None of us did.
I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, then twist the tap off and try to get myself under control.
The journal's still sitting there, pages open to those five words repeated over and over. I close it carefully and put it back exactly where I found it, the same angle, the same position.
She can't know I read it, can't know I violated her privacy like this.
But now I know, and I can't take it back.
Can't unsee those words, can’t shake the rage burning through my chest, can't stop thinking about some piece of shit putting his hands on her and then taking her job when she tried to get justice.
I want his name. I want to know who he is so I can drive to Pinewood and beat him until he stops moving.
But that won't help Maya. And right now, she needs help more than I need revenge.
The front door opens, and I freeze.
"Jackson?" Maya's voice. "You home?"
I grab my water bottle and force my face into something neutral.
She walks into the kitchen carrying grocery bags, Max trailing behind her like a shadow. She's wearing leggings and one of Emma's oversized sweaters, her curly hair piled on top of her head.
She looks at me and stops. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just finished practice." My voice sounds wrong, too tight.
She sets the bags on the counter, right next to her journal, and doesn't seem to notice it's there. "You look like shit."
"Thanks. Always know how to make a guy feel good."
"Seriously. You're pale." She moves closer, and I force myself not to step back. "Are you sick?"
"Just tired."
She studies my face, and for a second I think she sees right through me—sees that I read her journal, that I knoweverything.
But she just nods. "Emma had me pick up stuff for dinner. Did click and collect so it'd be ready when I got there." She pulls out a package of chicken breasts. "Apparently, pregnant Emma can't stand the smell of raw chicken anymore."
"Makes sense."
I should leave, should go downstairs and process this alone, but I can't move, can't stop looking at her and seeing those words in my head.
Hands that took what wasn't offered.
"Jackson." Her voice pulls me back. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, Maya."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push, just starts unpacking groceries and moving around the kitchen.
Max sits at her feet, meowing for attention. She reaches down and scratches behind his ears without looking, and he purrs loud enough to fill the kitchen.
I watch her put away vegetables, stack cans in the pantry. Do all these normal motions while my brain screams with everything I know.
She's suicidal.
She was raped three months ago.
