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LUNA

I’m not putting myself through another two years of school. I could barely make it through the last five months without dropping out, but with every day I woke up, I hated myself enough that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give myself another reason to want to die. I haven’t been the same since that night. I haven’t been the same since they died. Since they were murdered.

Jax has been a saint. With each passing day, I grow smaller. I think about that night he drew me a bath, and I locked the door. The pain in his voice when he asked me to unlock it killed me. But I let him suffer because it made me feel something—something that wasn’t numb. It made me feel in control.

He looks at me with want and need, but I can barely see him. There’s a fog in my head that clouds my vision until all I see is nothing. Everywhere.

School is nearing the end. Only one week left. One week left of having something meaningful until I turn completely into nothing.

I’m sitting at the island with a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. Pushing the food around with my fork, I stare at it. Jax walks in from the back room with a basket in his hand. He places it on the counter before me and looks at me with a hand on his hips.

His weight and muscle are back. His face is a clean shave. He smokes cigarettes regularly as if my downfall causes him too much stress. But how does he ignore what happened to them? To me?

I should be fine, shouldn’t I? They got their retribution, so why can’t I move on? Is this what they expected and wanted? For me to fall apart until there were too many pieces to pick back up?

“What is that?” I finally ask.

“All of the products for doing nails at home,” Jax answers.

“I don’t know how to do nails,” I respond.

“It’s not for you to do. It’s for me to do for you,” he tells me—a sly grin across his face. My eyes widen.

“What?”

“I’ve spent the last few months learning and practicing on Mom. I wanted to be able to do something special for you. I have face masks, too,” he explains. My mouth hangs open in shock.

“Why?”

“I see the way you avoid reflections and mirrors, baby. I want to do something to help make you feel like a girl again. You’re drowning, and I don’t quite know how to save you.” A tear forms in my eye.

He’s right. I have been. It feels like I am already six feet under. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, and I don’t know how to get back up. I’m so fucking lost.

“I know it might be hard because I’m going to have to touch you to do this, but I hope you’ll let me.”

I owe him that, don’t I? I owe him to do what he can to help. Or at least try to help. I nod my head at him. Another smile reaches his lips, filled with excitement about doing this for me.

“Come on. Come over to the couch,” he says as he picks the basket back up. We walk over to the living room together. I sit down and watch him as he preps. He pulls the side table over, pushing the coffee table back to give room. Jax sits on the table and sets the products on the small side table.

“What color do you want?” He shows me the options: pink, blue, purple, black, white, etc. He has all the colors of the rainbow. I pick the deep blue shade, and he nods.

I watch his every move—the drilling, picking the fake nail tips, filing, and every other step along the way. He is precise, focused, and careful not to hurt my skin or nails. His touches are soft. My body is clenching tight at the feel of his skin on mine. I’ve missed it. Part of me wanted it, and maybe a bigger part needed it. I just hadn’t known it. I was so afraid to feel the touch of anyone that I pushed him away.

Nearly two hours pass before he finishes my nails. I stare down at them. They look surprisingly perfect. I smile—the first real smile in months—and it feels good—refreshing. Jax says nothing as he takes the file and shapes his nails.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Painting mine to match,” he responds casually. He works on his nails, filing, shaping, cutting his cuticles, and then finishes with paint. I sit here for an hour, watching his every move.

“Why?” I squeak. “This isn’t like you.”

Deep inside, he’s still that sweet boy. Naomi’s words from months ago play in my head. Maybe all along, she was right.

“He’s still inside of you,” I say.

“Who?”

“The boy that died the day your father did.”