Strong Enough(77)

Go paint in Paris.

Start over.

Sarò sempre pensare a te.

—J

Sarò sempre pensare a te. I will always think of you.

That sounds final. Like the end. Like forever.

My heart lurches inside my chest as I consider that. Yes, I was (and still am) very upset with Jasper, and for good reason, but I never really thought that there would be nothing beyond yesterday. I never really thought that the things I said last night would be the only ones I’d ever get to say. I never really expected it to be over so fast, so suddenly. Like an unanticipated amputation. A clean, brisk cut. And then . . . nothing. Nothing except the phantom pain of what was. And what will never be again.

What did I expect? I don’t really know. I only know that this wasn’t it.

That’s when bits and pieces of a conversation rush in. Did I talk to Jasper last night? Did I ask him to take me with him? Did he tell me that he can’t? Or did I dream the whole thing? It’s fuzzy and unclear, but something in my heart tells me that it happened, that Jasper chose the life of a killer over me. That he walked away from me. Permanently.

I scramble off the bed, throw open the door and go looking for Dad. He’s in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee like it’s a glass of vodka, which, considering the events of last night, it might very well be.

“Good mor—”

“Have you seen Jasper?” I interrupt without preamble.

“Not since last night.” His expression is tired and a little melancholy.

“Did he say where he was going? Did he say if he’s coming back?”

“No. He didn’t. He just left.”

“So he—he might not be coming back? Like at all?”

“I don’t think so, honey. He left that bag and took off. That was the best thing he could do for you and he knew it.”

“But . . . but that can’t be it! He can’t just leave like that!”

My lungs are pumping harder and harder, my breath coming faster and faster. I feel frantic, desperate, like an addict who just lost her supplier in an unexpected drug bust. But he’s not my supplier. He’s my Jasper. And if he wants to be gone, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way I can find him if he doesn’t want to be found. Jasper is a ghost. He’s trained to be invisible and has practiced it for years. If he leaves, that’s it. I’ll never see him again whether I want it that way or not.

“Muse, you have to let him go. Trust m—”

“Trust you?” I spit. “How the hell can I trust anybody?”

“I know you’re upset, but when you calm down—”

“When I calm down? When I calm down? Then what? I’ll go back to my blind ways? None of this will matter? I won’t be heartbroken and devastated and betrayed by the people I love most? Is that what you were going to say? Because if it was, you can save it. None of that’s true. Things won’t ever go back to the way they were. They won’t ever be the same again.” My voice cracks and I feel tears coursing down my face from a well I’d thought was dry. “I finally found someone to love. Not someone who loved me enough, but someone who I could love enough. How can I just let him go? How can I just go on like everything is okay? How can I pretend that everything will be okay when nothing will ever be okay again? How, Dad? Tell me how!”

I’m nearing the point of irrational hysteria. I can feel it, winding up inside me like a toy monkey, cymbals at the ready to bang and bang and bang until I can’t think or see or hear anymore.

Dad knows I’m on the verge, too. I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, like I’m an escapee from a psychiatric ward.

“Muse, calm down. You’re tired. You’ve been through a lot in the last little while,” he says soothingly, reaching out to stroke my upper arms like he’s pacifying a child.

“Stop it!” I hiss, throwing off his hands. “Stop treating me like an imbecile. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. What all this has done to me.”

His eyes are full of remorse. “I never meant for you to get involved. I never meant for this to touch you. I never meant for this to be your life.”

“Fat lotta good that does me now, huh, Dad?” I snap bitterly.

A pinch of guilt nips at my conscience when I see his expression fall. It’s as though I physically slapped him across the face. It’s not fair, of course. I’m just lashing out. I know he’d never purposely hurt me, and I know that this is all a by-product of his career and the way in which he has lived his life. It’s collateral damage. I am collateral damage.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I need to get a handle on this before I say or do something else I’ll regret.