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Dinner lasts a fucking eternity.
By the time we get through dessert, I'm ready to pull my own hair out. It's just so awkward. So uncomfortable. So tense. Everyone is on edge, always. No one really talks because no one really knows what the safe areas of conversation are. It's all 'how's work?' or 'how's college?' or 'my, it sure is cold outside.'
All of it is nauseating.
The peaceful quiet of my dark apartment is like a warm hug when I finally,finally, shoulder the door open. I'm alone tonight since Pen's staying at her boyfriend's place. Needed the comfort after the dinner from hell, she'd told me.
I get it. I need comfort too. I just find it in different ways. Like meaningless hookups and bottles of wine and family-size tubs of ice cream. Tonight, I'm going for the latter.
My two-year roommate stint with Kate and Amelia ended pretty soon after the Evans-Jacobs family meltdown. Sydney moved in with us that summer, and while I love the girl to pieces, the apartment felt too full when all I wanted was to be alone. Especially considering Nick spends most of his time there, him and Amelia shoving all their happy, lovesickness down my throat. God, and then there were all the memories to deal with.
Pen was looking for a roommate since she couldn't stomach being under the same roof as her father. I had to get out of the apartment, so I got the hell out of there.
Shutting and locking the door behind me, I kick off my heels and hurry through the modest-sized two-bedroom apartment, eager to get out of my clothes. I lied earlier, about all his stuff being hidden under my bed. I couldn't part with the clothes. They're just too damn cozy not to use. And sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I swear I get a faint whiff of that fresh, spring smell.
It's probably a little masochistic considering how much my chest aches, how I get this tingly feeling behind my eyes whenever I slip the familiar Rays hoodie over my head, but I'm a weak woman. I can't resist.
My phone buzzes just as I'm fishing an extra-large tub of mint chocolate ice cream out of the freezer. I smile at the message from Pen checking if I got home okay. Flopping on the sofa, I type out a reply with one hand, digging out a spoonful of ice cream with the other.
At least there's one good thing in my unexpected new life. Honestly, I don't know what I would've done if I didn't have Pen. I would've lost it a hell of a lot worse. I've got a sister. A half-sister, technically, but I dare anyone to try to say that to our faces. Not that anyone knows or anything because we've kept our dysfunctional family secrets to ourselves, but still. For all intents and purposes, Pen is my sister.
I'm scrolling mindlessly through Instagram when I see it. My throat gets clogged, my head goes all fuzzy, I get warm all over. Ben's on one of his posting sprees again, as he usually is on a night out. I knew they were going out. Either he or the girls always make an effort to invite me, no matter how many times I turn them down.
I just can't bring myself to do it, and the reason is staring me in the face right now.
It's nothing dramatic. It's literally just a picture of him but I swear to God it hurts.
I've mostly gotten over that whole self-loathing phase that plagued me for a couple of months. It doesn't pop up as often as it did, just the occasional time when I catch Mrs Jacobs looking at me a certain way or when I see the strain between Pen and her dad.
It always, without fail, reappears when I see him. Because out of everything, that's the thing I hate myself most for. Ruining that.
I stare at the slightly blurry photo for longer than is considered normal before switching my phone off and tossing it aside. Eventually, after a gallon of dairy and a couple of hours of indulging in self-hatred, I doze off, curled up on the sofa with the TV playing low.
All alone, just like I made sure I would be.
38
JACKSON
“Fuck.”
I swear as a jagged piece of wire slices my palm open. Bright red blood pools in the centre of my hands, dripping off the edges and splattering on the grass, some of it hitting the toe of my boots. Another curse leaves me as I fish a rag from my back pocket, the wound smarting as I wrap the material around my hand.
Getting injured is a hazard of the job. I’ve gotten a million new cuts, scrapes, bruises, and scars in the last six months, since I made it my mission to fix every single thing wrong with this damn ranch.
The coat of paint the barn needed? Done. The broken fences on the western edge of the property? Fixed. Every bit of old, rusty equipment that Lux insisted could be restored? Basically brand new.
It's safe to say I've been keeping busy. Or as Lux says, annoying the shit out of her. You'd think she'd be happy about how much time I've been spending at home; any spare time I have, I make the drive.
It's easier to pretend here.
The moment I clamber up the porch steps and set foot in the house, Lux's glare finds me, gaze immediately flicking down to my shoddily wrapped hand. I swear, she's like a bloodhound, able to sniff out wounds from any distance. “Oh, for the love of God.”
In the blink of an eye, she's fishing out our well-used first aid kit, huffing as she gestures for me to sit at the table. “You're a fucking disaster.”
A hand slaps me upside the head when I quietly quip, “You say the nicest things to me.”
