Page 60 of Total Jane Wreck

His arm is slung across my ribcage. His fingers twitch a little every time thunder rolls in, just a tiny reflex, a giveaway that he’s not quite asleep. Around midnight, he pulls me in so tight my back’s glued to his chest. Our feet are tangled. It should be too hot under the blankets, but the air conditioner is working overtime. I lie there, counting the seconds between the thunderclaps and lightning flashes.

BOOM! I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted. Chet’s body tenses beside me.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be.” His fingers find my neck, brushing away damp strands of hair. “Storm’s fault, not yours.” His yawn tickles my ear. “Have you been lying here freaking out?”

“Not freaking out. Just remembering something from my childhood.” I brush my fingers along Chet’s arm. “When I was twelve, my family boarded this horse named Kenny G. Like the saxophone player.”

Chet hums a refrain of “Songbird.” Then, kissing the top of my head, he murmurs, “Go on.”

“Kenny G was skittish. He hated thunderstorms. That’s not unusual, but most of the time, sheltering a horse in its stall makes it feel safe. That wasn’t the case with Kenny G. He got scared because he could hear and feel the storm but he couldn’t see it. So he’d neigh and thrash about until I led him outside. Even though he got rained on, once Kenny G actually saw the thunder and lightning, he calmed down. Made me realize that sometimes it’s less scary to face a threat head-on. It’s the stuff we can’t predict that’s most terrifying.”

“I suppose,” Chet says. “But none of us knows what will happen next. Life isn’t a book that you can skip to the last page and read. Sometimes we must barrel ahead, blindfolded. Because the alternative is worse.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Playing it safe. Not going after what you want out of fear. Letting self-loathing dictate your choices.”

I pause, tracing the lines of his fingers on my belly. “Is that what you’re doing?” I ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m afraid it’s what you’ll do, once you figure out just how flawed I am.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I swear, Jane,” he says, his voice dropping to that intimate register that makes my stomach flip, “sometimes I think if our hearts were connected—like, actually physically tied together by a string that snapped—I’d be the one bleeding out while you’d just . . . move on. Like nothing happened.”

Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. Turning, I face him.

“Jane?” His fingers brush my hair.

“Don’t.” The word comes out raw. “You think I’m some kind of robot? That I don’t feel things? That I can just rebound from any hurt like it never happened? God, Chet. Just because I don’t fall apart in front of you doesn’t mean I’m not falling apart.”

“Oh, Jane—” He pulls me against him, his stubble rough against my forehead. “That’s not what I meant.” When he pulls back, his eyes gleam despite his serious expression. “Your heart is way bigger than mine. That’s the problem.”

“So I’m too emotional now? Is this the part where you tell me it’s not working out?”

He puffs out a breath like his chest hurts. “The only thing not working out is me. I don’t deserve you. But I still want to keep trying.”

My fingertip skims the outline of his jaw. “What’s stopping you?”

“A few things.” His voice cracks. “I’ve been running. From happiness. From connection. From anything real. But with you, I feel like . . .” he takes another shaky breath “. . . like maybe I could learn to stop running.”

There’s something electric between us that has nothing to do with the storm. Rain pounds the roof, and my heart pounds as well. His eyes lock with mine. “Move in here with me. Stop being my employee and start being my partner. We’ll run Resilience Ranch together. And we’ll . . . we’ll love each other.”

The rain intensifies, matching the rhythm of my pulse. “I’d like that,” I whisper.

Outside, the storm rages on. Lightning illuminates his face for a brief moment; thunder follows. But the chaos outside can’t touch the joy I feel in his arms.

In the morning, Chet gets up first. When I pass his study, he’s already at his computer, glasses on, staring at the screen while talking on his phone. He’s mostly listening, jaw flexing, but then Chet interrupts. “. . . I don’t care if Mason’s lawyers threaten to file daily. The endowment has to be ironclad. No contest, no exceptions.”

It’s tempting to linger and try to hear more. Instead, I make coffee and go for a walk. That’s when I discover that the massive oak tree by the horse pasture has been split in two. It’s got to be from last night’s lightning. And it’s got to be a sign.

But a sign of what?

I keep walking, fear settling into my heart. And an intrusive thought steamrolls itself into my brain. Chet and I are like that tree—unable to predict what’s coming. Powerless to stop it. So powerless, we can’t protect ourselves.

Does that mean we’re doomed to split in two?