Nuclear Heat (Firework Girls Book 4) by White J.L

Author:White, J.L. [White, J.L.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Velvet Pen Books
Published: 2016-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Jack

I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I do in this moment.

Chapter 16

Sam

I don’t call the girls. I don’t talk to a soul. I pick up my phone a hundred times to text Jack, but I never do because I don’t know what to say.

He doesn’t text me either.

I wonder why we don’t have memorials for this kind of thing. Because losing Jack feels like a death.

I spend the next few days at work avoiding people as much as I can so I don’t have to keep saying “Nothing” when people ask me “What’s wrong?” Ashley and Isabella dropped in once, but they didn’t stay long. I’m inconsolable. They don’t know what happened, so they think I’m just heartbroken over Jack.

They’re not wrong.

For the record, I’ve been right this entire time: love sucks.

I stay late at the office because I don’t want to be home but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been working so much and am so ahead of schedule on my projects, I’m going to be screwed by the middle of next week when I’m just fucking sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

I don’t care.

The girls are busy this evening with one of our group texts. Chloe mentions she hasn’t heard from Jack in a while and he’s not returning her messages. She has some sort of website question for him. The other girls say they don’t know what he’s up to either, but this is really nothing new. He doesn’t chat with them every day like he used to do with me. So they do what they always do when they want to know what Jack’s up to. They ask me.

I don’t answer, trusting the conversation will move on to something else, which it does. Ashley says something about a neighbor bringing over a huge box of peaches from their tree, so she’s going to divvy it up and bring some round to each of us. I don’t reply to that or anything else. I focus on the logo I’m designing instead. It’s the only thing I can do that kind of, sort of deadens the pain.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I expect I’ll spend weeks, months, years, trying to grieve over Jack.

What I don’t expect is coming home from work to see his truck parked out front.

I stop right in the middle of the road. He’s not in his truck, which means he’s in my house. I’m gripping the wheel with both hands, staring at his truck, listening to my car idle in the middle of the empty street.

I take a deep breath, then slowly pull into the drive. When I go through the front door, the living room is empty and the house is quiet.

I shut the door behind me. “Jack?”

He comes into view from the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. No plate. Dripping crumbs on my floor.

He looks at me and I can only look back. God, he looks like hell.

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