Written in the Scars(22)

Everything is foggy as I try to pick apart what I remember from last night. Jiggs and Lindsay picked me up and we went to Thoroughbreds for pizza.

Beer.

Gagging, I try not to upchuck the telltale bitterness of a bottle of brew.

I take a hefty breath, only to have it halt in my throat. A flurry of shadowy images whips through my memory, a muddy slideshow . . . except for Ty’s face.

He was with me.

Oh my God.

I try to remember something, anything, that tells me what happened. There’s a blur of memories, of voices, of familiarity, yet nothing concrete.

A nervous energy courses through my body, my skin tingling with the possibility that Ty might still be here.

Dear God, please don’t let him be here. Please don’t let me have done something stupid.

I don’t even know how I will process it if I walk into the kitchen and see him. Did I sleep with him? Did I tell him about the baby? Oh, God . . .

I open my eyes, hesitating before they flutter awake. Glancing around the room, everything looks completely normal. Nothing moved, nothing out of place. No sign of an argument. No sign of him.

Giving myself a second to adjust to the light, I ignore the throbbing in my head and pull back the covers. My feet on the floor, I stand, wobbling for a second as the alcohol settles in my stomach.

With a sense of anticipation mixed with a heavy dose of dread, I start down the hallway. I listen for the television, for his voice. It’s quiet.

The couch comes into view and I grip the wall for support with one hand, the other covering my mouth. The pillow and blanket from the trunk are in a messy bundle. It’s Ty’s handiwork, the pillow lying length-wise and not horizontally like normal people use it. He always lies with his pillow under his head, neck, and top of his back long-ways.

He stayed with me.

My eyes sting as they fill with hot tears, my headache now blocked by a surge of emotion. With more urgency than I care to acknowledge, I make my way into the kitchen. I’m across the room in half the normal time.

Dashing to the window, only my car is in the driveway. A million questions fight for attention, a thousand possibilities and scenarios race through my mind. I struggle to piece together the events of last night.

I have no idea what happened. Fear hits me hard when I realize that regardless of what occurred—he’s not here. Yet, through it all, a little bubble of happiness sits squarely on my shoulders because he was here.

It infuriates me that him being here makes me happy. I don’t want to want him. I don’t want to be happy that he gave me a piece of his time, like he can walk back in my life and decide he’ll bestow some attention on me.

God knows what he was doing all day yesterday, or last week, or the month before.

My purse sits on the table. I go to it and rummage around until I find my phone. My finger hovers over Lindsay’s name when I hear tires hitting gravel.

With a lump in my throat, I look out the window. Jiggs waves as he makes his way to the front door. Dropping my phone back in my purse, I head to the front and let my brother in.

“You look like shit,” he laughs, ruffling my hair as he walks inside. “Feel like it too?”

“Pretty much,” I mumble, following him into the living room. He picks up the pillow and blanket, and I automatically open my mouth to object, but shut it quickly. I don’t know what he knows, and I don’t want to muddy the waters.

Jiggs gets comfortable, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and watches me smugly.

“What?” I ask. I plop down in the recliner, my stomach roiling.

He shrugs. “Anything you wanna tell me?”

“No, but I know you know what happened last night, and I’d love to know too.”

“You don’t know?”

He seems surprised, uncrossing him arms. He peers at me through his thick lashes, a gift from our grandma.

“Jiggs,” I ask, my voice unnaturally even, “Did he stay?”

“Yeah. He brought you home from Thoroughbreds.”

My world spins in a mad dose of uncertainty. “Why? Why did he do that?”

Jiggs laughs. “Well, it was him bring you home or let you go home with Pettis.”

“Pettis? I’d never go home with that son of a bitch.”

“You almost did last night,” he cracks.

“Oh my God.” I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to look at him. Unable to look at myself. That’s not like me. If I would’ve been willing to go home with Pettis . . . what else was I capable of doing? Or saying?

My cheeks flush, my stomach rolling again, sloshing with the alcohol that caused this big mess.

No, I caused this big mess. This one is on me. I chose to go to Thoroughbreds with the explicit purpose of getting wasted.