Beneath the Surface, page 18
The person knocks again.
“Coming.” I get off the couch and walk to the door. “Casey’s not home,” I say as I fling the door open, but then I pause because it’s not one of Casey’s friends.
Jax.
I stand there, momentarily in shock, taking in the sight of him. I don’t know how he knows where I live, but I’m more concerned about his disheveled hair, torn collar, the cut on his forehead, and the traces of dried blood on his shirt. Then, I notice the knuckles on his right hand are covered in shades of red and purple.
That’s not even the worst of it. The most troubling thing is his expression. It’s one of pure exhaustion and emotional turmoil. He seems both pained and tortured.
He looks broken.
Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck, embracing him. He buries his head in my shoulder as his muscular arms circle around me, pulling me tightly against him, clinging to me as if his life depends on it.
We stay like that for a minute, hugging, with my front door wide open. Finally, I feel him relax a little and loosen his grip. I pull away from him and usher him inside.
He stands in the entryway to my living room, seeming uncomfortable.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Clearly, he’s not all right, but I’m hoping the question will at least get him talking.
He shakes his head. As he runs his hand through his hair, I notice once again how badly swollen his knuckles are.
“Come on,” I say, placing my hand on his arm and gently guiding him to the kitchen sink.
I turn on the faucet, then squeeze the soap into his hands. He flinches when he puts them under the water, but he washes them anyway, rinsing away the traces of blood.
As he dries his hands with a paper towel, I reach into the freezer and grab a bag of frozen peas. Then, I head into the living room. I’m about to tell him to sit on the couch, but I’m not sure what time Casey will be home and whether she’ll have friends with her when she gets here. I doubt Jax wants an audience. So, instead, I turn around and head down the hall to my bedroom with Jax trailing behind me.
I open the door to my room and motion for him to go inside. He hesitates, but only for a second, then stands awkwardly near the door.
“You can sit down,” I tell him, gesturing to the bed.
Once he sits, I take his hand, rest it on his thigh, and place the bag of peas on top.
“That should help bring the swelling down,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”
I go to the living room and open the coat closet by the front door. There’s a bag of clothes on the floor that Casey and I intend to donate. We started it last weekend, but neither of us has had a chance to drop it off yet. Remembering that Casey tossed in a man’s T-shirt, I dig through the bag until I find it. I hold it out, inspecting it and confirming that I think it will fit him.
I return to Jax and hand him the shirt. “Here. You can have this if you want to change. One of Casey’s ex-boyfriends left it a while ago.” As he holds it up with his good hand and stares at it, I can’t tell if he’s skeptical or just dazed. “Don’t worry; it’s clean.”
He sets it down on the bed, then reaches over his shoulder and pulls his torn shirt over his head until it’s off, exposing his perfectly chiseled muscles. To keep myself from staring, I take the ripped, bloodied shirt from him and carry it to the kitchen trash. Then, I grab the first aid kit out of the bathroom.
When I return to my bedroom, Jax is wearing the fresh shirt. I sit beside him on the bed and dig into the first aid kit, pulling out the supplies I need to tend to the cut on his forehead. It’s a minor wound, and it doesn’t appear to be bleeding anymore, but it still needs to be cleaned and bandaged.
He’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s staring at the wall, as if reliving whatever happened before he got here.
I’ve never seen him like this.
I reach out and tilt his chin until he’s facing me so I can work on his wound.
“This might sting a little,” I tell him. When I run the antiseptic wipe across the cut, he hisses, but doesn’t pull away. “Sorry.”
As I squeeze ointment over his cut, I’m tempted to ask him what happened, but I decide against it. I need to let him do this in his own way. If I’m patient, maybe he’ll tell me. The fact that he’s even here is a good sign that he’s finally ready to get things out in the open.
“It seems so easy for you,” he finally says.
“What does?”
“Helping someone who’s been terrible to you.”
I don’t respond as I pull the backing off the bandage and place it over his wound, smoothing it out so it sticks.
He reaches his free hand up and grabs mine, gently lowering it down. I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just holds it in his. “Do you remember that night after prom when you drove me home?”
I nod.
“I was going to ask you something, but I chickened out. I guess I was afraid to know what your answer would be, but it turns out, not knowing is much worse.”
“Okay.” I’m clueless as to what he could possibly want to know.
He takes in a deep breath, trying to muster up the courage, even now. “Back when we were kids, when you stayed at my house, were you ever …” He chokes up and pauses briefly to compose himself. “Were you ever hurt by my dad?”
I’m taken aback by how much fear is in his eyes. I don’t understand why though. His father was never violent when I was there.
“No,” I reply, hoping to ease his concern. “Your dad never hit me.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He moves his hand as he looks away. He fixes his gaze upward toward the ceiling, as if preparing himself for the worst. “I’m asking if he ever touched you.”
Oh my goodness.
I sit there in shock, processing what he’s asking. No, his dad never abused me. Sure, he was moody and barely acknowledged me, but nothing inappropriate—nothing like that—ever happened.
My heart aches that Jax thought it was a possibility. Things must’ve been much worse than I ever guessed if he’s asking me about it. Based on Jax’s reaction, he truly believes his father was capable of it.
I can’t even imagine the burden he’s been carrying all these years, thinking that his father might’ve done that to me.
Did it happen to Cassidy? Is that why she moved out at seventeen and refused to go home?
“Jax, look at me.”
He doesn’t move.
“Look at me,” I repeat softly.
Reluctantly, he does.
“He never hurt me in any way. I promise.”
His eyes mist as they break my gaze, but he quickly gets his emotions under control. He nods, not necessarily to me, but more to himself. Then, he takes a breath, as if relieved. And I’m sure he is if he’s kept this weight on his shoulders for so many years.
He turns to look at me again. “The last night you stayed at our house, I caught him coming into your room while you were asleep. I confronted him, and he left.”
I’m stunned and completely surprised by this revelation. I had no idea. Over the years, I’ve contemplated hundreds of scenarios, trying to figure out what made Jax abruptly change his mind about our friendship. This situation never crossed my mind. It makes sense now why his behavior changed literally overnight.
“Right after is when you pushed me away, isn’t it?”
“I needed to protect you from him.” He removes the ice pack from his hand and sets it on the bed before angling himself toward me. “But that’s not the only reason I did it. I didn’t realize until today, when I was driving around, that I partly pushed you away because you scared the hell out of me.”
“I don’t understand.” How would someone like me scare him?
“I almost killed him that night,” he explains. “I’d never hated anyone so much in my life, and I would’ve done it if he’d laid a hand on you.” He swallows hard. “You have that kind of power over me, and it’s terrifying.”
Have, not had. He used present tense, as if I somehow have that great of an influence on his life to this day.
I wait for him to correct himself, but he doesn’t. All these years, I thought he loathed me. That wasn’t the case at all though. It was never about him not caring about me or being forced into pretending to. The issue was that he cared too much.
I’m at a loss as to how to respond to that.
He reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger. “I wish I could go back and change things. Somehow erase the past and start over.”
I shake my head gently because I don’t want him to release me. “Our past makes us who we are. Without it, we’d be someone completely different.”
He pauses, contemplating what I said before replying, “It doesn’t matter that I thought ending our friendship was the right thing to do. I fucked everything up, and I don’t know how to undo it.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about his life, us, or something else.
“You can’t change the past—that’s impossible—but you can influence the future and create a better one for yourself and the people around you,” I tell him, hoping it will help.
He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “What if I can’t fix the future? What if it’s set on a course that I can’t alter?”
“As long as we’re breathing, there’s always hope, right?”
His face softens as he moves closer. I remain still, not sure what to expect. I thought he was going to kiss me the night of the pajama party, but I read the situation all wrong. There’s something different about him this time though. Unlike the pajama party, I see the real Jax, the one he’s refused to show me in seven years.
I’ve wanted to kiss Jax since I was fourteen years old. Despite everything we’ve been through over the years, that desire has never changed because I’ve always known the person he is, deep down, beneath the surface of what he shows everyone else.
“Jax?” My heart beats wildly in my chest.
I’m about to tell him I want him to kiss me, but it’s like he can read my mind. Before I even get the words out, his lips press to mine. His kiss is slow, deliberate, and borderline careful.
I inch closer, but as soon as I do, he parts from me, gently kissing me on the forehead before looking into my eyes.
“I want to,” he says softly, lowering his hand and returning it to his lap. “But …”
“You’re right,” I reply, understanding the timing isn’t right, given the circumstances. “We should take things slow.”
He visibly relaxes, as if relieved by my agreement.
We’re both quiet again, and I contemplate what to do next. I’m afraid if I don’t think of something, he’ll want to go home, and I’m not ready for him to leave yet.
“Want to watch a movie?” I ask, motioning to the TV in my room, thinking he might want a pleasant distraction from the rough day he’s had.
“Sure.”
I don’t hold back a smile as I crawl across the bed to prop my head against the headboard. It’s the same spot I used to take when we were kids and we’d play video games in his room. He must remember because he follows, taking his usual spot beside me.
I pick up the remote. “What do you want to watch?”
“How about that new zombie movie? I’ve heard it’s good.”
The credits roll on the movie, and I glance over at Jax, who fell asleep almost an hour ago. It’s not late yet. In fact, it’s only seven p.m. He’s no longer propped up on the headboard. Instead, he’s using a pillow on my queen-size bed as he snuggles under the covers.
I shut off the TV, but he doesn’t stir. I don’t want to wake him either. After everything that’s happened today, he must be exhausted.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and I suspect it’s Casey.
As carefully as I can, I move off the bed and tiptoe to the door. I open it, and sure enough, Casey is standing on the other side. She notices Jax asleep in my bed and does a double take.
Her jaw falls open. “Is that …”
“Shh,” I hush her as I slide out of the room and into the hall, closing the door behind me.
Her eyes are the size of golf balls. “Is that Jax Reynolds? In your bed?”
I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to her. “It is. He stopped by today and fell asleep, watching a movie.”
She blinks repeatedly, as if I were speaking a different language and the words weren’t making sense to her. “In your bed?” she repeats.
“It looks worse than it is,” I insist. “He’s just tired and taking a nap.”
“So, what now?”
“I think I’m going to just let him stay.”
“The night?” Her eyes are bulging once again.
I laugh. “I mean, yeah, unless he wakes up and wants to go home.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my Hannah?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but when she smiles, I know she’s past her shock and finds the situation amusing.
Casey lets me know that she’s going out with some friends but will be back before eleven p.m. Once she leaves, I sneak back into my room, careful not to wake Jax.
The right thing to do would be to hang out in the living room until he wakes up, and if he doesn’t wake up by bedtime, I should just sleep on the couch. Despite my head telling me that is what I should do, I peel back the covers and slide into bed next to him.
As close as we were when we were younger, we never slept in the same bed together. Sure, we hung out on his bed to watch TV or play video games, but we were always above the covers. It was never an intimate thing.
I lie next to him and close my eyes. We aren’t touching, but I can feel the heat from his body and hear his breath quietly moving in and out. It’s comforting and surreal at the same time. I don’t care that it’s early and nowhere close to bedtime—I’m not moving until he does.
For the first time since our fight, I feel completely content. It’s as if I’m whole again. I didn’t even realize it until now, but when he’d broken off our friendship, it’d left such a void in my life. I thought I’d fully recovered from it, but the relief I feel now that he’s officially back in my life gives me a new perspective on how I was really feeling all those years.
Just as I’m about to drift off to sleep, Jax stirs next to me. He doesn’t fully wake either. Instead, he reaches over until he finds me lying next to him. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me even closer.
TWENTY-THREE
Jax | Present
Despite having fallen asleep in Hannah’s bed, I wake up in my own. It would be easy for me to dwell on the fact that today is likely the final repeat day, which also means Hannah’s last day on earth. But I know that wallowing in my misery won’t do me—or Hannah—any good.
I’ve failed to figure out a way to prevent her death. The truth is, I’m clueless where to even start. Last night, I briefly woke up. I assumed it was late because it was dark outside and Hannah was curled up in bed beside me, sound asleep. I listened closely to make certain she was breathing, and she was. So, at least at that point in time, she was still alive.
I contemplated getting up and leaving, but then a thought—a glimmer of hope—popped into my head.
If deciding to end our friendship was the trigger, maybe deciding to bring her back into my life permanently will set things back on the right path.
Besides, I figured she couldn’t get hurt if she was asleep. It was worth a try since I hadn’t tried staying at her house past midnight. I wanted to see if, by some miracle, it could make a difference.
So, instead of getting up and sneaking out of her house, I allowed myself to go back to sleep, content that she was alive and sleeping right next to me and hopeful that the decision to befriend her and stay the night would somehow change her future.
Needless to say, it disappointed me when I opened my eyes this morning to find myself alone in bed, in my bedroom, listening to the sound of Miguel cooking eggs in the kitchen.
Although I know I can’t stay in bed long, I lie there for a moment, recalling the previous repeat day and the emotional roller coaster it took me on. I brought everyone along for the ride with me, but today, no one will have any memory of it. Cassidy will never remember telling me the truth about what happened to her. My father will have no recollection of me confronting him, beating him until he bled all over the floor of my uncle’s bar. And Hannah won’t recall me coming to her, an emotional mess as I revealed to her the real reason I’d run away from our friendship. I’d never allowed myself to be truly honest with anyone about my past, but I’d done it for her.
If I wasn’t stuck in this time-warp nightmare, would any of those events have happened on their own eventually? Would the truth have ever come to light? Would I have been brave enough to ask the questions that have tortured me for the past seven years?
If I’m being honest, I don’t think so. I think I would’ve lived in that fear and misery for the rest of my life until it finally swallowed me up and spit me out.
Today is a new day. Well, sort of. I smile somberly at the irony.
I can’t control what will happen at 11:22 p.m. tonight. It’s likely that I won’t have an epiphany of how to change the outcome. What is within my power is how I handle today, which I’ll spend giving Hannah the best day possible since it is likely her last.
With a sense of purpose, I climb out of bed and start gathering everything I need. I go into the kitchen and rummage through the fridge. There’s barely anything in there and nothing that I really need.
“I made an egg white omelet for myself. These fried eggs are for you,” Miguel says, assuming I’m scrounging for food. “I figured you’d be less cranky this morning if I fed you.”
I pause my search and shut the fridge. I walk over to Miguel and give him a pat on the shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Doc. I don’t say that enough—or ever for that matter.”
Miguel stands there, without a doubt stunned by the sudden kindness. Then, he smiles. “It’s just eggs, man. It’s no big deal.”
