Part 2He Only Listens To Her

My friends always told me, “You’re too good to Jax. You can’t be like that with men. They’ll take advantage and stop cherishing you.”

I didn’t take them seriously at first. I always believed that when two people are together, you shouldn't keep score of who gives more or who gives less. As long as the relationship was stable, as long as the conflict was resolved, who cared who backed down first?

Until a month ago.

I went to a spa with my co-workers that day. I’d texted Jax before I left. He hadn't replied.

A half-hour later, he burst into our private room. His face was pure frost. He gestured at the three masseuses.

“Everyone out! Now!”

Then he turned to me. “You’re not leaving?”

It was mortifying, embarrassing. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

My co-workers were confused. “Is that your fiancé? He’s just going to disrespect you like that?”

Yes, I was confused, too.

“I never disrespect you in front of your friends. Why would you humiliate me like this?”

He sneered. “You think you deserve respect? Getting a male masseur, Sierra? You’re getting pretty adventurous, aren’t you!”

“I already explained to you. They were out of female masseuses.”

“And it just so happened that they ran out right before your appointment?”

“Yes, it just so happened they ran out right before my appointment!”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

A friend later tried to mollify me. “He just cares about you. Men, you know—it’s the possessiveness!”

But I knew that wasn’t it.

Over the last six months, Jax’s gaze had become increasingly critical. A simple phrase, a harmless action—any of it could set him off. He started flying into rages more and more frequently. And I was the one who had to repeatedly swallow my pride and make amends.

I was exhausted. I was done.

So this time, after our latest fight, I moved out of the new place and went back to my own apartment.

What had this latest fight been about?

A stakeout.

The wife of Jax’s oldest friend had called me. She was worried—her husband was spending every night at a specific bar, and she asked me to go with her to confront him. Her distress was real, and I was genuinely worried for her, so I went.

Her husband was there.

My fiancé was there, too.

The man who had just told me a half-hour ago that he was stuck at work, burning the midnight oil on a project, was sitting in a booth, accepting a shot of liquor from a woman.

I didn't yell.

I didn't even get to yell. He blew up first.

He launched into a tirade. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Sierra, can’t you go a single day without some kind of drama? It’s bad enough you wreck your own life, but now you’re bringing other people into it? Do you know how much you look like a complete psycho when you get these insane ideas in your head?”

Under the dim bar lights, I just stared at him for a long time. I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked away.

Even in that moment, I was still careful—trying not to make a scene in public, trying not to humiliate him in front of his friends.

But I was through with his baseless rages.

I’d been out of our new apartment for a week. We’d been in a cold war for a week. He hadn’t sent a single text or made a single call.

Until today. He just showed up.

He was holding a bouquet of flowers, and he said, “Stop being mad. It was my fault.”

He’d bought a cart full of my favorite groceries and said he was cooking tonight.

Jax is a good cook. But outside of holidays and friends’ parties, he never cooks.

Watching his back as he stood at my counter, deveining shrimp, the frantic anxiety of the past week finally began to subside.

It was always this simple. If he just backed down once, everything else could be forgiven. We’d been together for almost ten years. What argument was really bigger than that?

But now, I had to confront the truth: you’re not here because you wanted to be. You’re here because someone else told you to be.

Mind me?

When has Jax ever listened to anyone?