No.
“Yes,” I say firmly.
He swallows hard, then nods curtly.
“Okay. I told you I'd stay for as long as you want. If it's not what you want anymore, I'll go.”
He looks at me longingly, hoping I'll say something else, that I'll change my mind. When I don't, he exits the kitchen, and I hear the distinct sound of belongings being stuffed hastily into a duffel bag. I don’t move from my chair when I hear him zip the bag shut, or when I hear him fold the bed back into the couch and start a load of laundry–the linens, I’m assuming. Even as I'm kicking him out, he's still finding ways to make things easier on me.
I'm going to throw up.
I do, however, walk into the hallway when I hear his keys jingle in his hands as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder. He turns back to look at me, the hollowness in his eyes making the ten feet separating us feel more like an ocean between continents.
“For what it’s worth, I was never trying to replace Aaron,” he says. “I might not be family to you, but you and Aaron have always been family to me. And the last thing I ever wanted to do was cause you more pain. I’m so sorry if I did.”
You didn’t. I did this to myself.
But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I watch silently as the door closes behind him, unable to shake the feeling that I’m still lying to myself. That I haven’t avoided another loss at all.
That despite all my mental gymnastics and reasoning, all I’ve done is create a new kind of loss for us both–and I doubt if either of us is ever going to recover.
Chapter 32
Jack
Thirty Nine Weeks
Iused to like my apartment.
It's small, organized, functional—with a commute that consists of just going downstairs undoubtedly being part of the appeal. And surprisingly, for being over the station, it's pretty quiet. I've always liked things that way.
You get so used to the everyday sounds of a household that you don't notice them until they're gone. In my apartment, it's things like the ice maker, the rolling doors of the station garage, the hum of the ancient window-unit A/C. Sounds that I'm adjusting to again. Sounds that are miserable and hollow compared to the ones I've been surrounded by the last eight months.
There's no humming, no record playing, no popping candle wicks. There's no one flipping through pages, periodically gasping or squealing in excitement. There's not an incredible, brilliant, stunning creature talking to herself all day long without noticing she's doing it.
There's none of that here, just peace and quiet, the way I've always liked it. I've never been so fucking miserable.
***
"What are you doing here?"
"Hi Granny, it's nice to see you, too," I mumble, stepping past her into the living room and flopping pathetically into one of the spectacularly ancient floral armchairs.
"Of course it's nice to see you, honey," she says. "I just meant, shouldn't you be at the station? Or with Abby? That girl is about ready to pop, I'm surprised you left her side even to come see your dear old Granny."
"That's part of why I'm here," I sigh miserably, throwing my arm over my face to block out the world. "She asked me to leave, Granny."
"For the day?"
"Permanently," I say. I recount the conversation, from the moment I said 'good morning' to the moment I walked out of the front door.
"Poor girl," Granny mutters, her rocking chair creaking with every movement.
"What about me?" I ask indignantly. "What about poor Jack?"
"You hush your whining right now, young man," she says sternly, peering over her glasses. "I know you're hurting, and I hate to see that. But she's about to be a mom, and that's overwhelming enough without all the other circumstances."
"I know that, Granny," I say, straightening up. "That's what hurts so much, so bad I feel like I can’t breathe. She's overwhelmed, and she's convinced she needs to handle everything on her own because Aaron isn't here. It kills me that she doesn't want to let m—anyone to help her."
