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Opening the door, I slide in and look over at the angry man beside me. “Jackson…”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He turns on the car and pulls out without another word.
“I just wanted to say—”
“Please, Cara. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He says, completed defeated. Like he’s giving up on this child. On me.
That’s not what I wantat all.
“But—"
“Cara, I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now, okay? We’ll talk about it later.” His tone turns aggravated as he grits the words through his teeth, and I know he’s barely hanging on.
I nod my head, ignoring the burning in my throat as I sink into the seat. I want to melt into it and never come out. I want to disappear and maybe come back seven months ago so I could have made different decisions.
I would change Logan’s outcome, but then what would happen to Jackson?
As I look at him, I wonder if anything would’ve happened to us had Logan stayed alive. Maybe Logan and I would have broken up and me and Jackson would’ve gotten together eventually. I think both our guilt would’ve been lessened. I certainly wouldn’t feel like I do now.
All I know is that as every day goes on, I’m finding myself burrowing further and further into my emotions for Jackson.
And I don’t think I hate it.
19
Jackson
Cara walks into herhouse with her shoulders slumped and a black cloud hanging over her head. We didn’t talk for the rest of the car ride, but I know she wanted me to say something. Her desperation was written in each breath she took. I could taste the pleading like a bitter fruit.
I couldn’t say anything, though.
I need to work through these emotions instead of acting on rage. Not around Cara, at least. I need to figure out what my next move is.
Sitting in front of this couple who wanted to raise my child was a sweet torture that even I didn’t even find amusing. It was terrible, plain, and simple.
I think the worst part was knowing that Cara was right. Without a doubt, Colton and Amanda could give my son a better life than I could. The pure love and need they had to be parents was written on their faces. They need the kid just as much as I need the kid, if not more.
I just don’t know how I can give my baby up without fighting with everything I have in me.
I park Easton’s truck in front of his house and leave the keys underneath the seat. Not in the mood to talk, otherwise I’d walk them into him. He’ll grill me about the parents and give me some kind of low-down on what I should do next.
I don’t need a pep talk; I need a fucking joint and a bloody body.
Walking through my door, I see my mom once again sitting on the couch. Passed out. Rubber band tied around her arm and needle still embedded in the vein.
I walk over to her, ready to start my regular routine of cleaning up her messes and making her look somewhat presentable.
I pick up the table, tossing the trash and emptying her ashtray. I throw away the old needles and bag up the rest of her drugs. I cringe when I pull the needle out of her arm. Snort shit and smoke shit, that’s cool with me. It crosses a line when you start injecting the shit into your veins.
Fucking disgusting.
It’s when I untie the rubber band around her arm that I notice something is different. I drop the band on the table and turn to look at my mom.
“Mom?”
Nothing. No response. Not unusual.
Whatisunusual is that she doesn’t even take a breath.
