23
I sit for a moment, processing Jack’s story, letting it sink into me as the students continue to mill around us. The great weight that has been sitting on my chest since I found out he’d be my author lifts somewhat, only to be replaced by a different one. I hadn’t realised until this moment that buried under all the anger, all the pain, had been an almost undetectable kernel of hope – that there would be an explanation for what happened, that my instincts about him hadn’t been as horribly wrong as it had seemed at the time. For my own sake. But even as it ignites again, a deep sadness moves through me.
I let out a breath, the realisation dawning on me that the huge crime I’ve been holding over him, punishing him for all this time, wasn’t really a crime after all. When all was said and done, it was Robbie’s game. Jack and I were just pawns, each doing what we had to to protect ourselves.
And it’s more than that: now the threads have untangled themselves, I can see the event for what it was. Jack hurt me, yes. He betrayed me. Both of those things are still true, even despite the new context. But even without what he’s just told me, I’ve been blaming the wrong person. The truth is, it’s been much easier to put all of this on Jack, to hold him responsible. Because he was the one I trusted. Because, despite myself, I cared about him. But mostly because I didn’t want to face up to the truth of what happened: that Robbie’s actions took away my sense of safety in the world. My notion that if I just did everything right, then things would work out OK. That I would be safe. And, just as I was reeling and trying to put that confidence back together, my dad died and it shattered completely.
And there, underneath it all, untangled now, is the kicker – the real event I’ve been avoiding this whole time. The reason Jack’s presence was so terrifying to me, because he represented more than just a painful reminder of what happened in Edinburgh, but a portal back to that time in my life. The months afterwards. The nights in the hospital. The prayers, every day, that something would happen to change the situation, that someone would discover a miracle cure. It’s the same reason I have such a problem with my mum moving on, the reason the mere mention of Nigel’s name has sent a pain rippling through me. The reason I’ve been running, for the last five years, never looking back for too long in case it destroyed me. My dad’s death. And the hard, cold, horrible truth it brings:
I miss him terribly. And he’s never coming back.
I clench my hands around the bench, winded by the force of this realisation. It settles around me, shifting the air somehow. There’s a relief in admitting it, finally, that washes over me, unlatching something inside me that’s been holding on so tightly for so long. Even as it’s closely followed by guilt, that I’ve had everything so wrong, for so long. That I’ve risked hurting the people around me, exploding outwards rather than facing my own pain. That I somehow made Jack a representation of a myriad of things that weren’t his fault, clinging to his betrayal as a source of certainty, a shield against my feelings. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears right now, finally giving them release. But I have to finish this, to give Jack the closure he deserves. I lean forwards so my gaze is focussed on the gravel and breathe in the cool air, honing in on the sound of students’ voices, remembering myself walking across this car park with Sara on my way to class.
‘I heard him bragging the next day in the changing rooms, about how he’d shut you up,’ Jack continues, his expression twisting with anger. ‘I hit him so hard I was on probation for three months.’
‘Oh Jack,’ I say, looking up at him, my heart sinking. After hearing why he did what he did, to preserve his place at university, his scholarship – it’s heartbreaking to hear that he almost lost it all anyway.
‘Don’t be,’ he says, his tone bitter. ‘When I heard him say he threatened you, that he hit you, I—’ I glance at him, and there’s an edge to his expression I haven’t seen before. He sees me looking and catches himself, running his hand through his hair. ‘Clearly, I was an idiot. I knew he wasn’t going to let it go, but I thought I’d bought us time, that I could find you and we could figure it out, together. I could never have imagined – I’m so sorry, Andie,’ Jack says, his voice shaking. I look up, and his face is etched with remorse. ‘If I could tell you how much I regret—’
‘Stop,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’ And I mean it. A few weeks ago, I never could have imagined saying those words to him. But that Andie feels like a totally different person now. New Andie suddenly understands, with a wave of remorse, why it hurt so much more than it would’ve done had it been anyone but Jack. Why I let him kiss me in the park in Dublin, despite it being the stupidest decision of my life so far. Why I have to leave, now, before I make things any worse.
I place my hand over his. A silence settles between us for a few seconds, and I’m not sure how to break it.
‘Andie,’ he says eventually, turning to me, and I can see in his eyes that he’s about to say things I both want to hear and don’t. Because the dull ache of grief is moving through me, for the people we were. Because too much has happened between us. But, mostly, because I can’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he deserves better than this. Better than someone who almost messed up this tour because of her own selfish impulses. Who wouldn’t hear him out, who assumed the worst of him at every single turn. Who tangled him up in her grief, and who used him as a vehicle for her anger and rage, for so long.
‘Please, don’t,’ I say. He looks confused for a split second, then his face falls.
‘I understand if you’re still angry,’ he says. ‘What I did – what I wrote. I could’ve done something, could’ve found a way to—’ He falters, his expression defeated and sad.
This is almost too much to bear. ‘Jack,’ I say. ‘It’s OK. I just—’ I swallow, ignoring the lump in my throat. This is harder than I thought it would be. ‘I need to go home. This whole trip has been a mistake, one that could’ve ruined your chances with this book. It deserves better than that. You deserve better.’
‘But—’
‘Please,’ I say, interrupting him. ‘If you can do one thing for me on this trip, it will be this: let me go.’ He stops, his expression pained, but I see his posture shift, resigned – he’s no longer tense, no longer primed to ask me to stay. I stand up, and at the sight of him on the bench, as if frozen in time, my heart drops an inch. But I can’t continue this conversation anymore. I have to get out of here, back to New York, where I can’t hurt him any further. Even the thought makes me feel lighter than I have in days, purposeful: I know it’s the right thing to do. I might be running away, but this time it’s for a good reason. This time it’s for someone else, not for me.
‘Goodbye, Jack,’ I say, reaching for his shoulder and pressing my hand lightly to the sleeve of his suit jacket. Then, using everything in me to keep from falling apart, I stand up and walk away.