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“What about last night?” If I looked up right now, I think I’d see her crying, so I make myself look. Her jaw is tense, her lips pressed together. “Last night you said...”
“I know what I said.”
“Jesse,” George says, his tone quiet, admonishing.
I can’t look at him. I feel sick. Breathing hurts. Somewhere in my brain, a calm, logical voice tells me I might be having an anxiety attack. It urges me to breathe, to communicate, to lean on the two people in this room who know me better than anyone else on the planet.
Not that long ago, I was the guy people leaned on. I was strong. I was capable. Dependable. I was a fucking hero. I had friends who loved me and a grandfather who knew who I was. Now I’m weak. I’m not even Jesse to my grandfather anymore. I’m no one.
I’m ashamed.
“What are you saying now?” Lulu asks. Still, she hasn’t cried and I hope she’s not holding back the tears for me because I don’t deserve that gentleness.
“Jesse?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lulu
“What are you saying now?” I ask again. I have certain voices for specific situations. When I’m teaching it’s the Enthusiastic Voice, but at staff meetings it’s the Competent Voice. If I have to deal with students who have been a behavioral or academic problem in my classes, like if they’ve plagiarized or been disrespectful, I use the Hard Voice.
I’ve never used the Hard Voice on Jesse. I hate it but it’s the only thing keeping me from crying right now. And I will not cry, not in front of the people who humiliate me, who make me feel ashamed. Not anymore.
“Because last night you were saying something completely different.”
George makes a sound, a sort of saddened, disgustedtsk. “Jesse,” he says, disappointed, and I appreciate the solidarity, I do, but it’s just more humiliation. Layers and layers like strata waiting to be excavated, piled on top of each other, a cross-section of the moments in my life that I have been made the butt of the joke, the story people tell about the girl who fell out of a tree, who fell down the stairs, a loser, alone. Jesse’s rejection is just another vein in the bedrock, more proof that I do not belong here. I do not belong to anyone.
“I’m going to get my things,” I say quietly, brushing past Jesse and George before the latter can say anything. I won’t hold my breath for word from the former.
My purse’s contents are scattered across the bed from where I’d rummaged for a hairbrush and tie. As I throw everything back in and pull my socks on, the two men speak in hushed tones, barely audible from the bedroom. “Please don’t come in here,” I whisper as I hear footsteps moving through the house. “Please just let me leave in peace.”
He stops in the doorway.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I can’t look at him. I can’t move.
“Lu.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snarl.
He rears back like my words are a gale-force wind, then takes a step forward.
“I wish I could explain to you...” he says. He touches his chest, like there are more words in there and he just can’t catch them all and put them in the right order. The fool in me sympathizes, the fool in me loves him. “I wish I could...” He swallows and if I didn’t know any better I’d think that Jesse, solid, strong, brick wall of a man Jesse Logan, was about to cry.
“So, explain,” I say. “Explain,” I demand again when still he says nothing.“Say something,”I yell. The house is dead silent. I know that’s what Jesse is used to. An empty house, him rattling around this mid-century bungalow like a ghost in an old Victorian. I know that like me, Jesse is alone, but I’m too hurt and I’m too tired of being hurt to give him another inch of leeway.
“It’s not you,” he says and he closes his eyes, shaking his head before the words have even finished leaving his mouth, probably because he can see the rage bubbling inside me, spilling out of my mouth and eyes and ears like foam.
“Let me guess,” I laugh. “It’s not me, it’s you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s just too much.”
My whole life people have told me that I’m too loud. I’m too emotional. I’m too single-minded or too scatter-brained. I’m too silly or too obsessive. I’m too competitive. I’m too whimsical and naive. My whole life I’ve been too much, so why do I always feel like I’m not enough?
I’m not enough for the people I love, for the department and the field of study I so desperately want to be a part of. For Brian, for my dad. For Nora.
“Maybe I’m not too much,” I say. Tears leave hot streaks on my cheeks, but these aren’t sad, embarrassed tears. I am fucking angry.
“Maybe you’re not enough.” I hold my bag in front of me, a physical barrier between us. “Go find less, Jesse.”
