Page 59 of Total Jane Wreck

Lips pressed together, Chet just tilts his head.

“All I know,” I continue, “is that it was not—and I’m sure about this—it wasn’t your aunt.”

Chet’s forehead wrinkles, like he’s trying to puzzle this out. “Well, yeah. Grace wouldn’t watch us. Of course it wasn’t her.”

“Then who? How do you explain it?”

Chet drinks from his water bottle, looking off in the distance. He runs a hand through his hair. “Your mind’s always racing, Jane. You overthink.”

I lift my chin. “I wasn’t overthinking. At that moment, my mind was empty of everything except how good it felt being with you.”

He leans forward, balancing elbows on his knees, shirt gaping. I feel a sudden jolt of something—attraction, fear, confusion.

“Shadows and light played a trick on you,” he says. “Given the circumstances, it’s not hard to imagine that you’d see something that just wasn’t there.”

Gripping the wicker chair’s armrest, I mull this over. “My friend Brontë thinks I saw Birdy.”

Chet’s jaw drops open, his chin nearly hitting the floor. “Tha-That’s impossible. Birdy’s in and out of the hospital. She—”

“Not real-life Birdy,” I clarify. “Brontë thinks I imagined her. That my insecurities manifested, or something like that.”

“Your insecurities?” Chet shakes his head. “I’m not following.”

I try not to sound exasperated. “You’ve got a complicated, unresolved relationship with your gorgeous, glamorous ex, who obviously still needs you. So you must have, at the very least, some ambivalence around her.”

“Nope,” Chet insists. “No ambivalence. Birdy and I are done. One hundred percent. Promise.”

“Come on, Chet. Don’t pee on my back and say that it’s raining.”

He lets out a strangled-sounding laugh. “Excuse me?”

I stand. “I’d rather you admit that you still have feelings for her.”

Chet stands, too, as if to block me from leaving the porch. “If it was true, I’d be honest about it. But I don’t still have feelings for her.”

Uncertainty twists in my stomach. “I don’t believe you, Chet, at least not the part about you being honest. You’re clearly hiding something.”

I step around him. In a flash, Chet closes the gap between us. He grasps my arm and pulls me close.

“Jane . . .”

Then, he’s kissing me. At first, I resist, but soon my defenses vanish. I give in because every cell in my body is wired for this strange, dark, hungry man. There’s nothing soft about this kiss—nothing gentle in the sweep of his tongue or the way he fits his palm to the back of my head, tilting it, owning the moment. Our teeth graze. The world narrows to his wintergreen taste and the burn of his stubble on my upper lip. He licks the seam of my mouth, and it’s not a question; it’s a dare. I answer with the whole wild ache inside me, kissing him back so hard it almost hurts.

He pulls away first. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m not good at talking about my past. Doesn’t mean I don’t want a future with you. Because I do.” He takes a deep breath. “So enjoy your alone time tonight. Take all the time you need. Just know that whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

Silently (and a bit unsteadily), I turn and walk away.

A few hours pass. I take Betty for a ride, and then Miss Adele. Dinner is boxed mac and cheese, my favorite comfort food, though it pales in comparison to the gourmet meals Chet’s been cooking for me. Once I’ve eaten, I pull out next month’s Spicy Book Club pick, determined to form some profound opinions. To redeem myself after last week’s false start. But I’m reading the same passage multiple times, realizing I’ve got no idea what the story is even about.

Instead, I pull out my tattered copy of Escape from the Springs. Opening to a random page, my eyes fall on the line: We glorify safety, flinging ourselves onto treadmills of convention. We spend our lives walking in place, never finding truth or beauty. Never taking a chance.

The next moment, I’m standing at Chet’s back door, my hand raised to knock. He opens it before my knuckles make contact.

“Why are you knocking?” he asks, surprise softening his voice. “Just let yourself in.”

I step right into his arms.

After dark, the western sky throws a tantrum. Lightning splits the mountains, thunder shakes the ceiling, and wind rattles the windows with a tenacity I both respect and loathe. Lightning flashes, temporarily illuminating the room. For a split second, I can see my painting of Miss Adele. Chet was true to his word—he hung it over his bed.