The Love Trap by Nicole French

26

The sky was darkening when Eric guided Jane to the car, keeping a hand at her back, though she barely seemed to notice him. If she had been quieter as the conversation with Heather had progressed, she was back to being a shadow. She didn’t seem to notice the heavy rain or the wind that howled up from the river. Even through his own shock at hearing the story, Eric was worried. Very worried. Something wasn’t right.

They fell into the back of the car and just sat as Tony waited for Eric’s direction.

“Well?” Eric said at last. “Where to?”

Jane still hadn’t looked at him. It took her a moment to realize he was even speaking to her. “What?”

“We did what I came here to do. And then what you thought I needed to do. Where do you want to go? Back to Boston, or—”

“No.” Jane’s quick gaze darted up to find his. “I want to go home.”

Home. There was only one place she could have meant by that. Not her parents’ old house in Evanston, or Skylar’s compound in Brookline. She glanced in roughly the direction of the west side of the island, where their apartment stood.

Eric’s mouth quirked with satisfaction. “Wherever you go, pretty girl,” he murmured, then, watching her the entire time, tentatively picked up Jane’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, just like he had done inside the house.

But instead of rolling her eyes and saying something like “God, you’re corny,” she simply let her hand drop to her lap once he was finished. Then she pressed her nose to the window, and it was like Eric wasn’t even there.

Eric sighed, then signaled to Tony, who pulled away from the curb. Heather’s townhouse disappeared into the winter gloom. Eric pulled out his phone. He wasn’t ready to sink into his own thoughts completely. Not yet.

“Zola, hey,” he said when the assistant DA picked up. “It’s Eric de Vries. I…look, Jane and I are back in town, and we just had a conversation with my mother that will interest you. If the DA is still building his own case against—”

“We are,” Zola interrupted.

That was all he said, probably because that was all he could say, depending on who was in the room. Or even the line.

“Well, if you want to come by tomorrow morning, I can tell you what she said,” Eric replied. “But I’d like to talk about my father’s death too. There’s something strange about all of this, put together.”

When Eric hung up, Jane was still staring out the window. She hadn’t moved an inch.

Eric couldn’t take it anymore. “What is it?” He asked. Goddammit. That hopelessness was sucking her back in, like some twisted vortex, and had been doing so since they had gotten to Heather’s. What the hell had happened?

Jane sighed and stared down at her hands, then rubbed a thumb slowly over her wrist. Her fingernails were plain and chewed down, missing the sheen of black or red polish. There were a few scabs on her cuticles, places where she had bitten too far or cut too much.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I wonder if it’s the universe telling us something. I’m honestly not sure if this will ever end.”

Eric took her hand again and played with it between his knees, pressing his thumbs into the center of her palm. Jane’s hands were so graceful—had he ever thought to tell her that? Her wrists were small enough that his thumb and forefinger could encircle them completely.

And yet, she was the strongest person he knew in so many ways. He had never known anyone so indelibly herself. He wanted more than anything to help her find that again.

He massaged each of her fingertips. “I thought today would help.”

“Help what?”

“You know.”

She quieted yet again. Then: “It did. At first. I…” She shook her head, like she was clearing cobwebs. “I mean, it’s one thing to hear the stories about Penny from you. It’s another to see it, witness the relationships. I wish I had been more forgiving of you back then. When we met, I mean.”

“Hey.” Eric released her hand so he could slip a finger under her chin, asking her to look at him. “That’s not why I took you to Queens.”

But she pulled her chin away and refused to look at him. “Still. I wish I had been better. You deserved better.”

“I thought it would be good to know…I don’t know. You’re not the only one he’s hurt, Jane. You’re not alone.”

At that, she finally looked up, and the green in her eyes blazed with pain. “Aren’t I?” She said it so quietly, he almost couldn’t hear her.

“No.”

Her eyes watered like she wanted to cry. Eric wished she would. That was the real point of all of this. That by witnessing, talking, getting everything out, she could begin to let go of her own emotions too.

Otherwise she was going to break. And he really had no idea what that would look like.

But instead of crying, she just turned back to the window. And by the time they reached the apartment, she had withdrawn completely.

They exited the car, flanked by the other two security. Their footsteps echoed up the turn-of-the-century stairs. Jane didn’t look at him once.

“Thanks,” Eric said to the guards after they unlocked the apartment. “There shouldn’t be any visitors today, but you have the list.”

They nodded and turned back down the stairs to their post. When the door closed, the abyss gaped again. Eric wanted to punch something.

Jane stared around their place like she had never seen it, though she had changed her clothes here only a few hours earlier.

“Do you…would you like another glass of wine?” Eric offered as he hung his coat on the rack. “Mom took care of most of that bottle herself, so I think we earned a few. There might be a few cans of PBR in the fridge. I was thinking about ordering in from Le Zie too, if that sounds good.”

He was babbling like an idiot, but goddammit, her silence was unnerving. She was still just standing there, her trench coat dripping onto the hardwoods. The same floors she was always squawking about if he dared not remove his shoes.

Eric approached and helped her coat off. Her arms were noodles. Fucking hell, where had she gone?

“What would you have done if I had died too?” Her voice was a staggered whisper. “Would you have moved on quickly, do you think? Found another woman to help you keep your fortune?”

Eric turned from the coatrack and frowned. “Where is this coming from?”

Jane’s eyes were dulled behind clouded, rain-spotted lenses. “I’m sure you could have had your pick.”

“Jane, don’t be stupid.”

I’m not stupid, you asshole.Had he only imagined she had said that? Yes. She hadn’t spoken at all, was just standing there in the same spot, arms wrapped around her waist while she shivered.

“You’re in shock,” Eric said, shooting for kindness this time. He reached out to rub her arm, but she stepped out of reach.

“Can you be in shock for over a month?”

Goddammit. This whole day had been a mistake, hadn’t it? One step forward at the Kostases’, five thousand backward with his mother. Fucking hell.

They stared at each other for a long time. Jane’s chin quivered. Finally, she removed her glasses and started to polish them with a bit of her dress fabric. She kept doing it far past the point where they were cleaned.

Eric turned over the mess of negative thoughts running through his mind again and again.

“I’m going to change out of these wet clothes,” he said. “You should do the same. Take a hot shower or something. Then we can have a drink or two and just…process.”

Jane didn’t answer. Eric slumped and turned toward the bedrooms. Five minutes. He just needed to five minutes to reset. And then he could come back to her. Because he wasn’t going let her slide into nothingness for another several weeks. Absolutely not.

* * *

As he rifledthrough the folded shirts in his closet, it struck Eric, not for the first time, that this apartment didn’t fit. He hadn’t ever said anything, but he’d always hated the way he and Jane had never been able to cohabitate completely. Her things were still mostly kept in the bedroom she had repurposed as a studio. They were both such clothes horses, and the master closet simply couldn’t hold everything they owned. Meanwhile, there were two other bedrooms that served as an “office,” he never used, a guest room that sat empty.

Even once they had finally come together organically within these walls, it had still always felt as though she was spending the night at his place, or he at hers. The living room, the kitchen—yes, they were shared spaces. But as units, Jane and he still existed apart. The apartment itself wouldn’t allow otherwise.

Eric stripped off his wet clothes and replaced them with a pair of gray joggers. He ran his hands over his stomach, then, out of pure impulse fell to the floor and pumped out twenty pushups, followed by another set of sit-ups. He hadn’t been at the gym as much as he wanted, and he was starting to feel it. He didn’t want to get soft. He wanted to feel…ready.

When he stood again, the sudden activity cast his muscles in high relief. Eric considered walking out with his shirt off. Jane never could resist the sight of his six-pack, which is why he deployed it sparingly, not wanting to cheapen its hard-won value.

Eric shook his head and pushed back his rain-slick hair. No, now wasn’t the time for flirtation. He had managed coaxed her out of her shell a few times today. He could do it again. Compassion. That’s what was needed. And then, once she’d softened, maybe another go with her lipstick just to make her smile.

He shoved on an old Harvard t-shirt. It wasn’t until he had towel-dried his hair that he realized he hadn’t heard the telltale thumps of Jane’s boots or rush of running water in the bathroom. The apartment was still silent.

Too silent.

Every hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“Jane?” he called. “Are you in the bath?”

There was no answer.

“Fuck,” Eric muttered as he walked out of his room, still barefoot. “Jane?”

He found her standing at the kitchen sink in the kitchen. His heartbeat quieted when he saw her standing there, straight-backed. Just what had he thought had happened? He really was becoming paranoid. Maybe he wasn’t the only one struggling with shock or PTSD.

“No, no, no,” she was muttering to herself. Her shoulders tensed, like she was working on something, with the same posture people had when they were grating vegetables or scrubbing a pan. “I can’t. I c-can’t.” There was a loud sniff. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Eric approached. “Can’t do what?”

“Ah!” Jane shouted as she whirled around.

“Oh, Jesus! Jane!”

She was bleeding. The white shirtsleeves under her wool dress had been hastily pushed up to her elbows. One had come loose, however, and was stained with rows of bright crimson stripes that mirrored those slicing the skin of her other forearm. She held a knife in one hand, and her eyes, were swollen and red-rimmed, like she was just about to start bawling.

For a moment, all Eric could see was Penny. Lying in the bathtub, the long, nasty cuts in her arms raw and cold. Water the color of a dusty red rose.

His heart practically stopped.

“Eric?”

Jane’s voice, so weak and threaded with confusion, knocked him out of his stupor.

“Jane.” Suddenly, he was all movement, scrambling across the apartment, knocking over one of his barstools in his hurry to reach her. “What happened? Holy shit, I’ll call 911.”

“Eric, d-don’t.” Her voice was thick with stifled tears as she held her arms in front of her, like she was preemptively pushing him away. “It’s fine, I promise. I’m o-okay.”

“What in the fuck?” Eric’s mind whirled as he grabbed one of her hands so he could examine her arm. “What the hell is this?”

The cuts on her arm weren’t deep, like he’d originally thought. They were horizontal and shallow, neat stripes across porcelain skin. But a violation nonetheless.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded over and over again as he pulled Jane into him, uncaring for the blood staining his clothes. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

“I just—oh, God, I just—” She hiccupped over harsh, dry sobs. She wanted to cry. Maybe she was trying to cry. But she wasn’t still. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Couldn’t take what?” Eric reached around her and yanked a stream of paper towels from the counter and pressed them to the wounds, most which, he realized with relief, had already stopped bleeding.

But they were still wounds. That Jane had given to herself.

He hoisted her easily onto the counter. Fuck, she was so light. Too light. Jane folded over, cradling her wounded arms in her lap while he wet another few towels to clean her up. They didn’t speak, both of them entranced with his brisk, careful movements. But that didn’t mean the energy in the room had dissipated. Eric vibrated as he worked.

“Why?” he finally asked once he was sure he could speak calmly. “What couldn’t you take?”

Jane’s arm quivered in his grasp. “The numbness,” she said finally. “I—it was back. You couldn’t tell?”

He dabbed at her other arm, hating the way the blood seeped easily into the wet paper. “I could tell. At my mother’s, you jus started to go somehow. But I thought—shit. Jane, everyone is helping. Things are looking up. Zola, my mother. We’re taking care of it. We’re coming through.”

“Not me,” Jane replied with a despondency that scraped his soul. “I—you were pulling me out of for a bit. When you took me to Astoria, showed me that past. I know how hard it was for you to do that. I know. I know.”

Eric’s chest swelled. “I know you know, gorgeous.”

“You were willing to do that for me. Show me your grief, your guilt. Accept the responsibility. You’re so much stronger than me.” Jane fingered his wrist, which was clean and smooth. “You could move through your past to make a better life for yourself. But I—I don’t think I can move past mine. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The baby. What she would have been.” She closed her eyes, like she was in the worst kind of pain. “It swallows me up, and so I push it away. I numb myself, because I can’t take it otherwise. But I shouldn’t be allowed to feel nothing. I should feel every inch of pain that you and I and everyone else feels because of the man who gave me half my DNA. So I…”

She gestured weakly toward the paring knife in the sink. And then, as if out of curiosity, she picked it up again, holding it like she was testing the weight.

“Jane…”

“My dad,” she whispered as she held the knife to her thigh, pressing the tip into the white of her skin. “He used to tell me about some of his patients. The veterans. POWs. They would come back from war, and they just couldn’t deal with it. With life.” She took a heavy, staggered breath and squeezed her eyes shut. A drop of blood appeared under the knife’s tip.

“Jane!” Eric took the knife from her and set it on the island behind him, out of her reach.

“Don’t!” Jane exploded. “It was going to help!”

“Do you think this is going to bring them back?” Eric demanded. “Penny, my dad? The baby? Do you think that cutting yourself up like a piece of fucking meat is going to make a goddamn thing better?”

“Why don’t you blame me? You should. You should punish me any way you know how. Because if you won’t, I will!” She bent over, hands clutched at her heart, like its pounding was too much too take.

“I’m not going to punish you, Jane.”

“Then who?” Jane whimpered. “If not you, then who? I made the decision to go to Korea. I left you rotting in that jail. I made myself a sitting duck when everyone told me not to go. I didn’t know what else to do. But if I hadn’t, she would still be here, Eric. It’s my fault!”

She shrieked the last words at the top of her lungs and buried her face in her hands, her glasses slipping off and to the floor. Eric grabbed her shoulders to keep her from falling off the counter.

“Oh, God,” she said over and over again as her sobs shook through her like miniature cyclones, tossing her back and forth in a sea of misery. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Eric inhaled and exhaled with purpose. “Listen to me. You are not at fault, Jane. The only person who is responsible for anyone’s death here is John Carson. That’s it. That’s all.”

“I had a name picked out. You called her a girl, and so in my head, I thought we might name her Jaki Carol. Like—like our dads.”

And then, finally, she broke completely, her body, no longer hurt, able to withstand the gusting sobs that nearly forced Eric back. But instead of letting her push him away, he wrapped his arms tightly around her frail body, clutching so hard he thought he might smother her. But the tighter he held her, the tighter she grasped, seeking purchase on his arms, his neck, his chest. She poured every drop of her misery and shame into his shoulder. And he never. Let. Go.

“It’s not your fault, Jane,” Eric said again and again as he rocked her back and forth. “Do you hear me? Baby, it’s not your fault.”

At the sound of the common nickname from Eric’s mouth—more out of desperation than because it was something he had ever said before—Jane’s sobs only worsened, turning into great, choking waves of pain. “Where is it?” she keened. “Oh my God, the knife. I swear to God, I want it right. Here.” She pounded on her chest.

Eric reached back and picked up the knife again. He examined its edge. A drop of her blood had dried on the tip.

“Is that really how you feel?” he asked as he stepped out of her grasp.

Jane hiccupped, found the knife in his hand, and stretched out her own.

“Yes,” she implored. “Please!”

“Fine.” The gravity of Eric’s voice echoed around the apartment, a growl from a cave. “But you’re going to have to do it to me first.”

At that, Jane’s mouth opened, but no noise came out. Her body gave one more great, silent, shaking sob.

Eric pulled down the collar of his shirt and pressed the tip of the knife to the base of his neck. “You want penance? Then you’re going to have to dispense it too.”

“W-what?”

The steel pricked his skin. He genuinely wondered if he would feel that twinge for the rest of his life. Moments like these tended to leave all number of scars.

“You think I don’t carry the guilt too, Jane? I was locked up for two fucking weeks because I was too naive to think one step ahead. I should have known what Carson was planning the second Jude suggested I share tips with the society. I should have anticipated everything.”

“But, but…” Jane trailed off, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t your fault…” Her words were weak. Her eyes were round, wide pools of pain. And, Eric saw with a gust of relief, love.

“It’s all I can think about,” he said. “I’m obsessed. Just like you. She was our baby, Jane. We both lost her. Just like I lost my fiancée. My father. Everyone else I have ever fucking cared about.”

She was right. Sometimes it was too fucking much.

So he did it. He pulled the knife over his skin, allowing the blade to slice through him the way her actions had already done. The way this life had already done. Jane stared with horror as blood welled from the cut, gathering in a thick drop that fell over his collarbone and stained the white of his shirt, a blurry rose blooming across the snowy expanse.

“Eric, no,” she whispered as he drew the knife down his chest. “Don’t.”

“You hurt yourself, you hurt me too,” he said as he pressed the weapon over the cotton. “You want to stab yourself in the heart? Then you’ll do it to me first. Because we’re in this together, Jane Lee Lefferts de Vries. For richer or poorer. Better or for worse. Until death do us part.”

He allowed her to pull him back between her legs. Her hand rose, first to remove the knife from his hand, and then, to his relief, to toss it into the sink—the further one, where neither of them could reach it.

“This is so fucked up,” she whispered as she touched the cut on his collarbone. Blood stained her fingertips. “You and I—we are so fucked up.”

His hand closed over hers, and he kissed her. Not a light peck, or the careful brushes he had allowed himself today. But a real kiss, one that conveyed the intensity of everything they both felt. Not just now. But all the time.

“We are,” he agreed. “This shit broke me, Jane, just like it broke you. But I refuse—I refuse—to let it break what we are together.”

“Eric—” Her voice was cut off by another choked sob, but before he could ask her “what,” she was throwing herself at him, pressing her lips to his again in a muffled, stumbling, awkward display of passion, the likes of which he hadn’t seen from her in months. Maybe years.

Once upon a time, they had found each other through lifetimes of fury and estrangement from the people they loved. They had healed each other during those strange years, only to ruin each other again and again.

But it was the separations that really broke them. That had been the truth ever since they had met.

This woman might be the death of him. But without her, he was a corpse anyway.

“I love you,” he said between kiss after torrid kiss. “You are essential to me. Like the air I breathe. The water I drink. I can’t fucking exist without you, Jane. Can’t. Fucking. Live.”

Jane bit his lip, then groaned painfully as he bit hers right back.

“Do you?” she wondered. “Do you really?”

Her doubt nearly broke him all over again.

And so, Eric did the hardest thing he had done all day—which was really saying something, considering.

He pushed her back and stepped away.

“What? Where?” Jane sputtered from lips now swollen from kissing, not crying. “Where are you going?”

Eric held out a hand and helped her down from the counter, then guided her toward his bedroom. No, he thought stubbornly. Their bedroom.

“I have to show you something. And after I do, I never want you to ask that question again.”