He watches me with his blue eyes open wide and his mouth slack. Crap, I went too far. Honestly, I hadn’t known how to stop. The words kept on flying out of my mouth and my chest kept heaving almost like someone had reached in there and yanked them all out.
One of his hands comes to my cheek. He swipes a thumb across the streaks of tears I can’t seem to hold in any more, shaking his head slightly. “That sucks,” he says as he pulls me close.
That sucks.
Oh my God. My body sags against him. What a ridiculous response—and yet all over again, I want to kiss him. I’ve heard “I’m sorry” enough to last a lifetime. I know it’s the standard sentiment. I’ve said it myself. They’re sorry it happened. So am I, but what do I say in return? Thanks? It’s okay? Of course it isn’t okay. Not in any way imaginable.
Jake’s quiet “that sucks” were words I never knew I needed. Hearing someone say they understood things were bad, that they got it, but they weren’t trying to fix anything, feels healing beyond words.
Because it does suck, but there’s nothing to fix. My ex, he meant well, but he kept asking when I was going to “get over it.” I think I’ve done a lot of getting better. I think I heal more every day. Every day I move forward. But you don’t “get over.” You don’t fix.
Too soon Jake pulls away, sliding past me into the bathroom. He comes back with the box of tissues and hands a couple over, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
For a minute or two I’m lost to blowing my nose and wiping my face. I slip into the bathroom, trying to clear up the splotchiness and make myself look a little less unfortunate.
When I return he’s exploring around the room, flipping the latches on my guitar case with curiosity. “Would you play something for me?”
I take a shaky breath. “You’re trying to distract me.” I smile though, because he’s smiling at me, and because I appreciate what he’s trying to do.
He shrugs. “Do you want to talk about it more? About what happened to you?”
“No.” I really don’t. My body feels heavy and tired now, like it always does whenever I spend any kind of time on the subject. I had a therapist tell me it was a coping thing. Whatever. I get tired as hell. It’s as good a reason as any to try not to think about what happened that day in the record store.
He picks up my guitar and holds it out. “So play for me then. Please?”
His hand touches mine when I wrap my hand around the neck, and for the first time in a long time, the familiar ridges of the strings reassure me. “What do you want to hear?”
13. BEACON OF HOPE
Jake
I couldn’t leave her. I may be a lot of things, but even I’m not dick enough to make a girl cry and then leave a smoke trail on my way out the door. So instead I asked her to play me more songs, mostly Clapton and Queen and The Beatles and stuff because the guys at the shop like their classic rock, and I figured it would take her mind off her demons. And mine.
When she got too tired, I helped her into bed like a good guy would. I guess I could have left then, but she kept holding onto my hand like it was some kind of lifeline. So I stayed.
All night, I stayed.
A slash of light from the window cuts across Cassie’s face when I wake in the morning. Her lids are swollen and her skin is streaked. I figure she cried more during the night. Thinking about it—about everything she told me—makes me want to find the fucker who hurt her and beat him till he can’t be recognized.
She’s right. There are worse things than my shitty story, and I don’t own all the pain in the world. I’ve been walking around with this idea that I’m alone because nobody gets it. Dante kind of does, which is the only reason why we’re still sort-of friends. He was there that day Davidson went down, and he saw it all happen. He wasn’t responsible though, so for him it’s different.
I start to wonder if Cassie would get it. She’s come through a harder fire than I had to endure. I still see life in her. That’s dangerous thinking, though. She’s in town for maybe another week or whatever. I can’t start looking at her like she’s some beacon of hope.
The softness of her hair in my hand makes me want to bury my fingers and kiss her awake. Whisper promises in her ear I can’t possibly deliver. She’s been honest with me, but I still haven’t given her the real deal. I don’t know for sure that she’d stay if I did. I could be really wrong, and really wrong would be really fucking bad.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a reminder of what I’ve been ignoring for weeks. I don’t know why my dad is trying to reach me after so long. Maybe something’s happened to someone. I wonder off and on if Dad’s sick, but after all this time, I’m wondering what could matter enough.