Jordan

The truth is, Isabelle cheated on me long before I ever cheated on her. Okay, so it was freshman year of college, but even so, we were as serious as I've ever been with any girl. I've never met the douche bag Isabelle fucked with, and I wouldn't even want to. In fact, I probably wouldn't have even known they had a brief fling if Isabelle wasn't compelled to tell me. Sometimes, I wish she hadn't.

I missed you.

You missed me. So you went and slept with another guy? Yeah, Izzy, that makes perfect sense.

The psychology of it is, she had said, I missed you so much that I had to.

Izzy. Come on.

I was thinking of you, she had whispered, catching my arm. Please don't be angry. I wanted to tell you, because I love you. Because I wanted to keep you, Jordan.

I remembered taking a deep breath, touching her pretty face, looking into the deep lakes in her eyes. I'm already yours.

I was still upset, then, angry even. I guess the fact of the matter is, Izzy is always there. It's always a test and action between us. Driving each other off the walls; driving apart; then finally, coming back together. We always do, in the end.

It's so I can be closer to you, Isabelle had told me, after we made up.

That was the point of it all. This love. This life. This commitment. We change together so much, not to a point that would break us apart, but just enough to make our hearts permanently fit.

* * *

"Mr. Hart?"

I look up to see Dr. Mila Reynolds in front of me, Starbucks coffee in hand, and a blue backpack slung lazily over her left shoulder. "Oh, hi Dr. Reynolds. How are you?"

"I've been better," she says snippily, taking the empty seat across from me. "The question is, though, how are you?"

I give her a bitter grin. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm not your patient." It is rude, I know, and unnecessary, but the words spill out before I can even take them back.

She leans backward, though, hardly stung; she drinks me up while simultaneously sipping her coffee. "Okay, then, how is Kasey?"

I shrug. "She's been better."

I'm lying, of course. In fact, I have no idea how Kasey or the rest of my family is doing. My fight with Isabelle has driven me to silence, driven me to places I never needed to go. I would come home for dinner, sleep soundlessly next to Isabelle on the bed, and leave early the next morning, before anyone is awake. It is a gradual routine, a slow move of a temporary separation, until one of us makes a first move. And that isn't going to be me.

Mila prompts, shaking me out of my thoughts, "And your wife?"

"She's managing." I narrow my eyes at the tall, lean woman. "But you should know that, right?"

"I don't think Isabelle told you," she says, licking her coffee-stained lips. "But I am not longer seeing Kasey as my patient. Isabelle told me I was no longer needed."

"Can't blame her."

"Of course not." She forces a smile, and I regret spitting out those cold words. "I have to be honest with you, Mr. Hart. I followed you here. I was on my way home from my son's motorcycle shop and Kasey happened to be there. She told me you haven't been around, haven't been talking to anyone in the family. Then, by some miracle, I see you walking toward Starbucks with a briefcase and that robot of yours. I've been thinking about your family a lot. I've been thinking about you, Mr. Hart, and how you must feel."

"It isn't any of your business."

"Maybe it's not. But I know you better than you think I do."

"No, you don't," I snap angrily. "You don't know anything."

"Where have I heard that before?" She asks calmly, her lips forming a gentle – understanding – smile. "Many things are accidental, Jordan. Including you. Including me. Including Amy–"

My mouth drops.

"–but your family is not. Right?"

"How did you–?"

Mila Reynolds stands up, shaking her head. "It's not important. Shouldn't you know that best?" She rummages roughly through her purse and pulls out a wad of twenty dollar bills.

"What are you doing?"

Without hesitation, Mila slaps the money in front of me and grabs the Robotic Aid beside my feet.

"See you around, Jordan," she says, and leaves me in a pool of thoughts.

* * *

Moments are always vanishing. People say that you can never take back what you say or do, that once it's there, there's no turning back from the hurt or sadness you've caused someone else. But for me, that isn't always true. Life in my boat almost always starts with regret, and ends when I no longer care. For every action, you always have the option of backing out, running away. It is similar to a game, a cheat, if you will. Move your pawn two spaces smoothly toward the queen of your opponent. Swap your poker card an extra time; get a royal flush. Steal monopoly money from the unwatched bank. That way, by default, you always win.


A/N: Next POV: Eli

Thanks for reading. :)