The journal sits on the nightstand, blank pages waiting.
I don't pick it up.
I can't write about Lily without seeing her face. Can't write about the rape without feeling his hands. Can't write about why I'm here without admitting I have nowhere else to go.
So I sit in the dark with a cat in my lap and try to remember the last time I felt safe.
The memory won't come.
5
JACKSON
Maya's been here for seven days, and I've turned into some kind of creep who tracks her movements like I'm studying game footage.
I know she flinches when someone moves too fast. Saw it yesterday when Chase reached for the remote, and she jerked back hard enough to spill her coffee. He didn't notice, but I did.
I know she rubs her wrists when she's stressed. Left one first, then the right. Circular motions, like she's trying to erase something. She did it three times during dinner last night while Emma talked about baby names.
I know her smile never reaches her eyes. Not once in seven days have I seen that real light I used to know, the one that made you want to be closer to her just to feel some of that warmth.
She's performing. Every laugh, every joke, every casual conversation is all an act. And I'm the only one who seems to notice.
I'm also noticing things I shouldn't like how her jeans hang loose on her hips, how she picks at her food instead of eating it,how she barely sleeps. I hear her pacing at two, three, and four in the morning.
Last night I almost went upstairs. Almost knocked on her door and demanded she tell me what the fuck happened in Pinewood that made her show up here looking like a ghost.
But I didn't. Because we're not friends anymore. We're two people who kissed once and spent a year pretending it never happened.
Practice this morning was brutal. Coach ran us into the ground with back-to-back drills that left my legs screaming.Good.Physical pain I can handle. It's the other kind that's killing me.
Now I'm home at 11 a.m., dripping sweat, desperate for a shower and maybe three hours of sleep before we have to leave for tonight's game.
The house is quiet when I walk in. Emma's car is gone, probably took Ethan to some toddler thing she mentioned. Chase is still at the rink doing extra shooting practice.
Which means Maya's here alone.
I dump my gear by the basement stairs and head for the kitchen. I need water and food. Most importantly, I need to stop thinking about the girl upstairs who's slowly disappearing.
That's when I see it.
A journal. Small, leather-bound, sitting on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker.
I know it's hers. Saw her writing in it once, years ago, when she was staying with us in Calgary. She'd curl up in the window seat in our old house and fill pages with her messy handwriting.
I should walk past it, grab my water, and go downstairs and mind my own business.
Instead, I stand here staring at it like it might explode.
It's open. Just slightly. Like she set it down in a hurry and didn't close it all the way.
Don't.
I reach for my water bottle, fill it from the tap, and drink half of it.
The journal sits there, pages bent from use.
This is wrong. Reading someone's journal is a massive violation. I know this, and would never do it under normal circumstances.
