“Don’t worry, he’ll come back around soon. Just give him some time,” I say.
But after another week, Killian is the same, if not worse. A constant angry energy is rolling off him in thick waves that hang in the air long after he’s gone.
I tell him to stay off Jenna, to not talk to her.
“Whatever you say,Dad,” he shoots back with sharp irritation, but he does as I say, at least, ignoring Jenna or sticking to condescending glares.
Jenna, however, ardently tries to get something from him—anything to heal the gaping wound his cold rejections create.
“Will you please talk to me?” I sometimes hear her saying when I hover close by after hearing Killian coming downstairs. “Killian, please,” she keeps going when he doesn’t respond. “I miss you.”
The ache in her voice breaks my heart. Both for her and for him. Because he’s missing her as well. He just won’t admit it. I think something happened that night with the bench—an intimacy Killian wasn’t ready for. Jenna hasn’t told me the full depth of the story, but she’s given me enough to put two and two together.
As I witness this cold distance play out and see them both draw further in on themselves, I come to a difficult acknowledgement: Killian is not ready for the responsibility of having a sub, and he might never be. I had hoped that he just needed time and that we could figure out a way to do this arrangement in the long run—to keep Jenna here. But it’s becoming clearer by the day that it’s not going to happen. So I start thinking of alternative solutions. I promised Jenna I wouldn’t ever hurt her—a promise she made me quietly retract. But I’m hell-bent on keeping it. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way to keep her in my life while doing what’s best for my son. Somehow, I’ll figure this out without hurting her more than Killian already has.
50
The Kitten
Jenna
Killian’s vicious glares and cold rejections are starting to get to me. For a while, I thought I could handle them, but after two weeks—not a single touch or even a small taste of his dominance, two play nights cancelled—I can’t ignore the growing chasm in my heart. The aching need to feel, hear, or simply see him.
I start blatantly asking him for hugs. I always know the answer, even before he aims his cold glare at me, yet I can’t stop. I’m desperate. And the constant rejections only deepen my desperation.
To make everything worse, it’s dawned on me that there are only two and a half months until the competition. Ten weeks until my time here is up. I don’t know what exactly I’ve been hoping for, but I’ve been imagining that this would all somehow end well. That they would want to keep me. But I’m slowly realizing that’s never going to happen. Whatever progress I had made with Killian has crashed and burned, and Ian is never going to choose me over his son—I wouldn’t want him to. So I start resigning myself to the idea of moving out, secretly lookingat flat listings and job opportunities online. I even apply for a couple of jobs.
As the realization sinks in, I start to draw away from Ian. If I don’t do that, it will only hurt too much in the end. But I’m not sure the logic holds tight, because every time I pull away from him, the hurt in my chest claws deeper.
“Jenna, what’s going on with you?” he asks one day when I pull away as he sits beside me and tries to pull me close.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
He draws a heavy sigh that makes the guilt in my chest squeeze tighter. “It’s not nothing. You’ve been doing this for over a week, and it’s only getting worse. I thought it had something to do with Killian and that you just needed some space, but that’s not it, is it?”
“I just…” I lift my gaze from my book. Seeing his concern etched deep into his expression makes me want to spill everything, all my fears and worries and the loneliness that has resurfaced and become a constant companion. But when I remember his silence when I told him not to make any promises he couldn’t keep, I can’t get any words out. I can’t bear to get that same reaction again.
“Just what?” He reaches out to stroke my cheek, but I break the connection. His touch creates a deep burn—a painful longing for more. A painful reminder that I’m going to lose it all. I just can’t take it.
“I just need to be alone,” I say, shooting up from the couch and backing away. I clutch my book in my arms as if it could shield me from all the hurt that seems to be barreling straight for me—all the hurthe’sgoing to cause, whether he wants it or not.
He gets up as well, reaching for me. “Jenna, please, just talk to me.”
Shaking my head, I back up another step. My throat is already closing up, and I’m afraid the tears burning behind my eyes will burst free if I try to speak.
Ian stops, and a stern expression settles over his features. His gaze sharpens on me. He’s going into dominant mode. “Jenna,” he warns in that tone that usually spurs my instinctive obedience. But all it does now is trigger my flight instinct—the need to protect myself.
I rush out of the patio door, down the steps, and barefoot onto the lawn. On my way to the secluded nook beneath the tall trees, I glance back. Ian is just standing there, watching me go, expression hard. I think he’s angry, but there seems to be more behind his tight expression. Disappointment? Worry? Sadness? I don’t know; I don’t look long enough to decipher it.
Part of me is relieved to see that he’s not following, but another part aches with the feeling that he’s letting me go—that he, too, is preparing for the split.
I huddle against a big trunk, out of sight from the house, hidden by the big rose bushes adorning the center of the garden. I sit there for a long while, just shaking, hoping Ian will come find me, hoping he won’t.
I wonder if he let me go because I disobeyed. It’s the first time his steady dominance has scared me and made me run away. It makes me feel so damn guilty. I think it got to him as well. That strange look in his eyes when I turned to look after him is stuck in my brain like a bad omen.
I want to fix things even though I know I can’t. An apology would only be a temporary fix. The wound runs far deeper than that single incident. Yet I keep considering going back to him—or running away altogether. But where would I go? And what would happen if I went back and apologized? Would he punish me? Part of me wants him to be mad and let me feelthe consequence, but I also don’t think I could take it. I’m too wrought, too lost.
So I just sit here. Stuck. Alone. Nowhere to go.