Free Valentine's Child by Nancy Bush

to feel this way. She’d bit him, for God’s sake. He wasn’t likely to forget.
    At that moment Bernie’s door flew open. Ryan peeked his head out, shattering the moment. “Hey, Sherry, let me walk you home,” he called, oblivious to J.J.
    Sherry opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly found herself saying instead, “That’d be great,” her smile a blinding light. Its effect on J.J. and Ryan was unmistakable, and Sherry groaned inwardly, aware she was toying with emotions she shouldn’t. She knew better. Ryan deserved better.
    But she wanted J.J.
    “I’ll walk with you guys,” J.J. said, pocketing his keys, and the three of them made their way to Sherry’s house.
    Sherry’s moment of feminine glory disintegrated. Growing dread took its place. What would they think when they saw her home? And what if her father was there, drunk and surly? She suddenly couldn’t bear the thought.
    “Thanks a lot, guys, but it’s right over there.” She waved vaguely. “I can make it the rest of the way by myself. See you later.”
    She ran to the end of the block and the darkened house around the corner. Ryan made an aborted attempt to follow after her but J.J. stood back and watched. She raced up the front steps, gasping for breath, her books slipping from her arms. Twisting the knob, she was relieved to find the door unlocked, but held her breath until she saw her father fast asleep in the armchair in front of the television.
    In the sanctuary of her bedroom she turned on the light, undressed quickly and climbed into bed, dragging her books with her. But although she furtively studied, frightened of wakening her father with the merest sound, her vision was clouded with images of J.J. Beckett climbing from his BMW, stretching his legs, and gazing at her with such studied vision that she read the same page of her history book over and over again.
    Now, a lifetime later, she could remember each and every feeling as if it were yesterday — not fourteen years ago. Twiddling her red pen, she scratched out J.J.’s initials by drawing scarlet hearts over the damaging evidence. Hearts she groaned to herself after noticing her doodles.
    Valentine’s Day…
    Memories were a plague. Her throat grew hot and arid. She felt weak all over. Drained. Empty.
    Picking up her mocha, she glanced around, certain Beachtime Coffee’s other customers would somehow divine her thoughts. She covered her suddenly quivering lips with a quick swallow of mocha. Wishing for a miracle — the chance to live her life over again — she whispered, “Oh, J.J.,” in a suffocated voice. She had to tell him the truth — and soon.

    “Could I pay a hundred dollars now,” the voice on the end of the line entreated, trembling, “and maybe the rest later on? I just don’t have it right now, and I don’t know what to do.”
    Jake stared out his office window. Jill Delaney had been perennially late with her rent since the moment she took over one of his least expensive apartment units. Already she was two months past due and getting deeper into debt each day that passed. She was Tim Delaney’s ex-wife, a sweet girl whose love for her husband couldn’t save their crumbling marriage. Tim just wasn’t made to be a husband and father. Three children and one half-baked reconciliation later, she was struggling to make ends meet, but Tim still wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain, and Jill had become dependent on Jake’s charity to survive.
    “I can’t turn you out, Jill,” he admitted with the characteristic honesty, “but we’re both in a tough position.”
    “I know.” Relief sang through her voice. She could hear he was about to relent — again.
    “Pay what you can now,” he said brusquely.
    “Thank you,” she whispered, fighting back tears.
    Jake gently hung up the phone. Jill was not his responsibility. His responsibility was to the family business. Now, if Patrice were running things she would evict Jill flat out, but since