That, there, was the perfect example of the divide between us. I couldn’t do those things, because if I didn’t take care of them, who would? Dad was gone. Mom had to work. They needed me—and tonight was perfect evidence of that. Everything wason my shoulders all the time, squishing me flatter and flatter until I caved.I don’t want to do this anymore.
But it hurt even more that Jamie could see me struggling—like it was clear to everyone that I was doing something wrong.
“You should head home,” I told him, not quite looking him in the eye. “I’m not sure Junie will actually sleep if she knows you’re still here.”
Jamie’s fingers twitched against my shirt, the sheer barrier just enough to tease his touch but still kept me from fully feeling it. Just as I was about to pull away, to sever the connection I was thinking way too much about, Jamie said, “Draw something for me.”
I suddenly felt bone-weary tired. “My sketchbook is upstairs.”And I don’t want you to see what I’ll draw.
Jamie hesitated before letting go, slipping his hand into his pocket. When he pulled it back out, he had a folded-up piece of paper between his fingers, and he offered it out to me.
The paper was blank, unlined, and perfectly square. Not hastily ripped out of a notebook. It looked more likeprinter paper. “You keep a piece of paper in your pocket?”
Jamie’s eyes darted to the side, the way they always did when he was about to lie. “Not all the time.”
“Why?”
“In case you ever forget your sketchbook.” He reached for my hand, gently prying my fingers out of a fist, and pressed the paper into my palm. “You always have a marker on your keyring—and I’ll always have the paper.”
A soft sound slipped past my lips, quiet in the room, loud in my ears. I stared at the way Jamie’s fingers lingered on my palm a half beat before pulling away entirely, and I could still feel that barest touch more than the paper still in my hand.You always have a marker. I’ll always have the paper.
“Jamie,” I whispered, but he didn’t hear me.
The paper was light in my hand, but as comforting as his arms around me would’ve been.Seen. That was how I felt. Jamie looking at me now, scanning my expression the way he always did, wasn’t as knowing as the paper in my hand was. I could picture exactly what my face must’ve looked like—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed, looking like a girl who’d realized she loved her best friend.
Loved.In love. In that moment, I couldn’t tell which was which. Or if there was even a difference.
All I knew was that I was a goner.
Jamie stepped away, starting toward the door, and this time, my voice was a little louder. “Jamie.”
He looked exactly as he always did—wavy hair slightly mussed, glasses slipping down his nose, expression neutraland focused solely on me. Except now, there was a spark in his eyes, one that unlocked something within me. “Yeah?”
“What do you want me to draw?”
“Someone being disemboweled,” he replied nonchalantly, opening the door and unhooking my keys from the knob—I’d slammed the door shut with them still dangling from the lock. He hung them on the entryway hook. “Or with their arm chopped off. Make it extra gory.”
It reminded me of last Friday, the day Dalton had come and sat beside me on the park bench.Did you finally move on from drawing people dying, DD? Thank God.
Here Jamie was shutting the door behind him as he left my house, but not before I saw him grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And here I was, swooning over him as he asked me to draw intestines.
Yeah. I was an absolute goner.
CHAPTER 17
The Carmichael house Thursday morning was something similar to boot camp.
Or, what I decided to call it, the Day of Chores.
At seven in the morning, I went from sister to drill sergeant, waking everyone up without mercy. Even little Theo, who was deep asleep when I flipped his light switch on. I relayed the same thing to each of them: “Get up and get dressed now, or no screens until Sunday.”
I wasn’t sure if it was because they felt bad about yesterday, or because they were mostly acting on autopilot, but ten minutes later, each of them sat at the dining room table, dressed in their day clothes. Even Penn, even though she had on her best scowl.
I was tired, too, waiting for my coffee to brew, but I refused to show any weakness. “Juniper,” I said, using her full name with my no-nonsense voice. I stood above them all, arms folded. “You’re on laundry duty. I want you to do your laundry, Ivy’s, andTheo’s—separately. That’s three loads, Junie. If you come to me because you mixed your clothes with Ivy’s, I’ll make you do my laundry, too.”
Junie just blinked tiredly.
