Jacob turns to look at me. “There’s nothingusualabout this.”
“Why? Doesn’t this happen all the time?”
He snorts, and it raises my hackles.
“What?”
“You think we have sheep blocking the streets of Aberdeen?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Right,” he snaps. “You wouldn’t. You don’t spend any time there.”
“I—” Is he seriously making another dig about me not being here for the surgery? And doing it in front of my dad?
Jacob squeezes his eyes shut, as if he didn’t mean for the words to slip out. For a moment he looks, well, sheepish.
“Maybe you should stretch your legs,” my dad tells him. “We’re going to be here for a while.”
A silent conversation passes between them and then Jacob nods, exiting the car.
“I’m sorry,” my dad says a moment later. “He’s not usually like this. I think he’s just…We’re all a little out of sorts.”
“It’s fine,” I say, because how else can I respond?
“No, it’s not,” my dad says, his voice surprisingly firm. “But I’m sure he’ll apologize once he’s calmed down.” He looks out the window. “I’ve never seen him act like this.”
“Really?” I guess Jacob only acts strange and surly around me.
“Yes. Maggie always worries about him. She says he doesn’t talk that much. He always listens to her, but he doesn’t really share anything in return.” He rubs a hand against his jaw. “And I think he’s doing worse because he—he doesn’t do well in cars.”
My gaze lands on Jacob, standing a few feet to the left of us. His back, clad in a brand-new dark-blue sweater, is toward me, and he has a hand lifted to his forehead, likely shielding his eyes from the rain.
He doesn’t drive. He doesn’t like to sit in the back seat. And I remember how he was when I had to slam on the brakes, his skin turning gray, his hand clenching my knee.
Something sharp twists in my chest, and when I look at him now, I see how small he is standing against the green mountains. How vulnerable he appears. How alone.
“I see,” I say, keeping my voice neutral, even though my throat feels tight.
Part of me wants to prod further, to hear the full story, thewhybehind his aversion to cars, but I don’t need to because on some level, I know. And I know if I ever hear it, it needs to be from Jacob.
Not that that will be happening. If he doesn’t want to know anything more about me, I doubt he’ll want to share about himself.
I tear my eyes away from him.
“And how are you doing?” I ask my dad.
My dad startles. “I’m fine,” he says, but the word comes out strained.
“Really?” I ask gently. Because I’ve watched him connect with others. I know he’s capable of it. He’s never really connected with me, but maybe now that I’m here, that I’m helping him, that I’m part of this, he’ll try to meet me halfway.
But when he just nods, the movement sharp and crisp, my hope burns into disappointment, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
I sink back into my seat.
A few months ago, when we were in that phase of sending cordial emails to each other, I asked him about his health. And all I got in response? The same answer:Fine.
But he’s able to tellJacobhow he feels.
