𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

30. the talk.

T H I R T Y
the talk

JJ is objectively hot. But right now, he looks... like shit. His hair is damp and stuck together in clumps, knotty in appearance ostensibly from running his hands through it again and again. His shirt is stuck to him like a second skin and his face is uncharacteristically sullen.

It reminds me of the night in the hot tub, where he just fell apart. He seems to be dancing along the precipice of another emotional breakdown, losing his already weak grip on his emotions and free-falling. That's dangerous for JJ, he either sobs until he can't breathe or—the more common outcome—he gets angry, bitter at the world for the hand he's been dealt. Fists are swung, beers are thrown back and he lashes out with abandon.

Seeing a male on the verge of breaking down sets of senses I can't seem to tamp down; memories of violence inflicted on me, flashes of the sounds from my childhood. It comes rushing back and suffocates me.

Take a breath, Mabel. He's not your father, he's not Rafe and he's not Corey.

Today JJ stood up for me, something that seldom happens. When I shattered he picked up the pieces, holding them gently, protecting those who wanted to break them further. He treated the broken pieces of my soul like they were the most precious things in the world. He put our friends in place, even when we were in some silent battle he threw our grievances out the window to come to my aid. It was seemingly second nature, there was no debate on if he should bring himself to look after the girl he fucked or keep ignoring her.

He put me back together like he put my duck back together—not perfectly, but with more care than I can process. With gentleness, it seems only comes out with me. A side of the boy from the wrong side of the tracks that I'm the only one lucky enough to see.

I told him to come back, so here he is, damp, uncomfortable and utterly exhausted. He didn't pick an easier option, he picked me.

My tongue wets my lips as my tired brain tries to find something appropriate to say. All I can think to say is some variation of telling him he looks like shit, but that's not happening. "You okay?" I croak the two words, hoping he doesn't scoff and point to himself—he clearly isn't okay, idiot.

He sighs, rubbing his ring-clad hands over his face. "Can I have a shower? I'll talk to you about it later."

Biting down the sting of rejection I nod. "Sure. How'd you get in?" I ask, knowing he would've definitely locked the door on the way out and he doesn't have access to a key.

JJ drags a hand over his jaw, scratching at the skin a few shades paler than it should be. "Picked the lock. You need new locks, that shit was way too easy," he mutters, his mind clearly in a thousand different places. "I can put them in for you, done it before."

"Noted. I've got some of your clothes, they're on top of the wardrobe." I point to the cardboard box I tucked away from view. "There's a ring, toothbrush—just all the stuff you left. I decided against burning them all." It really was something I heavily considered. The lighter next to my bed made my fingers itch.

"Appreciate that, Mabel," he says while dragging my chair over to the wardrobe and getting the box down. Without exchanging any more words he slips into the bathroom and the shower turns on a few moments later.

I kill the time by turning on my favourite documentary. Despite having seen it half a dozen times it still captures my interest with ease. It makes the time slip by quickly and before I know it the shower turns off and JJ walks out with just a pair of shorts on, his damp hair half-heartedly dried and face a little brighter.

"What happened?" I repeat my earlier question.

"Ward killed someone," JJ doesn't beat around the bush as he sits down on the end of the bed, facing me. "Gavin, the pilot he used to transport the gold. Just fucking shot him. We– uh... we filmed it on this piece of shit camera but Pope dropped it. We went to Shoupe but nothing. He didn't believe us, we showed him where it happened and it was all gone."