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“Kenzi.” Donovan says my name as a gentle chastisement.
But Jason shakes his head. “It’s okay.” His mouth draws into a thin line. “You’re angry. You have every right to be. But you know I wouldn’t let anything happen to Otto.”
What I know doesn’t matter. My feelings are in full force right now. The backs of my eyes are stinging, but I will not cry in front of him.
I can’t get the thought out of my head:
If I had been with anyone—anyone—else, Otto might be healthy right now.
The perfect storm. That’s what Jason and I are. That’s what we’ll always be.
“I don’t want you anywhere near me or Otto,” I tell him, my voice trembling. “Do you understand?”
Jason doesn’t say anything to that. The blue eyes—they just look hurt. And confused.
And they look so much like Otto’s that I want to scream.
“Stay away from us,” I tell him and go into the hospital room to be with my son.
57
Donovan
You know the only thing worse than a breakup between two friends?
A breakup between two friends who weren’t even technically dating in the first place.
I’m trying to unwind with Bladerunner and a bottle of wine. Feeling nostalgic, I guess, I picked up a bottle of nail polish on my way home on a whim. Now, I’m coating my thumbnail in black. You can take the boy off Myspace, but you can’t take the Myspace out of the boy. It’s relaxing in a soul-calming way. Maybe there is something to this mediation shit Jason keeps talking about.
Meanwhile, Jason is having an existential crisis.
He’s stomping around the house. Going from the bathroom to his pull out bed to the bathroom again.
Jason walks around barefoot. Constantly.
I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t unsanitary, he’d walk through the hospital barefoot too if he could.
Every time he comes home, the first thing he does is shuck off his shoes and socks, like he’s living in some monk’s temple.
I, on the other hand, walk around in my boots until I remember they’re attached to my feet.
And I guess, in a way, that’s an easy way to describe us. Jason leaves his baggage at the door. I carry all the dirt and grime of my life around with me, until my bandages become twisted badges of honor.
“I’m going to do it,” Jason says. Through the open bathroom door, I can see his frame hunched over the sink. He’s staring himself down in the mirror, an electric shaver in hand.
I can tell this is a big deal for him. You can always tell what’s going on with someone by the state of their hair.
He’s been holding on to that beard since his divorce with Nadine. I get it. It’s the symbolic act of letting go of a ghost.
“Okay,” I say.
Those blue eyes flicker from the mirror to meet me. “You’re not going to convince me out of it?”
I heave a sigh. “Jason—and I can’t stress this enough—I don’t care about your facial hair. Do what you want.”
He stares back at the mirror. His lips press into a thin, determined line.
“Time to make some changes,” he says. Then the buzzing starts.
