I tap my pen against my chin, growing irritated withmyself. So what if he had a moment of vulnerability? It doesn’t mean he’s not the fuckboy he’s proven himself to be at every turn and venture. It doesn’t mean I should be sitting here feelingsorryfor him.
So why am I?
I throw my pen against my notebook, glancing at the clock to note the late hour, sighing. My brain is all over the place tonight, and I’m fairly certain that I won’t be getting anything done. Too much excitement for one day, I think.
So I do the thing I’ve been considering doing since I got home, hating myself all the while.
Me:how is Jack doing?
It doesn’t take Ian long to answer, the little dots dancing for only a few seconds before he responds:
Ian:He’s being frustrating is what he’s doing. Trying to convince us not to tell Coach about his injury.
I frown. That’s…Well. I guess that is very Jack, considering how vehemently he insisted he needed to continue playing. Even if I don’t really understand why.
Me:but didn’t the doctor say that it’ll only get worse if he keeps playing?
Ian:Exactly. Try getting that through his thick skull though.
Ian:Sorry we didn’t get to those post-game dinner plans.
I smile softly, practically hearing the concern in his tone. It’s a wonder my brother’s head doesn’t split with how much he’s constantly worrying about other people.
Me:it’s fine, seriously
Me:Lila said you guys still won! Congrats.
Ian:Thanks. Raincheck on dinner?
Me:absolutely.
There’s a brief pause before:
Ian:You doing okay?
I frown. It’s an innocent enough question, but I know the meaning behind it is less so. Ever since dad left, Ian (and Lila, for that matter) have taken to treating me with kid gloves. Constantly checking in with me, always trying to get me to come over or to go out with them…It’s like they’re afraid of leaving me alone fortoo long. I want to remind them that I’m not theonlyone who dad hurt—but I guess since I’m the only one still letting it bother me, it’s a valid concern.
Still, it makes me feel like I don’t know how to take care of myself sometimes.
Me:I’m fine. Promise.
I fall back against my pillows as I reach for my headphones, popping them into my ears and letting Billie Eilish sing away my troubles. Her soothing voice always settles the disquiet in me, and tonight is no different, even if I can’t fully pinpoint where the disquiet comes from. Maybe it’s the unanswered texts in my phone that I’ve been avoiding all week, maybe it’s the coursework piling up around me, or maybe it’s even the misplaced sense of pity I feel for the world’s hottest douche canoe.
Probably a lot of that last one, if I’m being honest.
I close my eyes as Billie’s voice lulls me, putting my hands behind my head on my pillow and stretching out to take a breather before I inevitably force myself to take another crack at my paper. It means that I don’t hear it, at first—the metallic pinging that comes from my bathroom. It means that when the first spew of water starts to jet out from where the faucet handles are, I don’t notice, not at first.
It’s not until the song ends and starts to blend into the next one that I catch the roaring sound of spraying water, turning my head to the catastrophe that is currently taking place in my tiny bathroom. Because it isn’t enough, apparently, that I’m drowning in schoolwork, that my dad’s a dick who tried to ruin my life, not even that my head is hung up tonight on a guy who I shouldn’t begiving a second thought to. No, apparently that isn’t enough fuckery for Abigail Thompson.
Because for no good reason, all at once—a pipe bursts in my bathroom, a small flood underway.
I stare at it for all of three seconds before my body catches up to the shock, jumping into action to do what, I’m not even sure yet.
Great,I think.Just fucking great.
Four
Jack
