I grab a couple of towels from the dryer and leave James in the house's only full bathroom to clean up while I wash off in the kitchen sink. I move as quickly as possible, not even worrying about the mess I'm leaving behind. I'll deal with that later; my first priority is making it next door to talk to Jodi before she has a chance to talk to Wyatt. Based on the look on her face, I have a feeling she misinterpreted mine and James' interaction. I change clothes and slip my shoes on, but before I even make it out the door, my phone rings. I groan when I see Wyatt's name on the screen.

"Hey babe!" I'm overcompensating. My voice is too cheerful, too fake.

"I just got a call from mom," he growls, "What the hell is going on over there?" I expected his questions and concerns, but I didn't expect his open hostility. I take a deep, calming breath before responding.

"Exactly what I told you was going on today. I'm working on the house."

"I must have missed the part where you told me you were going to mud wrestle half-naked in your front yard with some random dude."

"We weren't mud wrestling. We weren't half naked. And he isn't some random dude. All of which you would know if you asked me instead of jumping to conclusions."

"There shouldn't be anything to ask about. There is no excuse for your behavior. Jesus. After everything I've done for you?" The tone and volume of his voice continue to escalate.

"You know what? Whatever. You're just going to assume the worst, so why bother." Sometimes I wish cell phones weren't a thing. I'd love to feel the satisfaction of slamming a receiver down right now. Instead, I end the call with all the aggression my little thumb can muster without damaging my touch screen.

My phone rings from my pocket, but I ignore it and set it on silent. It immediately vibrates, and I intentionally send it to voicemail. It vibrates again, three short bursts notifying me of an incoming text message.

I have no idea where he's patrolling today; If it's on the south side of the county he could be here in as little as fifteen minutes. The shower is still running. James is still naked in my bathroom, and that's the last thing I need Wyatt to walk in on right now. I reluctantly call him back.

"So now you want to talk." He grumbles, his tone is cold.

"I don't want to fight." I sigh.

"Then maybe have a little self-respect and don't embarrass me. What are people supposed to think, seeing you act like that?" His tone is softer, but his words still sting.

"I don't care what they think. I care what you think. That you trust me. And you clearly don't."

"I do trust you. But my own mother called to tell me what she saw with her own eyes. I trust her, too. And when she says my girlfriend is acting like a little slut, I have concerns." He's not shouting at me anymore, but I can hear the anger in his voice, as if he's speaking through clenched teeth.

"Wait, your mom said I acted like a slut?" Jodi is one of the only people whose opinion I actually care about. For her to say that is deeply hurtful.

"She didn't have to. She was pretty descriptive."

"Oh, so those are your words. Your judgment." That hurts so much worse. I don't even try to hold the tears back, but I cover the speaker with my hand. I don't want him to hear me cry.

"Well. If the shoe fits," he spits.

"Oh my God!" I yell, drawing out the last word.

"Blaise?" James yells through the door. I hear the water turn off. I hear the curtain rings screech against the metal rod, followed closely by a series of clatters, a hard thud, and a string of curse words.

"You okay?" I call through the closed door.

He responds with laughter. "Yeah. I swear I barely touched the shower curtain and this whole rod came tumbling down."

"Sorry I meant to warn you. That tension rod never stays up."

My phone vibrates. I see Wyatt's name and throw my phone onto the coffee table. It slides across the smooth surface and crashes to the floor on the other side with a loud thud. I pick it up off the floor and take in the cracked screen that I can't afford to fix.

"Shit!" I shout and slap the tabletop. My hand comes down with more force that I meant to, and a pain shoots up my arm from my palm to my elbow.

"Ow, fuck!" I shout and rub the palm of my left hand. That's going to hurt for a while.

I hear the bathroom door creak open.

"Blaise?"

I look up from where I'm sitting in the middle of the living room floor and take in the sight of James Bradford's wet, naked chest and shoulders as he leans his torso out of the bathroom. The way he grips the door frame to keep his balance causes his forearms and biceps to twist and flex. My thoughts keep drifting to whatever he's hiding behind that door.

"Are you okay? I heard shouting."

His words force me out of my trance. No, I don't think I am okay. I didn't know it was possible to feel anger, hurt, guilt, and desire all at the same time. It's an unsettling feeling, and I don't know what to do with it. How to process it. 

His eyes roam over my face, his eyebrows bunched together in a concerned expression. He steps out into the hallway and I try to focus on his face, but my eyes keep focussing on the way my pink fluffy towel is draped around his narrow hips. It takes me a moment to find the ability to form words.

"I'm fine." I stand up and brush my hands down my thighs, then wince again as pain shoots through my palm. I cradle my hand to my chest. He looks at my hand, then back up to my face, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm fine," I repeat.

He shakes his head and moves toward me, and the closer he gets, the harder it is to breathe. He reaches up and wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. I feel the jolt the second his skin touches mine. It's too much, the contact, the proximity, his near nakedness. I take a step back.

"You are not fine. You're crying."

His eyes move from my face to the hand I'm still cradling against my chest. He reaches out and lightly grasps my wrist. He pulls my hand toward him and I release my tight fist. He studies my palm first, then turns it over and uses the tip of his finger to lightly trace the thin, faded scar on the back of my hand.

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine. I'll be fine."

He looks at me like he doesn't entirely believe me, but he drops my hand.  His eyes turn to inspect the room, darting between me and the broken cell phone in the middle of the table. He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.

I shrug. "Boy problems." I laugh and roll my eyes, because it really is ridiculous to be this angry over a stupid misunderstanding. I'm sure it will all blow over once Wyatt calms down. What I'm more concerned about is the feeling that settled in the pit of my stomach the second I realized all that stands between me and all of James Bradford is a towel.

He chuckles and takes a step back. "Whatever it is, don't beat yourself up. Boys are dumb." The way he says it, so matter of fact, is funny to me, and I'm grateful for the laugh, for the break in tension.

"Aren't you kind of being a traitor to your own gender?" He grins for a second, then the corners of his lips fall. He shakes his head.

"No. I'm not a boy, Blaise. I'm a man."

I try to find a smart-ass retort, any words really, but it's like my brain has short circuited. A drop of water slides from the tip of his hair, and for some reason I can't stop watching it. It snakes down his chest in an "S" shape, slipping down his neck, over his thick chest, and past the ridges and crevices of his abs before it dissolves into the fabric of the towel.

He clears his throat. 

"Blaise?" He asks, crossing his arms over his chest and dipping his head down to meet my gaze. I startle, embarrassed he caught me staring.

"Yep?" 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I divert my eyes to the clock on the wall over his left shoulder and nod. "Yep."

"I should probably get dressed."

"Yep." I repeat. It's the only word I trust myself to say at this point.

"My clothes are a mess but I have a fresh set in the gym bag in my car." He nods his head toward his keys, sitting on the coffee table. "You mind?"

"Yep!" I nod and dart out the front door before I have a chance to say or do something I know I'll regret. 

***

I'm standing in the middle of a rope bridge, gripping the railing as the bridge sways back and forth in the wind. I don't want to move because I'm so terrified of falling, but Wyatt stands on the cliff at the end of the bridge, in full uniform, a shining beacon of protection and safety. He stretches out his arm, reaching for me. I take two steps toward him, the boards groaning under my feet. I feel a resistance and stumble back a step. I straighten and take two more steps forward, then stumble back one. I repeat the process, over and over, but the closer I get to Wyatt, the more resistance I feel, churning and pulling from deep in my gut. I look down and notice the rope tied around my waist. I turn and see James on the other end of the bridge. He smiles at me, and it feels like my whole body ignites.

"Hey, kid," Wyatt calls. I turn back, and he's still Wyatt, but he's no longer in uniform. Instead, he's a ten year old boy in cargo shorts and a backward ballcap. He reaches out to me again, and I move toward him. But every time I take a step, James tugs on the rope. I'm frustrated, confused, scared. I need to get off this bridge, but I'm stuck in the middle, being pulled both directions. Only I look down and the rope is gone. James is no longer tugging, but I'm pulled toward him regardless.

I hear a loud thud. I'm afraid the bridge is crumbling, but when I look down, its still firmly under foot. I hear the thud again, and scan my surroundings, but can't find the origin of the noise. When I hear the thud a third time, my eyes fly open.

I sit up suddenly, my heart racing, and untagle the sheets that have become wrapped arounf my legs. I blindly feel around on the night stand for my phone. The screen illuminates, informing me it's just past two in the morning.

I use the screen as a flash light and scan my childhood bedroom, but everything seems to be in place. I hear another thud, this one louder, sounding like its coming from right outside my window.

I take my phone off airplane mode and move toward the door, when I see the notifications. Eight missed calls. Four text messages. Two voicemails. All from Wyatt. Shit.

I open my phone and listen to his most recent voicemail. "Baby, I'm sorry. Please answer your phone. I'm here. At your house."

I rush to the window, pulling up the blinds just in time to see him bang on the window again.

"You're tall enough to reach, now. You don't even have to use rocks anymore." I grin at the memory while I open the window. He pushes himself up with his arms and tumbles through the open window head first.

"Damn," he says, straightening and brushing his hands on his pants, "That looks a lot easier and smoother on T.V." I laugh, and then remember I'm supposed to be mad at him.

"Baby, please don't be mad. I'm sorry, okay?" He eyes me carefully.

"No, it's not okay, Wyatt. You called me a slut."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's not actually what I said, and it's not what I meant, but I'm sorry if it hurt your feelings."

I sit on the edge of the bed and he continues. "My mama used to say the secret to her marraige is that they never go to bed angry." He sits next to me on the bed and takes my hand in his.

"I couldn't go to bed angry with you. And I couldn't stand the thought that you were angry with me." He pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses it. I flop back on the bed, exhausted. "You're right. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?" He pouts at me with big, hazel puppy-dog eyes.

"Fine," I say, trying to sound annoyed but smiling anyway. Wyatt and his damn ability to disarm me so easily.

"Good. Now I can sleep." He looks at the window. "But I think I'm going to use the front door this time." He reaches down and kisses my forehead. "Sleep sweet."

"Don't be silly, Wyatt. It's late." I take his hand and tug lightly. "Get in." I lift the corner of the blanket and he slides in behind me.