He taps his temple. “You’re not thinking with this. She’s from the Falls. She could have all kinds of ulterior motives for fucking you, but you wouldn’t know, because you’re thinking with your dick and falling for her in the process.”
“I’m not falling for her.”
I totally am, but I won’t admit that to him yet, not when he looks at me as if he can read me like an open book.
“Someone has to keep a clear head out of the two of us,” he says.
Another scoff, and I turn to head back into the kitchen, but his voice follows me inside. “She turned me down, and I respect her for that, but you still need to keep your head above water. This thing between you two can only end one way, and you know it.”
I spin around at the kitchen counter. He’s leaning against the doorway, working his jaw as if there’s a lot he wants to say but knows is better left unsaid.
“I’m just asking you to be careful…” He shrugs casually, hands in his jogger pockets. “When it ends—and it will end—are you gonna be able to let her go?”
With those words hanging in the air, he pushes off the doorframe and meanders away. The clock ticks in sync with the rushing heartbeat in my ears. Suddenly exhausted, I rub my face, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. He’s right. It doesn’t matter which way you look at it; it’s only a matter of time before I lose Jessica. There’s no way in hell I’ll get to keep her when thisis all over. Years from now, I’ll marry some rich socialite with fake tits, while Jessica moves on with some tattooed ex-con.
No, I can’t let my mind go there… just the thought of her with someone else makes me murderous.
But my imagination runs wild. That fucking guy, Jackson or whatever his name is, bending her over like I did last night, whispering the stuff I did.
Hell no.
Just… fuck no.
Shaking off the troubling thoughts, I plate some leftover pancakes with trembling hands. The rage subsides as I walk down the hall and up a set of stairs. Mom’s room is dark, with the blinds closed. She barely stirs as I place her breakfast on the vanity and pick up a medicine bottle that has tipped over on her bedside table.
Pills have spilled onto the floor, so I crouch to gather them all, cleaning up the mess. The morning sun streams over the bed and the creased sheets as I let in the light and open a window.
“Morning, Mom.” I grab the tray and sit down beside her, wishing I could turn back the clock to when Mom used to smile. I hate seeing her like this. I hate that my father doesn’t care about her declining mental health as long as she’s locked under his roof and unable to escape, like one of his rare collections gathering dust.
“Hi, baby,” she croaks as I help her sit up and place the tray on her lap. I look up and notice the purple and yellow bruises on her neck. The rage I felt downstairs rushes back, hot and blinding.
“He did that?” My voice is so strained, it’s a miracle she hears me at all.
Confusion flickers across Mom’s face. Then it dawns on her, and she shakes her head almost furiously. “No, he didn’t mean it. He?—”
“Don’t defend him, Mom,” I snap, causing her to flinch. I immediately regret raising my voice. It’s not her fault her husband is an asshole. I cup her cheek and lean in to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.”
Tears glisten on her cheeks as I lean back, and I help her cut the pancakes. She doesn’t need my help—she’s not a child—but I want to be useful in some way. “I’m heading out for a bit this morning, but I’ll be back in an hour or so. We can go for a walk, if you want.”
Mom chews her food slowly as if she’s eating a tough steak. I know what she’s like during these episodes. She won’t eat for days unless someone forces her. In those moments, she hides away in her bed, in the dark, staring at nothing—existing but not really living—until the darkness lifts and a sliver of light appears.
I worry the sun will disappear forever someday, and I will lose her to that darkness. And I fear I won’t be able to reach her.
“Mom.”
At the sound of my choked voice, she stops chewing, her lips dry and chapped.
“Please come for a walk with me,” I beg. The pain in my chest intensifies, and I clench my teeth as the sensation grows stronger, almost making the backs of my eyes sting too. “Please.”
She swallows the food in her mouth, her eyes rimmed with dark circles, her hair matted and stringy. “Okay, sweetie.”
That’s all she says, just those two words, but I almost choke on the relief washing over me.
Shifting up the bed, I settle beside her, wanting to stick around a bit longer. A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out when she takes another bite.
“I cooked the pancakes myself,” I say.
She looks up at me with wide eyes. “You cooked?”
