Page 34 of The Fixer

Indecision stifled me. I’d never been given free reign before. I’d been living with basic styles and borrowed clothes for the past two years. The only thing new in my closet had been given to me by my dad.

“Are you upset?” Jet pulled his hand free of mine, scrubbing his jaw as he stood and paced. “Jesus. Fuck. What did I do?”

“Jet.” I stumbled free from the blankets, rushing to his side, one hand gripping his arm as the other gripped the sweats nearly falling from my waist. “It’s okay, I’m not upset. I’m just… surprised. No one has ever done this for me before.”

“No one?” Anger burned, bright and dangerous, in the silver steel of his eyes. Everything in me told me to run, to shrink away, to curl into a ball and protect my head. But a tiny string of consciousness tugged at the back of my brain, and I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin.

Then raised my hand to his face.

“No one but you.”

Before I could touch him, he pulled back, and something in him shifted again.

“Why don’t you get dressed?” he said, snagging my hand before it could reach his cheek. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

He left then, spinning toward the door and closing it without a sound as he stepped out into the hall.

* * *

My misery needed company. When I stepped into the kitchen, with the fresh smell of bacon and eggs permeating the air, all it took was a smile from Jet’s pouty lips and all was forgiven.

I forgave him too easily. It was a bad habit of mine. It was the reason I stayed with Nathan as long as I did. The reason I’d cut myself off from everyone, and thus the reason I was now alone.

Jet gestured to the breakfast bar and the steaming plates and bowls settled there. Along with the bacon and eggs sat a short stack of pancakes. He joined me on my side of the bar, setting down the jar of syrup and the two green smoothies in his hands before helping me onto the high stool.

“You’re serving me junk food for breakfast?” I chided, light laughter in my voice.

“Healthy foods,” he retorted as he effortlessly slid into his own chair. “Buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup, and green smoothies. Sometimes you need a little sweetness to make it through your day.”

“Green smoothies.” I wrinkled my nose. “What is that? Spinach and kale?”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” He pushed one glass toward me and took a long gulp of his own. A little green mustache clung to his top lip until he licked it off. “It tastes good.”

“Good but not great?” I held my breath, lifted the wretched-looking drink to my lips, and took a sip.

“Apple, pineapple, kiwi, banana, and mango,” Jet told me as each of those flavors hit me in turn. The kale and spinach, and whatever other plant life he’d sacrificed to make the drink so vividly green, were unnoticeable.

“It is good,” I conceded before taking another sip. Then I teased, “It could use some orange juice.”

“I stand by my recipe.” He busied himself with plating a couple pancakes for the both of us, then spooning some eggs onto his plate. He poured a touch of syrup atop his pancake before holding the jar out to me. “Would you like some?”

With a nod, I reached toward him, bumping into his hand as he reached out to pour. We paused there, hands touching, our eyes locked. Something sizzled between us, like bacon grease in a frying pan. I lowered my gaze, taking the syrup from his hand.

I wasn’t ready to go there. To a place where I swept his behavior under the rug after a pretty look. I’d done it before, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t do it again.

We ate in comfortable silence. Jet was right about one thing: the sweetness of the breakfast was needed. I devoured the pancakes, my mind on memories of cold winter mornings where Mom made us breakfast and we took turns batting Mr. Jingles away. I wanted to ask for seconds, like I did when I was a kid, but I settled on eating the eggs and bacon he’d made.

“Goodness,” I gasped, one hand clutching my mouth, trying to keep the most delicious scrambled eggs I’d ever tasted from tumbling out. My other hand reached out to Jet, my palm grazing his knee. “This is amazing! What did you—”

He was standing on the other side of his chair in an instant, his smoothie glass in his hand. I swore, I saw his chest heave. A wave of… something… crossed his features.

“You’re right,” he said after a pregnant silence. “It could use some orange juice.”

Nathan bought me things, too, to make up.

That thought flickered behind my eyelids like a pulse as I watched Jet go to the fridge. He stood with the door open, the white light inside shining over the dark look on his face. His chest rose. Held. Gradually began to fall, to deflate until his shoulders went right with it, his head leaning forward until it rested against his hand on the door.

Uncertainty washed over me. There was no imminent danger, not with him standing across the room. “Jet?”