Jase gives me a sad smile, plays with a strand of my hair. “Julz,” he soothes. “Nobody blames you. I don’t blame you. You didn’t do this. This was done to you, you understand? It was a horrible accident, and you need to forgive yourself or it’s going to destroy you.”
I nod. “I want to believe you,” I whimper. “I really do.”
“One day we’ll have our own family, I promise.” He pulls me to him again, running his hands through my hair. “I have this feeling. Everything is going to be okay.”
I wish I had the same feeling, but I don’t. Too much has happened. All I know is I can’t take much more before I break apart completely.
Because I know, any moment, he’s going to leave me for the things I’ve done. And I wouldn’t blame him.
He’s going to leave me soon, and I’m going to be completely and utterly alone.
The next morning, Jase is already dressed and ready to go when I finally drag myself out of bed.
“I’m taking you for a drive today,” Jase says, kissing the top of my head stiffly as I attempt to eat the eggs he’s made for me. Grief and trauma have wiped out my appetite, but I know I need to eat. I need to be strong again, because I intend to push forward with my quest for vengeance with a newfound passion. I intend to be strong enough again so I can kill Dornan Ross and the one remaining son who violated me six years ago.
“Oh yeah?” I ask around a mouthful of eggs. I swallow before continuing. “Where?”
You’re going to leave me. Why are you being nice to me when you’re going to leave me?
“It’s a surprise.”
I hate surprises. I like—I need—to know what’s going on. But I bite my tongue. I said I trusted Jase. I need to put that into practice if we’re ever going to get through this horrid loss together.
He’s going to leave me.
We’re on the road for maybe two hours. I only burst into tears twice in the whole two hours - an improvement on yesterday, when I don’t think I stopped crying from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to bed.
So when we pull up to a collection of brick buildings with the word Rehabilitación emblazoned on the front, I raise my eyebrows, looking at Jase quizzically.
“Rehab?” I ask dubiously. “Who am I, Lindsey Lohan?”
“Who?” Jase asks. I roll my eyes. He never did keep up with the Hollywood gossip that was practically on our doorstep in L.A.
“Never mind. But really, what are we doing here?”
His expression is serious. “There’s somebody I think you should see.”
Oh, crap.
My mother was a beautiful woman once. I’ve seen photos of her when she was a teenager, before she met Dornan and my dad. Before the drugs, before becoming my dad’s old lady, and definitely before she became a teenage mother. Before her life destroyed her.
But life hasn’t been kind to her, and no amount of makeup can hide the heavy black bags under her eyes or the scars along both arms from missed veins and dirty needles. She looks brighter, though, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, her eyes aren’t bloodshot.
When Jase pushes me into the small bedroom, I wince. I want to back away from her, to turn and run, but that would be showing weakness. And I will never show weakness in front of this woman.
“Julie,” she says, rushing to me. My name on her mouth sounds odd, because for once it seems to have genuine feeling behind it, instead of just the standard irritation or desperation that punctuated my childhood.
I hold up my palms to stop her in her tracks. Don’t hug me, bitch. I will drop her faster than she can try and wrap those bony arms around me.
She gets the message, slowing, and letting her arms fall to her sides.
I glare at Jase. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, not even caring she’s in the room. He pulls me closer to him. “Just speak to her, okay? I think it would be really good for you, Julz.”
I fight the burning urge to roll my eyes and glare at him as he steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. Great. So I’m stuck alone with the bitch.
“You’re alive,” she says in wonder.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling like I’m five years old again.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Apparently, so are you.”
“The boys had to make it seem like I was dead,” she says, wringing her hands in front of her. I step back a little as she starts to pace in front of me. That’s where I get it from, I think. A little voice inside me demands to know if she’s okay, and I push that voice down angrily. No. She doesn’t get to tell me if she’s okay. I don’t care if she’s okay.