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Two moments.
Three.
We stared at each other. I didn’t have to tell Jamie I loved him. He didn’t have to tell me we had no future. We simply understood the dichotomy of his words— feeling so deeply and closely to another human being yet being in such a separate place. I wasn’t sure why he chose now as the time to tell me. I wasn’t sure how much weight to give to what he’d said. Whether or not he truly meant something that strong—“I love you more than I even love myself”—or if those things had been said in the heat of the moment.
Truthfully, it didn’t matter. Jamie needed to leave eventually.
And I would need to let him go.
I glanced back at the sauce on the wall, breaking our connection. Jamie’s arms retracted away from me. He slunk back into himself. I sunk back into myself.
“I should probably clean that up,” I said, also noticing little red splotches popping against the white sheets. “And, umm… change the bed sheets.”
“I’ll stay with you again tonight, if you’d like.”
“Yeah. I’d like that,” I said without giving myself the time to think about whether that was such a great idea.
I looked away from Jamie, my eyes landing on the damaged wall— the spot where the water had leaked into the house. The dark panel reminded me of all the brokenness inside of me. Part of me wanted to leave the wall that way forever, forgoing any reparations as a reminder that I would always be broken on some level.
But then, there was something else, too. I wasn’t sure what it was or how to label the feeling. Maybe I wasn’t ready to fix the leak, but I sure as hell was ready for some kind of change. Change prompted by the admission of love over spilled sauce. That admission somehow changed so much in so little words.
“Hey, Jamie?” I asked. “You used to fix up houses, right?”
He nodded, his legs now crossed over one another. “That was the job I got the most joy out of. Ironic, huh?”
“Yeah. Very.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m… uh… not sure how this works but… you wanna help me, you know, pick out some furniture? Maybe a TV for the bedroom.”
“You know that picking out furniture and a TV isn’t exactly restoring a house, right?” He smirked.
“Work with me here, Jamie. What I’m trying to say is… I’d like to make this place my home again.”
“That I can definitely help you with.”
“Alright, so, tomorrow?”
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Blood
A haze draped over me as my eyes fluttered open. The room had grown fuzzy—swirls of light danced across my vision. The space wavered eerily. I stretched my hand out in front of me, and energy danced around my flesh, the glow around my fingers making my hand appear about two sizes too big.
I sat onto my legs. As I leaned back against the headrest, something felt off. I glanced behind me. An ornate steel design—the bed set of my youth. Not the shabby, cheap IKEA set I’d purchased after the divorce. My brows knitted together.
I looked around the room. Movie posters canvassed the walls.Casablanca. Gone with the Wind. Citizen Kane. Forbidden Planet…
I was no longer in my bedroom in SE Portland. I was back at my mom’s house.
The wooden floor creaked as I stepped through the room, resting a hand on the brass doorknob.
“Mom?” I asked, voice croaking. Not sure what I should expect. Was this a dream? Had I gone back to the spiritual realm?
As I turned the door, a rush of nostalgia washed over me. In the hallway, I spotted old photos of me that Mom had hung on the wall. Portraits. You know, those fancy pictures parents loved to get done of their kids. I trailed a finger against the wall, brushing past each photo. Walking down the passageway was a blast through time—I watched myself age a couple years in each photo she’d hung. Three of them.
I stopped on the final picture. A school photo taken at Stony Point. Fourteen-year-old Jemma, the girl with braces and frizzy hair, stared back at me. She smiled vibrantly, looking so goddamn youthful it made me sick.
Something clanked in the kitchen downstairs. Pans, or something. I turned my head. Everything around me remained fuzzy, objects vibrating. Pulsating.
