Page 8 of It Was Always You

There’s no way in hell I’d tell any of our other friends. Nothing intimidates teenage girls more than an angry, alcoholic mother. News like this would be kerosene to the high school gossip mill.

“I was doing laundry; all of my gym clothes were stinky and dirty. I moved the bottle of laundry soap and found her stash of empties.” She probably thought I wouldn’t find them, and I wouldn’t have, but since she’s been sleeping all the time, she hasn’t washed clothes, bought groceries, cleaned, or anything that would indicate she lives in the house, so I had to do it.

“I was pissed, and you know how I can get. When I’m mad, I can’t think straight. I do the first thing that comes to mind. I grabbed the empties and marched into the living room to toss them at her feet.”

He extends an arm over the duffel between us to squeeze my shoulder, slowly rubbing his hand across my back.

I swipe at the tears streaming from my eyes, willing them to stop, to let me gain some sort of composure about the situation.

“She slapped me.”

My mom hit me. She didn’t have a word to say about the bottles, about her being physically present but mentally on vacation. With a casual flick of the ash from her cigarette she stood up. And using her spare hand, she hit me, open palm.

My confession makes him whip his head to look at me, and it’s like he’s frozen. The man who always knows what to say is stunned silent.

I hang my head, feeling so weak, so defeated. All I can think is that I’m ready to give up.

Ugly, wet sobs come pouring out of me as my body sags. “Sometimes I feel like such a fuck up,” I choke out. “Why do I always do this? I can’t ever keep my mouth shut. I should have thrown them in the garbage and gone to my room. I should have left her alone.”

Emmett tries to scoot closer to me, and I hear him curse at the bag tucked between us. He lifts it and shoves it into the back seat. I’m then pulled into his arms, wrapped up in him, and I bury my head into the neck of his sweatshirt, smelling his soap and the remnants of cologne I knew would be there.

“It doesn’t matter, you hear me?” he says, squeezing me to accentuate every word. “It doesn’t fucking matter. There isn’t anything you could have said or done that makes what she did okay. Christ, Jenna. You deserve far better than what you’ve been given.”

He holds me firmly, his grasp unwavering as I release every painful memory through my tears. It isn’t until my body relaxes, and I pull back a little, that I notice his hand feeling between the layers of fabric around my neck.

“Are you . . . are you wearing two hoodies?”

For the first time all night, I laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t have enough space to pack them in my bag. I’m sweating.”

He helps me pull an arm out of my jean jacket and I yank off one hoodie as he adjusts the heat in the cab of the truck. We’re quiet again, both looking out over the lake at the mini waves forming. I can imagine Emmett and his sister here, screaming, chasing each other around, covered in mosquito bites, digging their toes in the sand.

“So, what’s the plan?” he finally asks, most likely noticing the time on the clock. “Want to stay at my house tonight? I’m not letting you go home.”

“And have your parents realize how pathetic and crazy I am? No. I called because I need a ride to the bus station.”

Emmett is silent, staring out the window and chewing on his bottom lip.

“I called my dad,” I continue. “He told me they’ve been separated. He has a fucking girlfriend and everything. He wondered if she’s drinking again, the few times they talk, she slurs through the conversation.” I use the fabric of the hoodie I discarded to wipe my face in an unladylike manner before folding it neatly in my lap. “A heads-up from him would have been nice. He said I should go to my Aunt Sarah’s. She lives in Southern California and has space for me until he can get me set up somewhere to finish high school. Who knows if I should finish school? I could find a job and call it good.”

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “You’re not leaving like this.”

“No?” I’m almost laughing. “I’m not asking for permission. I called to say goodbye and to ask for a ride, so I don’t have to pedal my piece of crap bicycle to the train station at midnight.”

He finally turns toward me, a stony, serious expression on his face. “I said no.”

“Emmett,” I plead, exasperated and worn out by this conversation, by the entire evening.

He continues staring, meeting my gaze with his own. It’s like we’re playing a silent game of who is going to blink first.

“Fine.” He readjusts until he’s facing forward and thrusts the truck into reverse. “Let’s go. I need to stop at home first and get some clothes.”

“What do you mean? You’re not going anywhere.”

“We’re dropping out, moving out west. I’m going to get a job at a pizza shop or lobster shack or something. We can finish our degrees online. We’ll rent a shitty studio apartment we can barely afford. You’ll sleep on some dingy couch we buy off Craigslist from a murderer, probably, and I’ll sleep on the floor. It’ll be great, can’t wait.”

“No, you’re not going to do that. You have a family who loves you more than anything and your mom would die if you left her like this.”

“And you have me!” he bellows. The words come out with such force; I flinch.

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