“Why?” he repeats.
“Because I can’t switch off how I feel about you. I can’t stop caring about the man who’s a mirror of who I am. If I can help you, then I know I can survive shit too when it’s my turn.”
“I fucked up,” he repeats vaguely.
Jem’s not in a place to talk, like a child he’s seeking reassurance, but I doubt anything I say will help. He needs what he always did—quiet understanding from somebody who cares. Jem can’t be alone with options that would set him spinning into the past again.
“I’ll stay if you promise you’ll talk to someone tomorrow. Your counsellor or one of your friends, somebody you trust to help you through this. If I stay tonight, you don’t get to push this back into the ‘not dealing’ part of your mind.” I climb onto the sofa next to him.
“You. I can talk to you,” he says quietly.
“No, I can’t help with this. I’m in the middle of that screwed-up mess of hurt in your head. I’ll be a friend to you until you decide if you want more.”
Who am I kidding? I love this man. Why else would I be here? I’m risking so much and possibly for so little.
I take Jem’s hand and for a few minutes we sit side by side, but the waves of suffering coming from him are palpable. Giving in, I wrap my arms around Jem, and pull him close. Jem responds by gripping my hair, mouth crashing onto mine. He told the truth—Jem doesn’t taste of alcohol, but of a kiss that wraps around my soul and drags mine into his.
I recognise this urgency of Jem’s mouth, the sheer force of the desire rolling from him. With the kiss, comes Jem’s frantic need to fill the empty spaces inside, as if I’m the only one who can.
But this is the man who emptied me and pushed me aside, and I don’t have the ability to give him what he’s crying out for now. One day, I will if that’s what he wants—but only when he’s dealt with his demons. For now, I’ll lose myself too, in the illusion that the man with me now is my Jem.