Page 52 of Just for Tonight

“Don’t go asking for the impossible. I am what I am and all that.”

“Maybe you’re some other things, too,” she says, but I know she isn’t going to explain.

If she sees anything good in me, that’s a win.

I get out of the car and close the door, turn away and start walking.

I hear her put the SUV in gear. I hear the car tires in the gravel at the end of the drive, but I don’t look back. There’s no point. I just trudge up the laneway to my car, parked in the shadows outside the house. All the lights are out, a clear message that no one expects me back tonight – or would let me in if I did come back.

Try being kind.

Is Mackenzie right? I suspect this lot would run right over me if I was kind, interpreting any slack as weakness on my part. It’s a nice thought, though, or maybe a thought from a nicer person than me. Mackenzie is probably right about their week being more traumatic than mine, and I play with the idea of being less draconian in the morning than I’ve already planned.

Is there a kinder gentler way to achieve the same end?

That I’m even wondering is a hint at Mackenzie’s influence over me, and that’s worth a think, too. It’s probably good that I’m leaving and not coming back. She’s just a little too interesting for me to avoid, if there was the temptation of proximity.

Mackenzie is long gone when I see it. There’s a mark on my car, one that glimmers in an evil way. I bend down to look in disbelief, running my finger over the gash to verify that it’s real.

It’s real.

Someone has keyed my car, leaving a jagged line in the paint that runs the full length of the driver’s side. It goes from the headlight to the taillight, straight across my door where I can’t miss it.

Not just that, but they’ve dug their weapon of choice in deep. I swear the side panel is dented, like someone ran a router down the side of the car. It’s more than the paint that’s damaged.

And that wasn’t an accident.

It’ll cost a fortune to repair.

I look up at the house and a curtain moves on the second floor, evidence that someone was watching.

This was done deliberately, a little present for Jake the executor.

The possibility of being kind is out the window. This was an act of war.

No more Mr. Nice Guy, no matter how tough their week has been.

12

Mackenzie

I drive home, feeling deflated and defeated. The rain suits my mood perfectly and I’m glad there won’t be anyone awake to talk when I walk into the house. Both Opa and Mrs. O’Neill retire early.

Instead of being satisfied, I want more. And I know that I want more than Jake can give. I might want more than even I can contribute to a relationship, but now, I want to find out.

The problem is that I’m not convinced that Jake is as much of an asshole as he wants everyone to believe. He’s so prickly that it seems like a defense mechanism, a way to keep people at a distance so he isn’t tempted to be a nice guy.

The bigger problem is that I like him.

Instead of pushing me away – or making me want to run away and forget him completely – his bitter confessions tug at my heart. They sure didn’t come easily, and that makes them feel like the truth.

I replay them as I sit in the driveway, hearing the hurt behind the anger. Of course, he felt betrayed by his father’s choices. What child wouldn’t? Of course, he carried the scar of that experience throughout his life, and used it to shape his own choices.

But what if he could let it go?

Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’m looking for the handsome prince in the guy who’s only interested in what he wants. Maybe he really is his father’s son and I’m making excuses for him.

I don’t think so.