"Yeah?"
The door opens a crack. He doesn't come in, just stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable. He's in jeans and a black hoodie.
"You eaten today?"
I glance at the clock. It's past noon. "I had coffee."
"That's not food." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Want to get out of here for a bit? There's a coffee shop downtown that doesn't suck."
Going out sounds exhausting. Being around people sounds worse. But sitting in this room staring at job postings I'll never apply to isn't exactly productive either.
"Sure. Why not?"
His eyebrows raise, like he expects me to say no. "Give me five minutes."
He disappears, and I hear him moving around downstairs. I pull on shoes and grab my jacket, check my reflection in the mirror, and immediately wish I hadn't. I look like shit: dark circles under my brown eyes, my curls a mess because I haven't bothered to properly care for them in days. The sweater I'm wearing is an old one, hanging loose on my frame.
I used to care about what I looked like, used to put effort into my appearance.
Now I'm just trying to make it through each day without falling apart.
Jackson's waiting by the front door when I come downstairs. He doesn't comment on how long it took me to get ready, doesn't mention that I look like death. Just grabs his keys and heads outside.
The coffee shop is fifteen minutes away. We don't talk during the drive. Jackson plays some indie rock station at low volume, and I watch Hartford pass by the window. It's a nice city, bigger than Pinewood, more alive. Trees are turning orange and red, and leaves are scattered across sidewalks. October is in full swing.
The coffee shop is tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing place. It's the kind of spot that probably has overpriced lattes and baristas with nose rings. I'm not wrong. The guy behind the counter has three piercings in his left nostril, and the menu board advertises oat milk options.
"What do you want?" Jackson asks.
"Just black coffee."
"You need to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
He orders anyway: two black coffees and two turkey sandwiches. I don't argue. I don't have the energy.
We find a table in the back corner, away from the handful of other customers. Jackson slides my coffee across the table and unwraps his sandwich without comment.
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into my palms. It's grounding,real, something I can focus on that isn't the screaming inside my head.
"So," Jackson says after a minute. "Is job hunting going well?"
I almost laugh. "You could say that."
"Found anything?"
"Plenty of postings. Haven't applied to any."
He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. "Why not?"
Because I'm terrified. Because I killed a kid through my incompetence. Because I can't trust myself not to fuck up again.
"I just haven't found the right fit yet."
"Bullshit."
I look up sharply. He's watching me with those green eyes that see too much.
