If it wasn't a terrorist attack or major natural disaster, the city had definitely seen more exciting things.
When we got back into his apartment, I collapsed on the couch and Jack climbed on top of me. His weight was incredibly comforting. I sunk into the cushions, surrounded by soft pillows and his body. He kissed me slowly, purposefully and gently, tickling my tongue with his own.
The warm gesture stopped abruptly. "God, I was so worried today." His expression was tense, vacant.
"I'm just glad you were there, you stalker." I smiled at him and kissed his stubble-covered cheek. "Where were you sitting?"
"I was just around the opposite corner. I snuck in after you started talking to him. Something told me I just had to." I was watching his mind wrestle with the day's events, his facial muscles displaying the score. I hoped he was winning.
"I didn't see you at all." I guess I had been just too entranced by Timothy's whirlwind insanity. It was like staring at a car crash or something.
"I really was worried, Effie. I don't know what I'd do if I’d lost you in there, if he’d really hurt you or something. I couldn't live with it, especially not if it was my fault." His words were so big, so meaningful, expressing concepts that I could barely grasp at this point in the day.
I couldn't understand why I was coping with the situation so much better than he was. I mean, I was the one that had been under attack, not him. We hadn't even been seeing each other that long. And it all turned out okay in the end, thanks entirely to his unexpected intervention.
Now we were in the apartment together safe and sound, relaxing and having a good time. Trouble was behind us.
Questions popped into my head, going off like a chain of firecrackers. Were we moving too fast or something? Had I gauged him wrong? No matter what I tried to convince myself of, I just couldn't get past his authenticity—something appeared to lie beyond his surface, something significant that he was keeping from me. I immediately knew that it was that something that was weighing so heavily upon his conscience.
I held him tightly, clutching his body for dear life as we both silently sorted through our own emotional baggage. I had exhausted my vocabulary and been reduced to thoughts only.
In a way, I didn't want him to care about me so much. I didn't feel worthy of that sort of consideration. I frequently had those feelings of inadequacy, those erratic impulses that said you're not good enough for anyone. At my worst, I sometimes found myself feeling pathetic and used up, as if I had already passed my prime and was ready to be discarded.
Jack was rich and successful, with looks that matched or exceeded his success—and he had anything and everything he wanted. Today was just him being a Good Samaritan, that was all. I just got lucky. Somebody else would have come to my rescue if he hadn't. I was getting carried away if I assumed anything other than that.
But no matter how hard I fought, my mind kept returning to one thought, the impossible, the unimaginable, the unfathomable—maybe he really did care about me...
Chapter 7
Once we started moving around again, Jack made us steaks and a huge Cobb salad, one comprised of some of the freshest greens I'd ever eaten. I swear the food he made at home was almost better than the over-the-top expensive dinners he had treated me to. Funny that it took a supremely rich guy to teach me that great food could be had easily at home.
One-and-a-half glasses of wine down, and full of unflagging adrenaline, I decided to drill Jack for information.
"It's nothing," he insisted, my first wave of questioning behind us. He was a terrible liar, at least today.
"You're holding something back from me, Jack. What happened to you?"
He tensed up, wound tight as piano wire, holding his wine glass so firmly I feared it might shatter between his fingertips. "Effie, I know you're concerned, but I just... just can't." He was so frazzled by my inquiry that it made me wish I'd never asked at all.
Why was I doing this?
I couldn't believe how much it was affecting me to see him like this. He had been so brave when he came to my rescue—but now he was humbled, like a dropped popsicle melting in the hot, direct sunlight. I really didn't want Jack to wind up as a fruit-flavored stain on his expensive carpet. I would need a change in strategy.
"Fine," I said. "I'm sorry. Seriously." There was just a hint of a defensive tone in my voice—and he sensed it.
Jack fell silent and then jumped to his feet and walked to the closest window. He stared out into the city; perhaps the sprawling view was cathartic. Something was driving him crazy—and I wanted to know what it was. The problem was, I wanted to be sympathetic and let it go as much as I wanted to know what was plaguing him. What was he hiding? I swore this next try would be my last.
"Jack, this is killing you. What is it? I don't like seeing you like this." I put it out there and waited like a hunter, hoping that he would take the bait.
"It's stupid," he said. "I shouldn't care anymore. I always feel dumb when I get caught up in it."
"You obviously do care. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Dammit," he whispered. "I swore to myself that I'd never bring this up around someone else again. I just... just couldn't help but remember it all again at the coffee shop, when he—" He froze for a second. "It rushed
