Adapt or die.
(I'm trying! I'm doing my best. That's the biggest copout line in the known universe. Doing your best means almost-failing. It means forgive me, I can't keep up.)
Adaptation isn't one of my strong suits. Charm is. Helplessness is. Quietude. It is. It is what it is and I take the blame and light it on fire because it already burns, so why not?
Who is he. It was a statement from Lochlan, of all people. Who is this 'Jake' guy you're hanging out with. What does Cole think of him? Who the hell is a minister in this day and age? Why doesn't he already have a life? What is he to you, again? And on and on, sizing him up, feeling me out, waiting to see if Cole would accept him into our incestual fold or cast him out like all of the others before him. If you're not OG you're nobody, their rule used to be and Jacob taught them that that wasn't reasonable.
Because people adapt.
(People except for Bridget. She's still eight years old, tripping down the moonlight path after the boys, hollering at them to wait up.)
And now it's the same argument, different Jake.
We should have left him in Toronto.
Who let him come back?
I'm not going to try to pin her like that. She's not a prisoner. For fucks sake. Caleb can be the bad guy there. I'm not.
No one talks directly to New Jake about because I won't let them. He is protected airspace. He is an outlier. He is everything the old Jake used to be except I'm not in love with him the same way. New Jake is handsome and dangerously charming and exceeding good at getting into trouble with me. He gives no fucks but he gives them good.
But I don't want him to eat my soul. I don't want him to never leave. I don't want him to blend in with the group and I don't spend every breath thinking about him.
It isn't the same.
And it's a sad Wednesday when that becomes his only saving grace but here we are. Because I was hungry for something I didn't love and I never ever get this right.
(I'm trying! I'm doing my best. That's the biggest copout line in the known universe. Doing your best means almost-failing. It means forgive me, I can't keep up.)
Adaptation isn't one of my strong suits. Charm is. Helplessness is. Quietude. It is. It is what it is and I take the blame and light it on fire because it already burns, so why not?
Who is he. It was a statement from Lochlan, of all people. Who is this 'Jake' guy you're hanging out with. What does Cole think of him? Who the hell is a minister in this day and age? Why doesn't he already have a life? What is he to you, again? And on and on, sizing him up, feeling me out, waiting to see if Cole would accept him into our incestual fold or cast him out like all of the others before him. If you're not OG you're nobody, their rule used to be and Jacob taught them that that wasn't reasonable.
Because people adapt.
(People except for Bridget. She's still eight years old, tripping down the moonlight path after the boys, hollering at them to wait up.)
And now it's the same argument, different Jake.
We should have left him in Toronto.
Who let him come back?
I'm not going to try to pin her like that. She's not a prisoner. For fucks sake. Caleb can be the bad guy there. I'm not.
No one talks directly to New Jake about because I won't let them. He is protected airspace. He is an outlier. He is everything the old Jake used to be except I'm not in love with him the same way. New Jake is handsome and dangerously charming and exceeding good at getting into trouble with me. He gives no fucks but he gives them good.
But I don't want him to eat my soul. I don't want him to never leave. I don't want him to blend in with the group and I don't spend every breath thinking about him.
It isn't the same.
And it's a sad Wednesday when that becomes his only saving grace but here we are. Because I was hungry for something I didn't love and I never ever get this right.