Before I could gain the courage, he walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. It didn’t matter anyways, because he had Sophie. And it wasn’t fair for him to say things like that to me. He just continued to hurt me.
Chapter 26
NOW
July
Iwoke up to Jackson at the front door with breakfast in tow. We sat cross-legged on the floor of the family room, eating in silence together. We didn't acknowledge what happened while painting, and I was grateful, since I was still trying to erase it from my memory.
Instead, my focus was on the goal for the day. I still wasn’t ready to open the door to my old bedroom, and I purposely took an exorbitantly long time to finish my food.
“You ready?” Jackson asked as we put the empty takeout boxes in a plastic bag.
I thought for a second. “It’s just weird. What if we open the door and nothing is touched? Like, what does that mean?” I had already peeked in my mom’s old bedroom last night, finding it as completely empty as the day she left us.
Jackson chewed on a fingernail as he thought about it. “Just like the locks not changing . . . Maybe he thought you’d come back.”
Something about that possibility made me want to cry. I threw my head back and stared at the cracked ceiling. “But like, what would thatmean? That he cared? I know Peter was an asshole, but he was still my brother. He had his demons; he was fucked up from our mom and his dad. I don’t think he ever meant to take it out on me. I don’t know, I have all these complicated feelings. Like, what does that say about me, that I might not actually hate him?” I covered my face with my hands, willing the tears not to fall.
Jackson reached forward and tapped my arm to make me look at him. “It means you’re still the best person I know. Being able to forgive people is your best quality.”
Did I forgive Jackson, too? I forgave him time and time again when we were younger. It was hard not to, when he was so sweet to me. I could fall in love with him again, now. I knew I could. But he was engaged, so what did that make me? A piece of shit with feelings I shouldn’t be letting myself feel.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright, let’s do this.”
Jackson followed me down the hall, and I shook out my hands nervously before turning the knob and opening the door.
Just like the rest of the house, my bedroom was exactly as I expected—a mess. But nothing had been touched.
My comforter was still in a messy heap from the last time I slept on it, and my dresser drawers were left open haphazardly from when I scrambled to pull belongings out ten years ago. My old work polo with “Delvecchios’ Restaurant” printed on it was still on the floor.
“He really didn’t touch anything,” I said as I sat down on the bed. I took a moment to let my gaze drift around the room before finally noticing the one thing Peterhadtouched. My yearbook sat on my bedside table, covered by a thin layer of dust. I distinctly remembered leaving it by the door after graduation. Tears pricked at my eyes as Iimagined Peter placing it here, making sure it was within easy reach for when I came home. I blinked the emotion away quickly, before Jackson could see it.
Jackson leaned against my dresser as he crossed his arms. “Well, should we start with the dresser?”
“Might as well.”
He left to go get a trash bag. I never had many clothes to begin with, so after Jackson threw on a random playlist, we went through the first two drawers relatively quickly. “All Too Well” by Taylor Swift played at a low volume as we filled the bag.
Jackson broke out into laughter, and he turned around with a pair of navy-blue boxer briefs in his hands. “Hmmm, looks like you had a pair of my underwear, too.”
I snatched them out of his hands, stuffing them in the trash bag. “Stop, you know that wasn’t a sex thing.” My cheeks were so hot they hurt.
Jackson reached for the bag and I moved it away. “You shouldn’t get rid of those; you might start your period and need them again,” he teased as he fought me for the bag.
A laugh escaped me, and I pressed a hand to his chest. “I would appreciate if you wiped that from your memory. Do you know how horrifying that was for sixteen-year-old me? Itstillhaunts me.”
Jackson lunged for the bag again, this time getting an arm inside and retrieving the boxers. He threw them in my face and I yelped.
I removed them from my face and shoved them under the comforter on the bed. “Okay, you’ve lost dresser privileges.” I sat back on the bed as he picked up the Delvecchios’ polo from the floor. He pressed it to his nose and grimaced.
“This smells like rotten marinara sauce,” Jackson said with a gag.
“It hasn’t been washed in ten years—that thing is an antique. Toss,” I said as I batted a hand at it.
“We don’t make them like this anymore. The font is different now,” Jackson added as he traced the letters.
I stared at the shirt as he folded it and placed it delicately in the trash bag. I tied my hair up into a ponytail, thinking about how many times I’d worn that exact shirt. And then I remembered thelasttime I wore it. My last shift with Jackson. He had worn this shirt that night, too—his skin had touched it.
