Jaxon

I take Simon upstairs and put him to bed, kicking my way through a minefield of Legos and dirty clothes. He is so cleaning his room tomorrow.

I press my lips to his forehead. “Night, buddy.” He’ll be eleven in three months and if awake wouldn’t let me tuck him in if his life depended on it.

I try to tell myself it’s the age and not the fact that things got complicated between us. When I enlisted, I was his big brother. When I came home, I was his father. Trust me, I know how fucked up it sounds. We’re in counseling, and we’re working on it.

I’m trying.

That’s all I can do.

“Jax?”

Jax.

He hasn’t called me that in a long time. Lately, it’s been Jaxon or nothing at all. It’s not dad—I don’t know if we’ll ever get to a place where he’ll feel comfortable calling me dad—but it’s a start.

“Yeah?”

“I heard you and Mom talking earlier. About Claire.”

Shit.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. Sit back down. “She ended up being the client I drove for tonight.”

“Oh.” That’s all he says but there’s more. I can hear it in his tone, he just doesn’t want to ask. Finally, he gives it up. “Did she ask about me?”

“She did.” I tell him the truth, or at least a version of it that doesn’t make me feel like a total asshole. “She said she misses you.”

“Maybe we can go see her.” It’s not a question. Not really.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

There’s a 50/50 chance she’s getting married.

I fucked up.

I left her again.

“Fine.” He gives me a long, measured look. “I’ll talk to Mom. She’ll take me.” He turns onto his side and faces the wall.

“Simon—”

 “Night.”

Shit.

“Goodnight.”

I head to my room, pulling my tie all the way loose as I go. Tossing it and my jacket onto a nearby chair, I strip the rest of the suit off, before pulling on a pair of track pants.

In the kitchen, I mix a quick protein shake—what passes for food when I’m too wiped to cook—adding a couple of frozen bananas and a generous dollop of peanut butter before running it through the blender.

Taking the lid off, I stand at the kitchen sink and drink my dinner. Staring through the window, across the yard, at the small detached garage behind the house, I try to move on.

I’ve got a couple of loads to wash—Simon’s clothes and mine. A load of towels to fold. I’ll finish the laundry and wear myself out between loads by working out so hard I won’t be able to move tomorrow.

What I won’t do is think about Claire.

What happened tonight.

How I had my shot and fucked it up, same as before.

Maybe I can still—

I catch a shadow of movement behind me in the reflection of the window, and I turn, expecting to see Simon in the doorway or maybe my mom. But it’s not Simon, and it’s not my mom.

It’s Claire.

She’s here.

Standing right in front of me.

I stand here, staring at her, trying to convince myself that this isn’t really happening. That I just want her so bad the wanting has finally driven me crazy. I close my eyes and wait for her to go away.

“You really need to stop doing that.”

That’s when I know it’s not a dream. That I haven’t finally lost my mind. I know because, in my dreams, the first words out of her mouth are always the same.

I love you.

I open my eyes.

She’s still here. I don’t know how she found me, but she’s here, standing in front of me in that barely there dress and spiked heels that make her legs look like they go on forever. Her hair is loose, falling around her shoulders in gentle waves that make my hands ache, her eyes, more blue than green, staring at me with a mixture of frustration and apprehension.

“Doing what?” I set the pitcher down, leaning against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Take your pick,” she says, closing the distance between us until she’s standing right in front of me, close enough to touch, her gaze locked on mine. I remember the first time we stood this close, how nervous she was. How much I wanted to kiss her. She doesn’t look nervous now. She looks like she wants to hit me. “Not giving me a say in what happens between us. Disappearing into thin air.” She moves, tossing her purse on the table before turning toward me again. “Leaving me behind.”

 “You don’t want me, Claire.” I shake my head, tightening the lock I have on my arms, pushing them against my chest to keep myself from reaching for her. “I’m not—”

“We need to be clear about something,” she says through her teeth, jabbing me in the chest with her finger. Even with the heels, she has to tip her head back to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, I am… but it wasn’t your fault and it doesn’t make a difference to me. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you and it doesn’t change the way I feel about Simon. What I’m angry about is the fact that you left. You left and didn’t trust me enough to even try to tell me why.”

“I was trying to protect you.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, given the circumstances, and she confirms it when she laughs in my face. “Claire—”

“Stop,” she snaps up at me. “Stop assuming you know how I feel or what I think because you don’t. You didn’t know then, and you don’t know now.”

“Okay...” I close my eyes and sigh. “So tell me.” My eyes open and I find her where I left her. Close. Too close to allow me to think straight. “What do you want?”

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” she says softly, her eye gone gray with tears. “You.”