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When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Not that this article won’t probably change things. People might not want to associate with me. I might not be racing at all.” That last part seems to gut him, and I swear I see his tears pool in his eyes, but he turns toward the barn, interlacing his hands against the back of his head as he mourns.
And it’s all I can do not to say something comforting, to soften and bend like before, but it can’t be my place. It can’t be.
“Jake…” I say, but I don’t know what to follow it with.
He eventually turns to face me, and I’m relieved to see there are no tears, though he’s far from okay. “Look,” he says. “I guess I’m not really sorry about the kiss. You’re right.”
My breath catches. I knew I was right.
“But it’s not because it was some sort of half-baked plan to change your mind.” His hands redirect to his front pockets, and his gaze falls to the ground between us, the rim of his hat hiding the top half of his face. “I know there’s no stopping the article,” he says to the dirt. “And there’s nothing I can say or do that will.”
“Good,” I say, and try and say it as gently as possible. I avoid the topic of us kissing.
“And I know you have no reason to believe me but I’ve made my peace with it.” He clears his throat. Redistributes his weight. “Making my peace with it,” he corrects.
His eyes sweep up to mine to make sure I know he means this last part. “I’m glad you told me.”
You are?
He takes off his hat and runs a hand through the matted hair. “Well…” A dark laugh. “Kind of.” He thinks about it. “No, I am. It gave me time to think through some things. But none of those things included getting you to change your mind.”
Okay, fine. Maybe he’s being truthful with that. And that’s a small maybe. Not that it matters. I’m still going home. But, if what he’s saying is true, one tiny little thing doesn’t make sense about his argument. “Then why did you bring me here?” Why bring me to your home at all? I still haven’t figured that part out.
“I…” A half-cocked smile. “Honestly? I don’t know.” I guess it doesn’t make sense to him either.
Something we can agree on.
“Coming home made sense to me. Having you with me…” He looks up to the sky, frustrated with himself. Back to me. “…made sense to me. In the moment.” He chuckles because he knows it’s not a good explanation. “As crazy as it sounds, having you here has helped.”
That doesn’t make sense, though. Coming home? Yes. Having me with him? Not at all. As far as he knows, I’m a random journalist that’s writing a damaging article on his family. We have no history…that he remembers.
It’s not adding up. It’s never added up. I wish it all made sense somehow, but I can’t make it. None of the pieces fit together like they should.
“I’m still trying to find my way with it,” he adds. “It’s been what, like twenty-four hours since you told me? I may not be handling this shit right, but what’s the right way?”
“Jake,” I say plainly. “None of this makes sense. Bringing me here doesn’t make sense. Me staying doesn’t make sense.” And it’s why I need to go.
I never should have come.
“I know.” He contemplates something for a long, bitter moment and when he looks at me, it rails right through me. Into me.
My stomach jumps.
“I know nothing really makes sense right now. But there is something that can at least help you understand.”
The words roll thinly off my tongue. “There is?” What is he holding back?
He puts his hat back on, his eyes never leaving mine. A steely kind of determination lingers there. He wants to say it, I can feel it in my bones, but is stalling. Why is he stalling?
“Jake? What is it?” What is it he’s been keeping from me that will help bringing me here make sense?
He looks down. Kicks at the dirt.
Looks back at me. “I remember, Scarlett.”
Remember…
Remember what?
