I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, hoping we find a resolution that he can live with.
I must have drifted off, but I’m roused awake when the cab driver bumps the curb pulling up to a house in an unfamiliar neighborhood. The sun has set, casting the world in a bit of gloom. Jackson is no longer holding my hand. Instead, he leans forward to hand the driver some cash. He avoids my eyes and says this is his house, climbing out of the backseat. The driver turns around to offer me a supportive smile. She must think we’re a normal couple having a fight. If only life were that easy for an artificial girl. I press my lips into a grateful smile and get out of the car.
I’m feeling a bit hurt; I’m not used to Jackson avoiding me. He’s rarely the one in pain. Well, physical pain—sure. But he’s always been emotionally steady, supporting me. Ready to figure out the problem together. But now… Now he doesn’t seem to want me here at all. Without him, without my girls, I’m feeling alone for the first time in my life.
I gather our bags, and the cab drives off. Despite his crutches, Jackson takes his duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder, nearly falling.
“Here, let me—” I start.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly. “Just… Just let me get it, Mena.” He turns and starts toward the house.
I stare after him, waiting in the thin air of the higher elevation. Beyond his driveway is a wood-shingled home set far back from the road. It’s modest, tiny on the outside, at least. The grass is clinging to life, barely, and there are two metal chairs on the porch. Chained next to them are a couple of bikes. Jackson is already at the door, digging a key out of a fake potted plant. I walk up the driveway, and when I get onto the porch, I notice the pot reads,COME IN. WE ARE AWESOME.
I smile, looking at Jackson again and waiting for him to laugh. He doesn’t. He’s drawn, pale and sickly, transformed by grief. He sets the pot down and begins to unlock the front door.
Watching him, I try to imagine his life before me. He was living here with Quentin, occasionally attending his classes at the community college. I can barely remember the guy I met in the gas station, buying me Hershey’s Kisses. In truth, he was talking to me to find out the truth about the academy—to find the man he thought killed his mother. Maybe now he has.
Jackson has always been tortured, I guess. Only now he’s unable to hide it.
There is a click as the door unlocks. Jackson slides the key into his pocket, then pushes the door open. It snags on something, and he has to lean against it with his shoulder, bumping it the rest of the way. He hops to the side, nearly losing his balance.
He slaps his hand on the wall to flip on the light switch.“What the hell?” he murmurs, staring inside his house.
When I peek around his shoulder, my breath catches. The place is trashed. Jackson lets his crutches fall behind him as he limps forward and hops into the house.
“Quentin!” he screams. “Q!”
I quickly run in after him, taken aback by the true state of things. The worn furniture has been knocked over, the fabric cut open in places. There are piles of pictures on the carpet, the frames shattered, and paperwork is crumpled and strewn about.
While Jackson disappears down the hallway, still yelling for his friend, I bend down to pick up one of the photos. It’s a picture of Jackson with his parents. Despite the fact that they’re family, they all look kind of miserable. Jackson’s mom sits in a chair with her husband—who looks significantly older—standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Next to her is a smaller version of Jackson, smiling tensely, missing his two front teeth. There’s another girl in the photo, older than Jackson, with blond hair and a deep frown. She stands off to the side as if she’d rather be anywhere else. I have no idea who she could be, since Jackson is an only child.
I study Jackson’s father again, immediately disliking him. Jackson had told me before that he didn’t get along with his father, that he was a big believer in restoring men’s rights all while advocating for laws stripping women of theirs—it was called the Essential Women’s Act, I later learned at Ridgeview.
The man in the picture has Jackson’s same dark eyes, although they have no hint of the softness and kindness that Jackson’s hold.He has a mustache, sandy brown hair, and a heavy build. I look at Jackson’s mother and find more of him there. She was beautiful, although sadness seems to radiate off her. This would have predated the academy, so her demeanor in the photo isn’t related to Petrov so far as I can tell. There’s dread coiling in my stomach as I wonder if Jackson was right. Could his father have been involved in her death?
“He’s not here,” Jackson says, startling me. I look up and find him leaning against the wall, running his hand roughly through his hair. “Quentin’s not here, and it doesn’t look like he’s been here for a while. His bag is gone, so I think he left before this happened.” He motions around at the destruction. “At least I hope so.”
I set the picture on the kitchen half wall as Jackson eyes it curiously. “What do you think happened?” I ask him. “Who would trash your place?”
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “Had to have happened after I went to find you in Connecticut. Maybe… Maybe someone came here looking for you.”
“It could have been your father,” I suggest. Jackson stiffens but doesn’t offer his opinion on that.
After a moment, he hops toward the front door, where he collects his crutches to steady himself. When he comes back over, he looks at the picture I was inspecting earlier. He reaches toward it, and his fingertip grazes his mother’s image.
Grief pours off him.
“That your mom?” I ask softly, watching the side of his face.Jackson nods, but doesn’t respond. “And your dad?” I ask.
“That’s him,” he says, retracting his hand. “Doesn’t have that mustache anymore, thank God.”
“And the girl?” I ask, pointing to her. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“I don’t.” He pauses, wincing. “I mean, she’s my half sister, I guess. We’re not close—I barely know her. My father was actually married before. Before he married my mom,” he adds, “he had another family.”
Although the girls and I have been out of the academy for several weeks now, modern society is still sometimes a mystery to me. I absorb information quickly, but the family unit—I haven’t researched that enough. I don’t really understand what that means for Jackson.
“But she’s not your sister?” I ask.
