Two Roads(5)

Jase is an imposing figure any day, but usually it’s not me who is afraid of him. But now, with the revelation he killed my father, I am terrified. I am angry. I am despondent. I am so completely fucked up, and I don’t even know where to begin.

I swallow, tasting the last remnants of heroin, oily and bitter on the back of my throat. “What do you want?” I ask weakly, the heroin still dulling my senses. I am two steps behind, too slow to catch up, and I pray he doesn’t notice.

In the dark, I pray he doesn’t notice the fresh needle puncture in my arm.

He’s dressed in jeans, his chest bare. He stands on one side of the bed as I crawl off the opposite side and stand.

It’s the most confusing standoff I think I’ve ever had.

I love him. I do. But that alone is not enough, not anymore.

“I want to talk,” he says finally. His voice is cloaked in sorrow, the muted light casting all kinds of weird shadows around the room.

“Please go away,” I whisper.

“Juliette,” he says. My heart breaks at the sorrow in his voice.

“You killed him,” I whisper. “How am I ever going to forget that, Jase?”

Pain blooms in his eyes.

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “You won’t.”

And in that moment, I know.

We’ve survived everything so far.

But we won’t survive this.

He walks toward the door, and for a moment I am relieved.

But he doesn’t walk out. No. He closes the door instead, with an air of finality that says he won’t be opening it again any time soon. I stare in horror as his hand rests on the handle a beat too long, before he turns to face me again.

“Get out,” I say, louder this time. My heart is going insane inside my ribcage. I am afraid of the man I love. It’s unbearable.

He looks terribly sad. There are circles under his eyes, and his hair looks as messy as mine feels. There’s three-day old stubble on his face that he scratches absently, reminding me of his father.

That reminder—it sickens me.

“I…killed him because he was going to die anyway,” he says sadly. The effort it takes for him to say killed is like a shard of glass stabbing into my heart.

How dare he.

“It doesn’t matter!” I cry, picking up the thing closest to me—a fucking pillow—and hurling it at him across the bed. I begin to cry.

“I hate you,” I sob brokenly, as the pillow bounces off him and lands on the floor. “I trusted you. I made love to you, I told you every shitty fucking secret I had. I gave it all to you, and you knew all along that you killed him? You must have been laughing at me this whole time behind my back.”

He’s moving slowly to the end of the bed, trying to be subtle so I don’t notice him rounding toward me.

“Stop,” I say, pointing at him. “Stay there.”

He doesn’t stop.

I scream.

He looks surprised. His eyes light up in surprise.

“Shut up,” he hisses.

I take another breath. “Elliot!” I scream.

He rushes me, coming around the bed, all arms and hands, pushing me against the curved hull of the boat with one hand and slapping the other across my mouth. My screams die as he seals my mouth shut.

I stare at him with as much hate as I can muster.

“What the fuck?” The door crashes open to reveal Elliot, dressed in blue boxer shorts with neon-yellow stars printed all over them. He’s holding his gun in front of him, and his light brown hair is all mussed-up.

“Oh,” he says, lowering his gun.

Jase takes his hand from my mouth like he’s been caught with it in the cookie jar, running his fingers through his hair as he takes a step back.

I give Jase the most withering glare. “Get out, Jason.”

He doesn’t move. “You killed four of my brothers,” he says through gritted teeth, “and I gave you the benefit of the doubt, Julz. I let you explain. And I’d really fucking appreciate if you’d listen to me for five fucking minutes. Can you do that?”

“That depends,” I shoot back, fucking furious. I’m yelling and throwing my arms around and I don’t even care how overbearing I might appear. “Did my father beat you and rape you until he thought you were dead? Because if he did, I’d really fucking like to know, Jase.”

They both stare at me, stunned.

“What!” I demand.

Elliot looks awkward, scratching his chin with the butt of his gun. “Maybe you should hear the guy out,” he says. “I believe him when he says it wasn’t his fault, and I fucking hate the guy.”

My thoughts whir; I can hear them hurtling around in my mind. Not his fault? Killed my father. Having his baby. Too hard. Too much.