"It was like Everglade used to say," I explain. "That I minimized the things he did. I made excuses for him. Apologized. The alternative was...well...the alternative was getting mad at him."
"You didn't feel you could handle your anger?"
"That much anger? God, no. If I'd got mad...I don't know what would have happened." I wave my hand around the room. "I think this whole conversation would be taking place someplace else. With me in an orange jumpsuit."
“Anger can be a constructive thing – if channelled properly.”
I don’t think that’s true. I feel like lightning; the rage in me is that big, that electric. It’s not some little current you can run through a wire. I sit biting my lip to keep from yelling at her. When I find my voice it’s soft, vaguely-psychiatric – all California. “I don’t think I’m there yet.”
“And where do you feel you are?”
I think. I feel. I’m so used to these verbs that I’ve forgotten how to do anything else but think and feel. They’re such simple things you don’t even pay them any mind, until you can no longer do them without pain. Like anything, I guess.
Somewhere along the line I forgot how to have a life. Probably sometime around when Justin appeared. He ate my life once. The trick is not letting him do it again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably nowhere near where I need to be.”
“For what?”
I swallow hard. I felt it this morning, saying goodbye. I think he feels it too – he was drawing away from me on purpose. A sad ending, but inevitable. “For him,” I say.
“Jaime?”
“Yeah.”
“You like him.”
My eyes have started to burn again. “Yeah. I do. I think I...more than like him.” I blink rapidly but the tears fall anyway. “And that’s exactly why I’m not ready – right?”
She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I’ve come up with the correct answer, after all. I can’t be with him. I’m in no shape to be with anyone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jaime
Nobody ever said that doing the right thing was easy.
Then again, nobody ever warned me it was going to be this hard.
I know what she needs. And I know what she wants. If I give her what she wants, doesn't that make me as bad as him? - the one who exploited her every weakness and anxiety until she had to fight to remember who she was and what it meant to be alive?
I call John Gillespie.
Once upon a time I'd have been star struck to have his number in my phone, but now he's just...John, I guess. Amber’s dad, the father of the woman I...yeah. Let's not torture ourselves here.
He picks up on the third ring. "Jimmy? Everything all right?"
I hesitate. "No," I say, eventually. "Everything's fucked." I sound like a sulky kid to my own ears, but it just pops out. Hearing his voice makes it real, makes her real. I know what I have to do and it hurts - and the fact that it hurts so much is exactly the reason I have to do it.
"Is Amber okay?" I can hear the panic in his voice - he thinks something terrible has happened.
"She's fine," I say, quickly. "Totally fine. I just left her apartment."
"Good." He exhales. "Good. Is she safe? Do you know if she's been to the doctor?"
"No. I don't know that. Sorry."
"Right. How did she seem?"
"She..." I take a deep breath. "John, she told me everything."
There's a hush over the line for a moment and then he says, "Everything?"
"Yes."
"Oh God."
"Yeah." My throat aches just thinking about it. I stayed last night because I had to, but every time I touched her I felt like I should apologize, check I wasn't touching her somewhere that might trigger some bad memory. "I can't keep tabs on her for you," I say. "I won't. I'm sorry."
I hear him sigh. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know. Call her. Tell her you worry about her."
"And you think she'll listen to me? I'm her dad - she's more or less contractually obliged to ignore me."
"I know that. But I can't do what you want. I'm sorry - I tried, but I can't do it."
"Come up to the house," he says.
"Mr. Gillespie...John...I'm not gonna change my mind."
He sighs again. "I know that. It's not about that. I just...I think we should talk, don't you?"
I owe him that much; she's going to need him, when I'm done.
It was always a weird feeling, driving my old hoopty up into the Hills. Some people up here have Porsches they don't even drive, then there's me with the balding tires and grouchy suspension of my old, rusting Subaru. Weirder still to sweep through the main gatehouse and up the front drive, gawked at once more by Cory, who probably can't even believe I'm still allowed on the property.