196
“Don’t worry, I’m going to bed, but it’s not yours, asshole.” I almost crack my screen with the force of hanging up. I storm through the kitchen to get water for my suddenly sand-dry throat. My hands are shaking, and I’m vibrating with anger. This is so stupid, so goddamn over-the-top dramatic, even for him. My phone rings again, Jake’s name flashing like a red flag on my screen, and the urge to hang up bites at me. I pick it up and hesitate but then answer, rage consuming me.
“Whose bed exactly are you climbing into?” His venomous, slurring, jealousy-fueled, erratic response winds me.
What the f—? Does Jake really believe me capable of climbing into someone else’s bed? I’m not him!
I glare at the screen. My inner logical self has jumped out a window; instead, this need to wound him raises her ugly head. My lowest, pettiest reaction bites out, wounded.
How could he accuse me of something like that?
“I’m fucking waiting on an answer!” he shouts down the phone at me with so much hatred I recoil.
Stalking back to my room, I haul the huge teddy bear out of the closet and pull him upright; he wears a tag around his neck with his name. I flip it over and read it before slamming my mouth back to the phone.
“Joey’s … an old friend from Queens.” I remember how stupid his reaction to the bear was the first time he ‘met’ him; whether it was in jest or not, it highlighted that Jake has a severe jealous side and would probably not recall the bear's name. I hope it makes him suffer in the way he’s making me suffer right now. I hang up just as he explodes, silencing the onslaught of Carrero abuse and craziness. I stand, trying to calm the panic surging through me, my body shaking violently and my nerves trembling. Weak and hysterical, my heart pounds through my chest. I know everything is falling apart around me. My world is crumbling.
I jump as my phone rings, and his number flashes across my screen, but I red-button him in defiance. He wanted to be an asshole, and now he suddenly wants to talk. I red-button him a second time when it rings again.
“ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!!!!” The text beeps on almost as soon as I lay it face down on the bed; fear sweeps over me, so my body turns cold, and my limbs weaken.
Jake’s angry, very angry. Maybe I’ve pushed things too far?
My anger almost drops out of me with insane speed to be replaced with immediate remorse. I should know better than to play the jealousy card and rile Jake. It makes him irrational and aggressive, even with me. He sees red and can’t seem to control it. He had admitted to me he’s never had any feelings like that in his past, and it’s all so new to him and overpowering, and I’ve just handed him a lit grenade when he’s drunk and already pissed.
I know him. I know his need to lash out and hurt things, hurt people when consumed like this. As a teen, he beat his way through a drunken-fueled haze many times and made the headlines. The last thing he needs now is another front-page mess because his girlfriend tipped him over the edge.
What have I done to him? I’m so stupid! So fucking stupid! I’m supposed to make him a better man, want to be a better man.
I pick up the phone, swaying with indecisiveness, and try to call him, my hands shaking violently, sick with nerves. I get his voicemail, and my stomach drops. I try again and again, five times in twenty minutes, but I get his voicemail every time, and it suddenly dawns on me he’s switched his cell off.
He’s beyond raging with me; he’s gone off-the-charts angry. I text him quickly, hoping to God he switches it on and sees it before he does something beyond stupid or calls me back.
“Jake, I’m sorry, I was angry. Please don’t go mad. Joey is the bear you won for me, remember? I’m in my old apartment, xxx. I love you. I’m sorry.”
I send it with an overwhelming feeling of fear, tightening my stomach, choking on tears and regret.
Maybe I should go back to his apartment tonight and be there for him coming home; fix this. Fix my stupidity. I should know better than to ever play that jealousy card with him. It’s guaranteed to make him lash out and do something stupid, like get in a bar brawl or come home and smash another wall.
That much testosterone fueled by alcohol and jealousy is a lethal combination, and I just lit the fuse. If he’d done the same to me, I would have flipped the psycho switch, and no telling what I would have done. I feel so stupid.
I sit shaking for what seems like an eternity before I finally get enough courage to gather my things and call for a cab; it’s going to be one expensive ride home and the most agonizing journey, but I need to be there when Jake finally comes home. I need to show him that the only bed I was climbing into was his. I pick up my phone and send one last text.
“Please come home, Jake. I’m getting a cab back to Manhattan. I’m sorry xxx. I need to see you. I miss you.”
I take a deep, steadying breath and swallow the urge to cry, body shaking violently and all resolve gone. Pulling myself together, I get ready while awaiting the cab’s arrival.
* * *
The journey feels endless, and the driver does not attempt conversation. Luckily Jake always insists I carry cash for emergencies, and his generosity means it’s more than I realized was even in my purse. It warms me a little knowing he put it there should I ever be caught somewhere desperate for assistance, that I had money to use. It makes me feel even more wretched for hurting him this way, for letting him think I would do that. I’m an idiot. I know this and try his phone for the hundredth time, but it’s still off. Tears pour down my cheek, and my heart aches. I have so much to make up for.
Mathews lets me into the apartment with a warm smile and a look of concern, yet he knows his place and doesn’t ask. I know Jake hasn't been here as soon as I walk in. I can tell from the emptiness and the fact his case is sat by the kitchen counter that only his things were dropped off, and he’s never set foot back in here.
I drag both cases to the bedroom and get ready for bed, pulling on one of his T-shirts for comfort. It’s late. Jake probably won’t be home for hours if he refuses to turn his phone back on, and, well, he assumes I’m doing God knows what with someone else. I wouldn’t be surprised if he never comes home at all. I want to find him, but I don’t know how, and all I can do until he reads my messages is wait.
I pick up my phone for one last attempt and stifle a sob as it hits voicemail immediately. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. I want him home with me so badly. I would agree to anything right now—eloping, mansions on the moon, and a lifetime of only saying yes to his every whim.
I leave one pathetic message on his machine,
“Jake, please come home. I need you,” muffled through sobs, sniffs, and heartbreak.
I finally curl onto his side of the bed, crying my heart out until I drift into a hazy, tortured sleep, dreaming of Jake consumed by rage and ripping apart men trying to lay hands on me.
* * *
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