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He rakes a hand through his hair. “I think... maybe we should...”
“I know, I know,” I say, even though I don’twantto know. Iwantto convince him that Clara is a deep sleeper and that I am capable of being very quiet so he can finish what he’s started, but neither is true.
I glance up the stairs to the flat. “I love my sister. But I also kind of hate her right now.”
Jack smiles. He tucks my hair behind my ears, then leans in to kiss me once more. It is tender, and soft, and I feel like I’m in that bubble again, floating in a world filled with only good things. “Good night, ciaróg.”
“Good night, Keurig.”
When I shut the door behind him, I sit on the bottom step, toostunned to move. I don’t think I’ve ever been drawn to someone the way I’m drawn to Jack. I’m not sure how a little flirtation led to this.
I have no idea what this means or where it’s going, but I want to find out. I don’t want this to end, but the only thing I know for sure is that it will.
Four weeks has never felt shorter.
Fifteen
Jack
I slip into Nina and Ollie’s quietly. I don’t even bother to stop and take off my boots and coat. I head right to my room and toss them into a corner before falling into bed. I run that kiss over and over again in my mind. Her waiting for me at the door. Her in my jumper. The mess of hair on top of her head. How sweet she tasted. How soft she felt.
It isn’t until I’m nearly asleep that the thought comes.
You said you were coming over to kiss her. You did more than kiss her.
I sit up, blinking in the dark. She was into it, right? I think of how she helped me take off the jumper, and the way she leaned into me when my hands slipped beneath her shirt. That’s obvious, yeah?
Maybe she was afraid to say no.
I can imagine it, a parallel scenario, one I am pretty sure is fake. What if she was breathing faster because she was scared, not because she was enjoying herself? What if I read everything all wrong? There’s so much evidence to the contrary, and yet... all I need is the tiniest pinprick of doubt to spiral into a full-on panic.
I rub my hands over my face. I tug at my hair because I want to tap my fingers against something and undo the very thought that I went too far. Why can’t I be sure of anything good? It’s always the bad things. I really only went over there to kiss her. I truly didn’t expect anything beyond that. I wasn’t exactly thinking, though, so what if I missed something?
“It’s just an intrusive thought,” I say into the dark.
My least favorite part of exposure response therapy is the scripts. Rather than fight against the thoughts, I’m supposed to agree with them. I’m supposed to run through a script of everything I’m afraid of and say it without undoing it. Sometimes, I have to write it down. Sometimes I have to record it and listen to it multiple times a day. I have to hear myself say the awful things I think. I should agree with this intrusive thought. I should say it aloud, but I’m scared to, because what if that makes it true? It’s too horrible. Too unthinkable. I can’t say it. I won’t.
I grab my phone and turn it over in my hands. I could just text Raine and make sure. Ishouldtext her, right? I don’t have to ask her outright if she feels taken advantage of. I could talk around it. Feel it out.
I check the time. It’s nearly two in the morning. I shouldn’t text her right now. She’s probably asleep, unlike me. Unless she’s not. Unless she’s awake because she’s upset.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Raine’s name appears on the screen. My hands are trembling as I open the message, every worst-case scenario fighting for real estate in my mind. I read the message four times, each time convinced I’ve read it wrong, and when the words finally sink in, I feel like crying. I don’t remember the last time I cried.
Raine
I’m glad you came over.
I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I’m exhausted. I’m so fucking tired of every good moment being darkened by doubt. I don’t know if I’ll ever have something good without doubting it, but when I was in recovery, I could keep it from ruining things.
I can relearn how to keep it from ruining things.
I exit out of my chat with Raine and type out an email to Martina before I can change my mind. After I hit send, I notice the unread email at the top of my inbox. It’s a reply to one of the posts I made on a message board for local musicians. The subject line reads,Re: Stolen Gibson guitar, Ireland sticker on back.
I open the email, scanning the words so quickly, I have to read them twice.
I think I found your friend’s guitar.There’s a link attached. I click it, trying not to get my hopes up. The link takes me to a listing on an instrument resale site, and even though I’ve never seen Raine’s guitar in person, I have seen it in videos, and I know it’s hers right away. I don’t believe it, though. After weeks of relentlessly searching, it can’t be this easy. I click through the photo gallery, and when I get to the photo of the back of the guitar, there it is... the Irish flag sticker.
I click through the gallery a second time to be sure. I read through every word of the description. I look through the seller’s other items, but they only sell guitars. No sign of her other gear, so this probably isn’t the person who stole it. I look at the asking price for the guitar and laugh. I reread the title of the listing:Rare Gibson. Buy as is.Raine wasn’t kidding when she said you can’t just replace something like that.
