Collateral Damage (42 page)

"That would be fine."

"And the day after that," I add.

She pulls away, gazes at me from beneath those lashes. "How long should I expect this nonsense to continue, Officer Whalen?"

"What? This inexplicable need I have to talk to you, to see you, to feel you, to know what you're doing every second of every day? I was thinking.... I don't know. Forever?"

"That sounds...."

"Like a stalker?"

Her shoulders lift in a gentle shrug. "I was gonna go for amazing."

And, at that moment, Jaden McEntyre becomes my miracle—my saving grace—healing parts of me I didn't realize were broken, piecing together what I didn't know was shattered.

Standing here on this roof, with her in my arms....

I am whole.

Complete.

Exactly
where I'm meant to be.

E
PILOGUE

A Few Years Later

I drag the highlighter across the page, sentence after sentence—definition after definition—information I have two weeks to commit to memory. I stop when I hear footsteps in the stairwell and check the time. It's her. It has to be. I shut my
Victimology and Social Change
text, cap the highlighter, and toss it on the coffee table.

Keys jingle against the lock, my stomach growls, and in storms Jaden.

"Hey." I stand from the couch and stretch my arms, preparing to grab my jacket and helmet so we can head to dinner.

Jaden flings her bookbag across the living room. It lands with a thunk in the corner.

Shit.

"Are you okay?" I ask, hesitating.

"No. I'm not okay," she replies. "Dr. Seversky is the biggest prick to ever walk the streets of this city. No. That's actually me being generous. The biggest prick to walk this
planet
."

I shove my hands deep in my pockets, bracing myself for what's to come.

Dr. Seversky is quite possibly the first person Jaden has ever hated—
vehemently
. Dr. Seversky is the first person Jaden ever called an asshole—out loud. I would've never believed it had I not heard it myself. I laughed at the time, begged her to say it again. She refused, and she hasn't uttered the word since, but it doesn't matter, because her feelings for this guy are abundantly clear. And I know more than I ever want or care to know about Dr. Seversky.

"What happened?"

She presses fingers against her temples, closes her eyes. "He's just...a prick! I'm so sick of the yelling and the berating and the hovering! I'm tired of not being able to do anything right! I just spent the last three hours getting screamed at." Her eyes open, widening. "Oh my God. It's like he gets inside my head!"

I open my mouth to say something poignant—something that will make her feel better. Something like
it's okay,
or
he's just trying to prepare you for med school,
or
if you want me to find out where he lives.... I know a few guys.
But nothing comes. She disappears inside the bedroom, exits with a change of clothes, and announces she needs a shower.

In thirty seconds water is running.

"There goes dinner," I mutter. I run fingers through my hair, survey the disarray that has become our apartment, then knock on the bathroom door. "Jaden?"

"Yeah?" comes her muffled reply.

"Let's stay in tonight. I'll order Chinese, okay?"

She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Okay. Thank you."

The number is posted on the refrigerator. Not that we need it. The Market Street No. 1 Chinese Restaurant is on our speed dial. And, after almost four years of Dr. Seversky, I don't even
need
speed dial—they recognize my voice when I call, ask if I want "the usual."

I place a quick order for delivery—a mix of rice and sweet and sour chicken and sesame chicken—and tackle the kitchen, tossing out napkins and plastic-ware and empty bags from last night's dinner. Jaden showers until I'm sure the water runs cold, then emerges in a pair of jeans and one of my t-shirts, a towel wrapped around her head.

"I'm so
sick
of him, Parker. You have no idea," she says, continuing our conversation like there wasn't a twenty-minute lull. She heads to the cabinet hanging by the stove—where we keep the medicine—and opens it, searching. And I'll admit there's something inside me that still stings whenever I hear the jostling of that bottle of Advil. Whenever she takes two pills instead of one. Because I never really know if that headache is courtesy of Dr. Seversky or an accident—an incident—that happened years ago. An incident I still dream about. An incident that still, to this day, haunts me.

 
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry." It's the best I can do under the circumstances. This adviser thing is out of my control. Beyond my jurisdiction. Even so, I hate not being able to fix this—not that Jaden would
let
me fix it. She'd never give Dr. Seversky the satisfaction of knowing he took her down. That's not how she operates. She'd rather suffer in silence, vent, rant, scream into her pillow, then take
him
down.

She swigs a gulp of bottled water pulled from the fridge, chasing an Advil, and screws the cap tight. "That man is like...my
nemesis
. It's like he
lives
to torture me."

"He pushes you because he knows you have what it takes. He knows you can handle it."

"He's making my life hell," she replies, tone clipped. "Telling me how stupid I am is
not
motivating. At all."

She sets the water on the counter, opens the hallway closet, and rolls out the vacuum.

Great.

Jaden is an angry cleaner. Exceptionally difficult days with professors like Dr. Seversky mean mopped floors. Bags of old clothes to donate placed by the door. Dust-free ceiling fans.

I return to the couch, knowing she'll eventually run out of steam. In a couple of hours the apartment will be spotless, the closets will be organized, and she'll crash. We'll sleep in, she'll wake up a new person, and we'll head to one of those twenty-four hour breakfast places and eat pancakes and bacon until we're nauseous.

She's vacuuming the bedroom, the door closed, when dinner arrives. I make two plates and pour two glasses of wine. I push back the curtains and turn off the overhead lights so all that's left is the lamp on the end table and the lights from the city to fill the apartment.

"Jade!" I call. "Dinner!"

I climb onto the barstool and spear a few bites of chicken. The apartment is quiet—the vacuum stopped—but she doesn't emerge.

"Jaden?"

Nothing.

I swallow a mouthful of wine, then move toward the bedroom door, pausing outside to listen. I don't hear a thing, but, when I open it, she's sitting on the other side of the bed, shoulders slumped, defeated.

And something inside breaks a little at the sight of her.

"Hey. Dinner's getting cold."

"I know. I'm coming," she promises. But the response seems too forced—too perky—and, when she swipes her eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, I know she's crying—Jaden, who, even now, hates crying in front of people. I climb across the bed on hands and knees and sit down behind her.

"Hey. It'll be okay," I promise, massaging her shoulders.

She nods.

I push her hair aside and brush gentle kisses along her neck. It's still wet—the back of her shirt is cool and damp. "Come eat with me, please," I beg. "I've hardly seen you all week."

When she inhales, her chest shudders, and I know this is about more than another bad lab with Dr. Seversky.

"Look. I know this is tough. I know you're working hard, and you're stressed right now, but this isn't going to last forever. You're so close. If you can just hang in there...."

"No. It's not that." Her voice gives, cracking with the words.

"Then what is it?" I hate that her back is turned, that I can't see her eyes. "Talk to me, Jade."

"I—it was an accident, I swear."

My heart stutters, skipping a beat or two. "What are you talking about?"

A strangled sob catches in her throat. She swallows it back, lifts her left hand. I take it in mine, examine the diamond sparkling on her ring finger.

"It's stuck!"

That's it?
That's
what she's crying about?

I don't know if it's the relief I feel—that it's nothing serious—but I laugh.

She turns to face me, her eyes a paler shade of green and red at the edges. Exhausted. "I'm so sorry! I was cleaning off the dresser," she explains. "I went into your box to put away your watch and I saw it. I know it was your grandmother's. I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have touched it..."

"Jade," I interrupt.

"I was curious and I..."

"Jade."

"I'll figure out how to get it off, I promise!"

"Jaden!" I practically yell.

"What?"

I take her hand in mine, look her square in the eye. "Relax. It's
not
a big deal." Heat radiates from her body. I rest the back of my hand against her cheek, brush away tears. "You're still warm from your shower. Come on." I gently pull her to her feet, lead her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. "Sit," I command.

She slides onto one of the barstools while I grab a cup from the cabinet and a handful of ice from the freezer. She takes a huge gulp of wine, wipes away the remaining tears. "I'm a wreck," she declares as I fill the cup with water. "I have been a wreck for the last four years."

"Some would argue that you've been a wreck for the last twenty-two years." I place the cup on the counter and stick her ring finger in it. She frowns. "Give it a minute. Once your finger cools it'll fall right off. And, if this doesn't work, we'll try olive oil. Or conditioner."

She exhales a tired sigh. "I used to have everything under control."

"You exuded the
illusion
of control," I remind her. "There's a difference."

"I have no idea why you put up with me," she says, feeling her forehead. She laughs. "God. I'm so pathetic."

"No. You're stressed. It's the end of the semester. Exams are coming up. Everyone on campus is pathetic right now."

"I
am
stressed," she admits. "But so are you. I mean, you're working
and
you have classes. You have finals coming up, too. I'm such an inconsiderate girlfriend."

"You don't have the monopoly on stress, Jaden."

"I know, but I keep making it all about me."

"You're
fine
."

She polishes off the remaining wine in her glass, sets it back on the counter. "Then tell me how your day was."

"It was fine," I promise. "Better, now that you're home."

A burst of color rises to her cheeks. She fingers the stem of that glass, twirling it. I swear to God she tempts me without even trying.