Chapter Six
Jinx
I dog-ear the page and set the book back on the table when I hear Pyro rummaging around in the kitchen. I don’t want any awkwardness with us, and I get up determined to figure out what I did wrong. I’m tired of wondering if I offended him in some way.
When I get to the kitchen, he’s sitting down at the table with a sandwich on a plate and cup of tea beside it with his prescription bottle.
“Can we talk for a second?”
Pyro nods to one of the kitchen chairs. “What’s up?”
“Did I do something to offend you,” I ask him when I’m seated. I tuck my hands in my lap to stow the shaking of them.
He swallows a couple of pills and downs his sweet tea. “No, shit. I’m sorry.”
“Oh….” Is all I can come up with.
Pyro curses. “I’ve got a ton on my mind.”
I slouch in my seat, relieved he isn’t angry with me. “Okay. I’ll let you get back to your sandwich.” I wave my hand at his uneaten food.
“Forget the food.” He stands with his crutches. “Come to the courtyard with me so I can smoke a cigarette?”
“As long as it’s in the shade,” I agree. “I may not be as pale as your average redhead, but I still burn.”
He chuckles.
When we get to the door, I hold it open, and he squeezes through the small frame with his crutches. Pyro picks a picnic table with an umbrella, and I fight to contain my smile when he struggles to open it up. “I can get it,” I say, coming up behind him.
“I got it,” he grumbles.
I sit down when the umbrella is up. “Thanks.”
“No biggie, darlin’,” he assures me and tosses his crutches down to the ground. “Fuckers are getting’ on my nerves.”
I’m not big on giggling, but one slips out with his hate for his crutches; for a manly man, he’s adorable when flustered.
“I wanted to ask you about therapy.”
My smile slips. “What about it?”
He lights a cigarette. “Do you believe it helps?”
I lean into the palm of my hand. “It has mentally, not physically. I still panic when I even think about a male touching me or vice versa.”
Pyro exhales. “Shit.”
“Why are you asking?”
He rubs his face, his eyes telling me he’s in debate on whether to tell me the truth or not.
“Pyro, I won’t repeat anything you ask or tell me. I’m not much of a gossip, I understand the need and want for privacy,” I say with a stern tone to assure him. “What’s on your mind?”
“You heard of my binge a year ago?” he asks.
“Honestly,” I say, “not really. I try to stay out of business that doesn’t involve me.”
He breathes a deep sigh and tosses his cigarette to the ground. “My drinking bender was more about guilt than grief.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m fucked up about it.”
“How so?” I question him with sincerity.
Pyro groans, leans his elbows on the table and curses under his breath for a beat. “I didn’t know Lana for long before she was killed. I don’t know if I was in love with her or if I feel responsible for her death. I went on a drinking and fucking bender when I couldn’t make heads or tails of my emotions. I still can’t. I fucking struggle every goddamn day, Shortcake. It’s ripping me apart.”
I hear the emotion in his voice and reach out to touch one of his hands for comfort; I squeeze for him to go on.
“I drank and fucked for months after her death and the guilt isn’t because of my actions. The guilt is because I blame myself for her death, she was Winter’s best friend, and I know even if I wasn’t fuckin’ her, she would still be dead,” he gulps, “women tend to get hurt around us.”
I remove my hand from his and struggle to sit up straight, ungodly uncomfortable with the direction our conversation is heading.
“My point is, I’m attracted to you Jinx, and you’ve already been hurt. I’m fucked up, mentally. I want to keep this,” he motions between us, “from going further than friendship.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m on the same page,” I assure him. “Really.”
His upper lip lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, as for therapy, it could help you sort through all of the confusing thoughts.”
“Yeah, maybe. Thanks, darlin’.”
I give him a wink when I stand. “You’re welcome.”
When I’m near the door, he calls out my name, and I turn towards him. “Yeah.”
“You placed your hand on me in comfort.”
I suck in a breath when I replay our conversation and my movements in my head; he’s right, I did. “See. Therapy helps.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says with a chuckle.
“You do that.” I wave.
When the door closes behind me when I step inside, I lean against the wall and let out a happy cry. I touched a man. I don’t care if it was innocent and for his comfort or my mind didn’t realize I was doing it at the time, but it happened, and I couldn’t be happier.
“I’m healing,” I whisper to myself, and place a hand over my heart with tears coming down my face. “I’m healing.”
I never thought an innocent touch would affect my emotions so profoundly, but when you go months upon months believing you’ll never experience something as small as a human touch again, it breaks you in ways you can’t even imagine.
“I’m healing,” I repeat in wonder.
*