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The muscles in his jaw ripple. “Is helping other people more important than taking care of the people you have at home?”
“No.” The question really upsets me. Makes me feel guilty. “Of course not. But why can’t we do both?”
He doesn’t answer that, and I don’t know what else to say. He’s not happy, and neither am I as he drives us back home.
***
THAT NIGHT, AS I GETready for bed in my own room, I feel even worse about things with Jackson.
It shouldn’t be a big deal. We’ve fought and argued so many times over the years that it’s like second nature to us. I’ve gone weeks when I could barely stand the sight of him and we’d only interact to take care of logistical concerns. The little bit of tension in the truck this afternoon should have been nothing. Shouldn’t have bothered me at all.
But I feel almost sick about it as I kill time before I go to my room that night, straightening up the lounge and kitchen even after everyone else has gone to bed. Then I take a long time cleaning myself from the day with water and soap and a washcloth.
It would be nice to have a hot shower.
But I may not ever be able to take a shower again.
The stark truth of that knowledge—as trivial as it is in the scope of so much that’s far more important—feels terrible right now. That hot showers are part of my past now. Just like feeling safe by myself. And shopping for clothes. And having a meal out with my parents.
Like my parents.
Like Molly.
And maybe whatever weird, twisted thing I had going for a while with Jackson.
My eyes burn as I wash my face and then slowly brush all the tangles out of my hair.
I keep brushing it for a long time, trying not to cry.
I’m still pulling my brush through my hair when there’s a light tap on my door. I jerk in surprise but walk over immediately to see who it is.
Jackson. Standing in my doorway in the trousers he’s been wearing all day and nothing else.
He’s scowling.
“What—?”
He breaks into my startled question as he steps into my room. “So you’re just going to dump me like that?”
I freeze except for my eyelids, which close down in a very slow blink. “W-what?”
He closes the bedroom door with his foot. “You’re just dumping me without a word? You’re pissed and you’re scared of opening up, and this is the way you decide to deal with it? You’re going to stop spending the night with me? You’d do that to me after everything we’ve been through?”
“I’m not—” I’m so shocked I can’t seem to keep up. None of this makes any sense at all. So naturally I say the most irrelevant thing first. “I’m not scared.”
“Of course you’re scared! You’re fucking terrified. And I get it. I do. But I’ve done everything I can to be what you need me to be, and I deserve better than to be dumped like this!”
I gape at him. I’ve never heard him sound so impassioned—so out of control. The feeling is coming off him in waves. I hug my arms to my chest and manage to get out a complete sentence. “I’m not dumping you!”
This is obviously not what he expects. He’s been leaning into me, but now he takes a half step back. “What?”
“I’m not dumping you, you big doofus! I was just slow getting ready for bed tonight.”
He frowns and leans forward again. “You were coming to bed with me?”
“Yes, I was coming.” I’m working through my surprise now, and I’m left with a strange, fiery indignation that is almost certainly too intense for the current circumstances. “So you and whatever self-righteous outrage you’d conjured up in your imagination about how badly I was treating you can go to hell!”
He doesn’t look as upset now, but he’s starting to look just as pissed as I’m feeling. “I didn’t conjure it all up. You’ve been on the verge of bailing on me for a while now, so you can hardly be surprised if I assume you’ve done it.”
