I untangle myself from Grant. My thoughts drift back to the woman in our living room and the need to see how she’s doing.
Grant said she was sleeping, but knowing her, it won’t be for long. I also don’t want her to attempt to jump right into the cold. I could see her trying her damnedest.
Stepping out of the bedroom, I hear the paper before I see her.
A sharp, tearing sound. Harsh in a way that doesn’t match the calm of the house. It makes me pause halfway down the hall.
At least that means she hasn’t left.
She’s standing in the kitchen, shoulders tight, a single sheet of paper clenched in her hands like it might bite her if she loosens her grip. There’s a glass of water untouched on the counter. Her bag sits open, mail spread beside it. The envelope is shredded into pieces on the floor.
I don’t even need to read it to know it isn’t good.
Her face has gone blank in that way I’ve already learned to recognize. It’s like she’s pulled a wall down inside herself, brick by brick, until nothing can get through. But for some reason, I’m compelled to help her. I don’t want anything that tarnishes the woman inside.
I lean against the doorway, keeping my voice low. “You okay?”
She doesn’t look at me right away. When she does, her eyes are glassy but dry. Controlled. Too controlled. I don’t want her to hide. Not from me.
“It’s stupid,” she says quickly. “I knew it was coming. It always does.”
That answers nothing. What the fuck is she talking about?
I go with the only thing I know. “Is it him again? Is the jerk from the warehouse threatening you?”
She laughs, but it’s hollow, “I think I might take those better at this point. It would really be a toss-up.”
Her response only adds to my confusion. “Then who sent you something that has clearly upset you?”
She doesn’t answer, but hands me the letter to read for myself. I read it. Then re-read it. What the actual fuck is this? This is terrible.
“I get one every year. It’s no big deal.” She shrugs like it means nothing, which is complete bullshit. My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
She takes the letter back, folding it over and over. An attempt to make it smaller. Like she’s trying to make it disappear through sheer force of will. I watch her hands. Steady, even though everything else about her feels like it’s fraying.
Ready to crumble.
This isn’t the Jolee that I know. Not the strong and independent woman I’ve become infatuated with.
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “This feels like a big deal. It feels like something, or someone, is hurting you. I don’t like it at all.”
Her shoulders lift in another slow shrug. “Nothing new.” A beat. “Nothing she hasn’t already said.”
I nod, even though anger coils in my chest. I want to tear the letter up myself. Burn it. Remove every trace of that woman from her life. But I don’t. Because this isn’t mine to fix. Not yet. Jo has to let me in first, even if it’s just a fraction.
I don’t even know who the fuck this is. But I hate that she even has this effect on her.
“She doesn’t get to define you,” I say. “Who is she, Jo? Tell me who this is.”
She laughs softly at that. Not amused. Just tired. “Everyone says that. And who isn’t important. I can’t let her be important.”
“I’m not everyone.”
That finally makes her look at me. Really look. There’s something raw there—exposed and exhausted—that hits me harder than I expect.
I lean closer. I want to offer her comfort. To hold her. But her body language has me holding back. She’s turned further away, rigid and tense. The opposite of what sleep and rest are supposed to do to someone.
She clears her throat and looks away first. “I shouldn’t be here.”