Fight From The Heart (Heart Collection #4) - L.B. Dunbar Page 0,28
ablaze.
“I was close to my father but not like people would think. I didn’t match the rest of the Carter clan.”
“Don’t depreciate yourself,” Jacob states, his voice tight.
“I’m not. I’m just stating a fact. I’m not one of the famous Carters, and I struggled with the difference between myself and my siblings when I was younger. I wasn’t the football star of Jess or the class clown of Tom, and definitely not the beautiful tomboy of my sister. They are all tall, lean, and athletic. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, unlike the rest of them who seemed destined to be an engineer, a small business owner, and a teacher, respectively. I sort of fell into the position of EMT, and while I loved it because I don’t mind blood and guts, I fell out of love with it.” I’m quiet as Jacob knows why I stopped being an EMT.
“But my father always gave me the best advice, as if he knew I didn’t think I measured up or considered myself worthy. I needed to love myself as much as he loved me, he’d say.”
I love you bunches, Pammie, he’d tell me. I smile to myself, recalling my father and noting the snowstorm oustide again. “His advice reminds me of a song by Tori Amos, called ‘Winter.’ And I don’t know why I told you that.”
Jacob’s attention has turned back to me. “You know I’m always sorry about your dad.”
“I know.” I met Jacob the night my father died. Jacob was the man in that red Corvette, and I was tending to him when my dad passed away in the ambulance ride to the hospital. I wanted to blame Jacob when it happened, but he wasn’t at fault. Still, I went to visit him the next day in the hospital to rip him apart for his stupidity. Drinking and driving, he could have killed someone. He could have been the one to hit and run on my dad, but he wasn’t. I was still hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind, but when I entered his hospital room, something changed my mind.
“Don’t go there, Lilac,” Jacob whispers, but it’s too late. The loss of my father was difficult for me. Memories fill my thoughts for a few minutes. My father’s advice. His bear-style hugs. His silent support.
“You never mention your father. Is it because of mine?” I’d actually never thought about it until this moment, but Jacob doesn’t discuss his, and perhaps it’s because his is still alive and mine is not.
“I don’t mention him because he’s an asshole and not worth my breath.”
Ouch, but then again, Jacob just mentioned his father’s fist, which suggests an unpleasant history between them.
“I’m sorry he hit you,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Jacob sneers. He’s so unfeeling sometimes, but his concern for his sister and the friendship he tried to start with Ethan prove he isn’t totally heartless. He’s just a contradiction, even in our arrangement.
He flirts. He holds back.
He teases. He rejects.
I attribute his moodiness to his creativity and the evil in some of the stuff he writes, but sometimes, he’s just a bastard, and moody is his middle name.
“Is that why you had that dream the other night?”
Jacob huffs. “ I don’t want to talk about the dreams.”
And that answers that, I decide.
“Here,” he says, holding out his glass for me. Shaking my head, I decline. I’m not a scotch drinker. Give me a margarita any day or wine some evening, but not the heavy stuff.
“Want some wine then?” he asks as if reading my mind.
“I only like it sweet.”
“I figured as much,” he grumbles, the demeanor of his voice shifting as he rocks his body to stand. He sets his glass on the mantel and crosses behind the couch for the liquor cabinet with a wine fridge built into it. I should comment on his drinking, but his argumentative stance last weekend outside the pharmacy comes back to me. It’s not that I think he’s an alcoholic, but I do see him using the liquid as more than courage but a crutch. Does that make me an enabler if I don’t speak up? Jacob has some deep-rooted issues if his father abused him, and alcohol might be his way to cope. But how does it expand to the fact he drinks often—and too much—as an adult? I don’t have it in me to fight with him tonight,