take Ben from him!” she says, flying out of the chair.

Justin stands too. “Okay, we’re done here.” He goes to the door and opens it. “Allie’s been attacked enough for one evening.”

Jazz glances from me to Justin’s stern face. “Fine, but you’d better rethink the whole Ben thing, Al.” She pauses at the door. “Or Trevor’s going to be really, really pissed.”

Like I care.

As soon as she steps out the door, Justin shuts it and turns the lock. His lips form a grim line as he walks toward the couch. “Match made in heaven there.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Instead of sitting on the couch, he perches on the coffee table across from me. “How are you feeling?”

I summon a slight smile. “All right. Better.”

“You need to lie down?”

I shake my head.

He swallows tightly. “So…about that call.”

My arms tighten around my knees. “I kind of had a revelation last night. First let me say I’m sorry about getting weird this week. I was overwhelmed. Between Trevor’s antics and my own reservations, everything was too much.”

His hands grip the edge of the coffee table, but his face is expressionless. “Reservations?”

A sigh escapes me at the thought of explaining, but he deserves to understand. “Over the last couple of years, I’ve built up this image in my head of who I’m allowed to date. Someone older. Someone with a career. Someone financially stable. The list is never ending. Probably because no man would fit all my requirements, then I wouldn’t have to risk getting hurt again. Thing is, I’d held on to my conditions for so long I couldn’t see past them.”

“You’re right.” He looks away toward the kitchen, and I finally catch the emotion on his face. Hopelessness. “I’m not good enough for you.”

My knees drop and I lean toward him. “Not even close. I realized last night you’re nearly perfect.”

His startled gaze meets mine.

“No one has ever treated me like you do. The roof, the wine, breakfast…Just the way you look at me makes my breath catch.” I put my hands on his knees and it appears as though I’m making his breath catch. “When we’re together, I feel like the girl I used to be. You’ve broken down the wall I built around myself by being caring and sweet and so patient with me. Those words you told me Sunday were lovely, and I was a fool to panic. Your actions have shown me your feelings loud and clear, but I was too scared and blind to see the truth in them.” Though his face is full of wonder, it’s also tight with confusion. I stand and tug his hand. “Let me show you the truth.”

He lets me lead him into my bedroom, which is where I moved my easel this morning. I flick on the lamp and gesture toward the almost-done painting sitting at the easel at the end of my bed. “I’d been fighting my feelings for you, but when I let myself go, the artist inside of me created this.”

His wide eyes focused on the canvas, Justin falls on the end of my bed. He traces the swirls of the painting’s center. On the canvas he stands tall in all his muscled, tattooed glory, wearing only jeans, in front of a painting. He’s reaching out, grasping my hand and pulling me from the painting inside a painting, freeing me from its confines. Though done in my favorite style of modern impressionism, the painting depicts both of us in washed-out colors instead of the bright hues I usually use. Except for the growing burst of color at the focal point where our hands connect. There the painting is bright, the colors vibrant along the skin of our arms.

“It’s beautiful,” he says in a short breath, dropping his hand and leaning back on the bed.

“It’s true.” I lower myself, kneeling on the floor. “You free me from all my insecurities, take away the loneliness I’d grown to accept, and make me feel like the young woman I forgot I was.” I reach for his hand and hold it in mine. “I’m not falling in love, Justin.” He flinches and my hold tightens on his hand. “Look at the painting. I’m completely enamored, head-over-heels, already there. It’s impossible for me to be more in love with you.”