13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Silas
I ’ve been ignoring my texts for the last two days. Not that I’m avoiding anyone, but there just isn’t anyone I really care to hear from. Except Maggs, I guess. But she and I aren’t close or anything. She’s just my neighbor and the least fake of my acquaintances. Because my friends aren’t really friends; they’re people I hang out with. And a lot of them aren’t even that nice. In fact, most of them are assholes. I mean, let’s face it: it’s not like I had the pick of the friendship crop when I came home after two years in juvie.
So when I decide to finally check my messages, I’m not surprised they’re all from people wanting to know if I’ll be at this party or that bonfire or some rager or whatever. And then texts from girls just being flirty. Sexting, I guess? Only a little more subtle.
I can’t say I hate it. It's good knowing I have options. I need the parties—partly for the social aspect, the girls… partly for the booze. Okay, mainly for the booze. Still, all of it is just a series of distractions—diversions and props to keep me awake when I need to, and give me access to liquor when I’m ready to crash.
Basically, my nightmares control my entire life. I’ve become their little bitch over the years.
I have no idea where Jax fits into all of it. She doesn’t; I guess. There’s no way she could; she’s already too connected to everything I’m trying to black out. I can’t take on another thing. I’m exhausted enough as it is: I walk around half the time like a goddamn zombie. It always stuns me when the school gets pissed about me missing two or three days a week, because honestly, I’m impressed that I even make it to school at all.
Still, these last two days have been… okay. It’s been different—just getting away from people who either can’t stand me or just see me as some sort of bad-ass party-favor.
Jax drives me crazy. But there have been moments when I’ve remembered what it’s like to be more than just a holding tank for my nightmares. And I know I shouldn’t trust this feeling that maybe I could find a way to escape for a few hours a day without all those crutches: the parties, the girls… the liquor. I sure as hell don’t deserve it. Especially not from her.
So even though I have no right to resent her, I kind of do. I can’t stand the way she looks at me, like she’s studying me to find a hint of some gem hidden beneath the surface of my shitty personality. I have no idea how long it’ll take for her to figure out there isn’t one. This is who I am now: any glint or sparkle that might have existed back when she knew me rusted over years ago. And now it’s a full-time job just keeping those pieces from completely crumbling altogether.
And I don’t hate Jackie for trying to fix me. I hate that she wants to. Because if she knew the truth; if I had the balls to tell her the truth, that hopeful smile would fall from her lips in a heartbeat and she would come at me with claws unfurled. She would tear me limb from limb. Utterly destroy me. And I would have it coming.
I’d probably be relieved.
One of these days, I will let her. One day when I’m feeling too angry or guilty or even just too beat down from dragging these lies around everywhere I go, I will give her the ammunition she needs to stop feeling so goddamn guilty for the fact that she has a life now that is a hundred times better than the one she had back when we were friends.
“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims, pulling me from my thoughts. “No freaking way! No freaking way! ”
I lower my phone.
“What’s up? ”
It’s her happy voice. I think. But it’s hard to be sure with this new version of Jackie who is upbeat about almost every situation.
“I sold three covers, and I got a request for two custom covers! Custom covers … omigosh this is so cool!”
She beams at me like I’m going to share in her excitement, only I have no idea what she’s talking about. Also, I’m not the kind of guy who jumps up and high fives at the first sign of good news.
When I still don’t react, she turns her laptop around to face me. “I set up an account on this website called CreateHire. I started designing book covers… and I—”
“You design book covers?”
“Yeah. See? I just started a few weeks ago. I designed these fantasy covers, and I put them up for sale on CreateHire three days ago. And then today, two people requested custom projects!”
Her voice gets higher on the last couple of words and I can’t help smiling. It’s impressive as hell, to be honest.
“You designed those?”
She nods. “Yup. And I said I could design custom covers for more money. Like if someone has a book they’re publishing and they have a specific cover idea in mind, or they want something totally unique or whatever, I’ll design it for them at a higher cost.”
I lean in, clicking on one of the images. “Holy shit. How did you learn to do this? Did you take classes or something?”
“I taught myself online. Photoshop.” She’s still beaming. “I love it so much… it’s the coolest program. It’s so powerful. I mean, it’s infinite . And overwhelming and hard, but yeah, also really awesome.”
She has to take a breath after that last sentence. I’ve never seen her so jazzed about anything. To be fair, I haven’t seen her in over seven years. But still. She’s lit right up. It’s sort of cool to see.
“That’s really amazing.”
“Thanks.” She suddenly looks bashful. “Sorry. That was kind of over the top. It’s just— ”
“No,” I cut her off. “Don’t apologize. You should be happy.”
I get up when I notice a couple of girls approaching the camper. I glance at my phone: it’s ten minutes past two. I reach over and slide the order window open, then peer over my shoulder at Jackie as I flip the turquoise sign to Open .
“Work on the covers,” I tell her. “I’ll man the window.”
Jax looks shocked. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m being nice, or because she’s horrified at the thought of trusting me with customers. And money.
“Oh my gosh Silas, no. You don’t have to do that! I’ll work on them tomorrow afternoon or something.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. And then to the customers now standing at the window, I turn and say: “Hey. How can I help you?”
I don’t sound anywhere close to the level of cheeriness I’ve seen Jackie use to greet her customers, but I sound polite at least.
“Oh… Uh, hey,” one of the girls says, her heavily mascara’d eyes widening as she takes in my face… my chest and upper arms… then back to my face again. She must like what she sees because she tosses her blond hair over one shoulder, then leans forward and rests both elbows on the ledge, practically pushing her boobs in my face. “What do you recommend? Chocolate chip or caramel chunk?”
Only she sounds like she’s asking if I recommend missionary or reverse cowgirl.
I shrug. “Either one. They’re both good.”
Blondie looks put out. I guess that wasn’t the level of engagement she was looking for.
“I mean, you should try a couple of each,” I amend. “You won’t regret it.”
“Oh, okay.” She giggles. Her friend giggles, too.
“I can get them,” Jackie calls from behind me, and both girls’ smiles falter.
Ha. They think Jax is my girlfriend. The idea should make me laugh. It doesn’t. I guess because in another life, a girl like Jax would be a dream girlfriend: smart, ambitious, outgoing… pretty. Of course, her taste in music might be cause for a quick breakup.
“Jax. It’s fine,” I say, just a couple of steps behind her now. “I told you: I’ve got this. ”
But she’s already over by the racks, picking out four cookies with the plastic tongs and placing them carefully in one of the small pink bags.
“Here you go.” She breezes past me and hands it through the window to the blond girl. “Anything else?”
“No, thanks. That’s good,” Girl Number Two says.
Blondie removes a cookie from the bag and takes a miniscule bite. “Mmm. Sooo good. ”
She looks up at me when she says it, and there’s nothing subtle about the look she gives me. I pretend not to notice. Jackie glances over at me for a second, then back at Blondie.
“Oh. Um… I’m glad you like it.” The hint of relief in her voice is only noticeable to me. I’m pretty sure it’s the first batch of cookies she hasn’t messed up epically.
“That’ll be two-fifty,” she says.
The girls pay up, then linger for an awkward minute, but eventually they go on their merry way. Jackie turns to me once they’ve disappeared into the crowds nearer the stage.
“They were totally flirting with you,” she says.
I can’t tell what sort of reaction she’s expecting from me. Like I said, girls flirting with me isn’t a new thing.
I shrug. “That’s good for business, right?”
She just looks at me, eyes kind of narrowed like she’s trying to read me. It’s not the response she was expecting, obviously.
“Sure,” she finally says. “I guess.”
Then after a second she adds: “You can, you know… flirt back, if you want. Like, if you want to go and… and hang with them. Or whatever. Don’t feel like you can’t—because of me. I mean, because of this… our situation.”
It’s hard not to smile at how uncomfortable she is right now.
“Are you asking me if I want to go hook up with one of them?”
“No!” she exclaims, like she’s horrified. Or embarrassed. Or both. “No, I didn’t mean that . ”
I’m going to assume that “that” is her way of referring to sex and all its associated activities.
She tries again to explain herself: “I just mean… I don’t want you to feel like you can’t do stuff because of me. Like, that I’m going to rat on you to Richard or whatever, if you go off with a couple of girls and—”
“Whoa.” I cut her off. “I’m flattered you had me going off to hook up with two chicks… at two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. But I meant it when I said I want to work the window tonight. I’m—”
“I didn’t mean both girls! I didn’t mean that.” She jumps in, totally mortified, as if talking about a threesome is the most taboo thing in the world. Which, maybe it is in her world. It’s highly possible, because her whole face is beet red.
Man, she is refreshing. Also kind of hot when she’s embarrassed.
“Oh, sure. Back-peddle now,” I tease, just because I want to see if her cheeks can possibly get any more flushed. Then I recall the other afternoon when she walked in on me in my briefs and remember that yes, actually they can.
“That’s not what I— you know what I meant,” she says, in a quieter voice this time. And because she looks so uncomfortable, I let her off the hook.
“I know. Relax, I’m just kidding.” I push her toward the table. “Go work on your book covers. I’ve got this.”
I watch her carefully this time, to gauge her reaction. To figure out why she put a halt on me working the window a second ago. Because I want her to let me cover for her. I shouldn’t give a shit, but I do. Hell knows why. I guess maybe because she seemed so excited about the orders for those book covers, and I want to see more of that look on her face.
She hasn’t made a move to sit back down, though.
“I’m not going to make you work the window, Silas. This is my thing. I can’t just bail because of some stupid book cover order.”
“A second ago you were flipping your lid, you were so excited.” I tell her. “How come now suddenly it’s stupid?”
“It isn’t stupid… It’s just— I mean, it’s just a hobby.” She pauses. “It’s not like it’s important or anything.”
Okay, now I’m pissed. She has legitimate authors wanting to pay her good money to design book covers, and she’s acting like it’s just some dumb pastime?
“It’s a huge fucking deal, Jax. And it’s important… Just look at the way you reacted when you got that email.” I glance out the order window at a family approaching and lower my voice. “I’m offering to help you out, so why can’t you just let me do that?”
I can tell that last line hit her right where it counts: it’s been her mission since she found me passed out in this camper to re-establish some sort of connection between us. And the way I’m presenting this offer right now, there’s no way for her not to see it as a golden opportunity on a silver fucking platter.
She takes the bait.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But don’t you have to work at—”
“I don’t work ‘till midnight. For tear-down.” I turn to the customers, who are waiting now at the order window. “Hey there. How can I help you?”
I hear Jackie settling back into the bench behind me, dragging her laptop toward her across the table. I try to ignore the way her approval makes my stomach flip on itself, like I just won a silent victory. And like I get some sort of thrill out of her letting me do something for her for a change.
I don’t want to care, and I hate that my thoughts are betraying the fact that clearly I do. So I’m grateful for the steady stream of customers that prevent my mind from analyzing the matter too closely after that.
I can tell from her body language that it’s killing Jackie to let me take over. She gets up every time there’s a larger order and tries to help bag the cookies or take the payment. But I force her back onto the bench every time. It’s not that hard: I’m six-foot-two. She’s five-foot-nothing. And it’s a small space; I just have to nudge her aside with my hip when I make my way to the racks, and she’s forced back onto the bench. It’s kind of like herding sheep, only there’s just the one sheep.
When there’s a brief lull in customers, I take a few minutes to scavenge through the cupboards. The steady flow of orders has got me in the mood to change things up. I sure as hell wasn’t allowed to get creative in the kitchen at Trenton, so I’m feeling pretty good when I find a jar of Nutella, a jar of peanut butter, and some marshmallow Fluff (okay, so the jar of Fluff is almost empty. Still, it’s enough to add a little variety at least).
The next customers are a family with three kids. When I get their order, I ask if they want anything on their cookies, and list my three new options. The kids are thrilled. The mom tells me she’s never thought of putting Nutella on chocolate chip cookies, and she thinks it’s genius. They devour them and buy another six to eat later, only this time I put Nutella on one cookie and Fluff on another, and smush them together to make mini cookie sandwiches.
As soon as they walk away, I smear some Nutella on a cookie and try one for myself.
It is genius. It’s fucking fantastic.
“What are you doing?”
Jackie has obviously been watching the entire exchange from the table. Girl’s got a really hard time relinquishing control.
“Nothing,” I answer through a mouthful of cookie. “Just getting creative. Go back to your cover design.”
“You can’t do that—spread stuff on the cookies like you just did,” she says, like I’m breaking some unwritten cookie code.
“What? Why not?”
And there it is: that little crease above her nose that used to be so familiar.
“Because. You just can’t!”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Can you just…” she pushes past me and grabs the three jars of spreads. “It’s Meryl’s recipe, okay? You can’t just mess with people’s recipes.”
“It’s Nutella on a chocolate chip cookie, Jackie. Relax.”
She whirls back to face me, her eyes round as saucers. Teeth clenched. “ Relax? ” she bites back. “Do you even have any idea what a big deal Meryl is?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, and schools me instead: “Because in the cooking world, she is like an A-list celebrity. She’s one of the most respected chefs in the country, and I’m lucky she even let me use her recipe! The fact that I can basically sell Meryl Pemrose’s cookies—at music festivals—is a huge deal. And you’re totally disrespecting that.”
Now my eyes go round.
“Okay… Just—” I let out a laugh. “Whoa.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snaps.
My eyebrows must raise about two full inches and I hold up the half-eaten cookie, as evidence of how ridiculous she’s being.
“You think it’s disrespecting Meryl to smear a bit of Nutella on this cookie? ”
“Yeah, actually. I do.”
“Wow. Okay…” I shake my head. “Well, then you’re nuts.”
“Actually, it’s called ‘having standards’. And values. And giving a crap about other people.”
“ Actually ,” I smirk. “It’s a fucking chocolate chip cookie.”
She’s being ridiculous. Also, she is fuming . She gets defensive as hell when it comes to Meryl and Richard—like she owes them the entire fucking world, and screw what she wants or what anyone else has to say that might topple them off the sky-high pedestal she’s put them on.
“You know what? Never mind. It’s fine.” She marches over to the window, wedging her tiny body in front of mine in an attempt to assert her authority. “I’ll take over from here, thanks. Since it’s obviously too much to ask for you to show some basic respect.”
I stand there for a second, frozen. Because… what the hell?
I can’t believe she is seriously this angry about me spreading Nutella or peanut butter or whatever on a few cookies she’s selling from a food truck. Hell, it’s not even a real food truck—it’s a camper disguised as a food truck. More specifically, it’s a camper disguised as a giant slab of butter disguised as a food truck. Three layers removed from the real deal.
“Um, sorry… Is this a bad time?” a large guy calls from the takeout window.
“What?” Jacki whirls around. “Oh… I’m so sorry. No. Not at all. Um, what can I get you?”
It’s my own stupid fault for trying to help her; because of course I could never live up to her standards — even manning a fucking takeout window. Of course, she’d have to find some fault in how I’m doing this, so she’d have something else about me to step in and fix.
I imagine her slapping one of her green stickies on my forehead: “Nice to look at, but needs improvement.”
While she takes the man’s order, I pick up my backpack by the table and grab a flannel shirt too, and then I’m out the door before Jackie’s even finished bagging the guy’s cookies. Maybe I’ll still be able to find those two girls from earlier. Because right about now, a threesome sounds pretty sweet. Another thing for Jackie to judge me for.
Well, technically three things, I guess. But who the hell’s counting anymore?
I’m already half in the bag when I remember that I have to go back for my check-in call with Richard.
Yeah, I did end up finding the two girls from the takeout window earlier. And no, we didn’t end up having a threesome. I’ve been hanging out with them though, and a few of their friends who all drove down from Portland for the festival. They’re not swimming in money like the crew I hung out with the other night, but they do have liquor. I finished the bottle of rye I took with me from the camper less than fifteen minutes after I left. So I buy a quart of vodka off one of the girls, which eats up most of the money I made the other night. But I’ll get paid again once I help load later tonight. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing and I’ll take whatever I can get at this point. And at least now I can enjoy my night knowing I’m gonna get a decent night’s sleep.
I’m off alone with Tammy when I remember my check-in call. Tammy is one of the girls who came to buy cookies earlier — the one with brown shoulder-length hair and, ironically, the less flirty of the two. We split from the group because she couldn’t believe I’ve never tried a chocolate whoopie pie and was determined to get me one. Apparently, it’s going to change my life.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t .
She watches me eagerly the whole time, and it’s weirding me out to be under observation while I’m eating. The cookie is huge, but I stuff half of it in my mouth because I really don’t want to be late for my call now that I’ve realized it’s almost nine fifty-five.
“Amazing, right?” Tammy asks, her eyes wide with glee, like she just gifted me the answer sheet to an end-of-year chem test.
“Yeah, ish weely good.” I mumble, my mouth still full. And yeah, it is good, but honestly, nothing to write home about. To be fair, I’ve never written home about anything , so probably not a great comparison. Anyway, let’s just say it’s not in the same league as my Nutella-marshmallow fluff cookie creation.
I finish the rest of the whoopie pie, still with Tammy’s eyes glued on me.
“You have some icing on your lip,” she says when I’m done. She leans in. “Here, let me help you.”
Then her lips are on mine and her tongue darts out to glide along my lower lip. We kiss for a bit, and then she straightens.
“All gone,” she says, with this coy little smile on her face.
I nod. “Look, uh, I have this… thing I have to do. I’m gonna have to split.”
I feel like an ass, but I don’t want to end up back at Trenton because of a whoopie pie and twenty-second make-out session with some chick I met less than five hours ago.
“Oh…” she says, clearly disappointed. “Well, maybe I could come with you?”
Wow. She’s persistent.
“It’s something I have to do back at… my camper,” I explain, so she doesn’t think I’m just making excuses because I have somewhere better to be or something.
“That yellow food truck?” She asks.
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “With your girlfriend?”
“Jackie isn’t my girlfriend.”
“Oh. Okay.” The smile is back. “I’ll walk you back, then.”
I would tell her not to bother, but she didn’t push me for details about what it is I’m going to do, and I’m grateful for not being cornered into explaining the whole backstory on why I’m on some weird version of house-arrest during a festival circuit in an old friend’s RV. And also, I did just make out with her and then ditch her. So if walking me back to the camper will make her happy, then whatever. I’m cool with it.
When we get there, there are a few people at the window, so Jackie’s occupied at least. But I’m pretty sure she sees me. Or us , I guess. But I’m trying to avoid looking at her, so I can’t be sure.
“Will you be around later tonight?” Tammy asks, as I check the time again on my phone. 10:02.
“I have to work. Loading and stuff for a couple of the bands.”
“Oh,” she says, “Cool.” Like she truly thinks it is. She flips her hair over her shoulder, just like her friend did earlier at the window. “Well, anyway, it was nice meeting you.”
“Yeah. You too. Thanks for the whoopie pie.”
Possibly the most ridiculous parting sentence uttered by anyone ever.
I take a step back toward the door, and Tammy follows. She slips her hands around my neck and comes in for another kiss. Longer this time. My back is right up against the door now and she runs her fingers through the hair just above my neck. She’s a good kisser, and I wish I wasn’t so stressed about the time so I could actually enjoy it.
“You’re hot,” she says. “You sure you have to go?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hoarse and I clear my throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”
My gaze shifts briefly beyond her shoulder, only to collide with Jackie’s narrowed stare, and I feel a sudden flash of guilt. Hell knows why.
I shift so my back is toward the order window.
“I gotta go,” I tell Tammy. “Have fun tonight.”
“I will.” She takes a few steps back. “See ya!” She wiggles her fingers in a wave, then spins on her heel and jogs off to reunite with her gaggle of friends.
Back in the camper, I park my ass on the bench that doubles as my bed, sitting at the end farthest from the order window, still carefully avoiding looking in Jackie’s direction .
The conversation with Richard starts off the same as always. Small-talk, a couple of predictable questions… And then:
“Have you been drinking, son?”
It’s a sucker punch that hits me straight out of left field and I cough in surprise: I am an ace at acting sober when I’m sauced. But Richard’s leaning in close to the screen, presumably scrutinizing me for telltale signs.
“What? No,” I spit out instinctively, like the implication is insulting. Which it is because, like I said, acting sober when I’m drunk is one of my few, but highly refined, skills. It’s only when I’m blackout drunk that I’m ever off my game. And I am far from that level of inebriation right now. Unfortunately.
“I’ve been helping Jackie sell cookies.”
Partial truth.
“Oh?”
He looks surprised. Happy, even. No longer suspicious, though. I don’t think.
“Yeah. She was working on some stuff on her computer, so I took over for a while.”
“Well, that’s fantastic,” he says, back to his cheerful tone. “Wonderful, Silas… That was really nice of you.”
“Yeah.” I roll with it. “I, uh, I should probably go back to helping her, actually. It’s a pretty busy night.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good to hear! And tomorrow evening is a night off, correct?”
“Uh…”
“That’s what it says on the schedule Jackie gave us.”
“Oh. Yeah, then I guess it is.”
“Great. Well, I’d like to chat longer tomorrow evening, if that’s alright?”
Fuck no, it’s not alright.
“Sure.”
“Good stuff,” he says. All jovial, like we’re buddy-buddy. Like we’re good chums .
“I’ll let you go, then,” he finishes. “Tell Jackie we’ll talk to her tomorrow. Meryl wants to catch up with her, too.”
“Sure, yeah. I’ll tell her.”
I hang up then. No way am I lingering any longer than necessary. Especially now that the good doctor has shared his plans to start excavating the deep recesses of my emotions tomorrow.
When I look up, Jackie is watching me. Her expression isn’t one I recognize though, and it frustrates me that I can’t tell what she’s thinking the way I used to.
“Dick says hi,” I tell her, because I want to wipe that expression off her face and replace it with one I know. It’s a shitty thing to do, but it works: her eyes flare and the anger reflected back at me now is familiar. And it gives me a childish sense of satisfaction; knowing that I ruffled her feathers and that I brought her down to my level.
“You know his name is Richard.”
“Dick is short for Richard,” I smirk, eyes still locked on hers. “Just a friendly nickname.”
I have no idea why I’m being such an asshole. I have no reason to feel spiteful toward her right now. Yeah, she has someone back home who’s checking in on her and gives a crap, and I don’t. But I don’t want that: people up in my business all the time, constantly checking in on me like Richard is doing with me right now. It’s a pain in the ass.
Jackie’s eyes narrow, and she looks mildly disgusted with me. I don’t entirely blame her.
“You’re drunk,” she says. It isn’t a question, but I can tell she’s expecting me to deny it. Which is exactly why I don’t.
She glances away for a moment, to look over at the order window. Checking for customers, I guess. I use the opportunity to grab my backpack off the floor and sling it over my shoulder as I get to my feet. I sway a little and steady myself with one hand against the table.
Okay, so I’m a little drunker than I thought.
My eyes dart instinctively in Jackie’s direction, but she’s busy taking some old lady’s order. I adjust the strap on my shoulder and make my way toward the door, and I almost make it out un-noticed. But then I feel her hand on my bicep just as I reach for the doorhandle.
“Silas, wait.”
I don’t even look at her. “What?”
“Are you sure you should…” Her voice trails off.
“Sure I should what? ”
“Nothing. It’s just… I mean, I hope you’re—you know… using protection,” she practically whispers the last two words.
Christ. Did she seriously just tell me to wrap it?
Apparently, her need to meddle in every area of my life extends to my sexual encounters, too. She thinks I’m going back to bump nasties with Tammy.
“I’ll see you later,” I bite through clenched teeth, jerking my arm out of her grip. I shove the door open, clearing both steps in one stride.
“Silas, wait!” she calls, “I’m not… I’m only trying to—”
But I’m already out of earshot, stalking past the rows of vendors and food trucks. I steer clear of the stage area and instead push past the throng of jostling bodies toward the other end of the festival grounds, where eventually the crowds start to thin out. I veer left onto the concrete path along the practically deserted beach.
Up ahead, the lights from the pier reflect off the water in rippled columns of yellows, greens and whites. The sound of the waves lapping against the sand seems louder in the dark than it did at sunrise, which doesn’t make any sense. But then, I’m slightly inebriated, so maybe my senses are all out of whack.
I half sit/half stagger down into the sand, against the same wooden beam as this morning. I dig the bottle of vodka out of my backpack, and after twisting off the cap, tilt it to my lips for a long, full swallow.
I feel my body relax at the familiar taste and my brain shifts into low gear, the way I like it. Behind me, just beyond the beach path, a roller coaster rattles and teenagers scream as they dip and spin on the midway rides. The sounds remind me of the time my parents took me to the fall fair when I was six. My dad puked after one go on the scrambler and my mom had to go on all the rides with me after that, while he stood on the sidelines grinning and taking about a thousand photos. It was a good day.
A perfect day, actually.
I wash the memory away with a long swallow of vodka.
I’m not one of those types who cling to memories of people they’ve lost like it’s some sort of lifeline. I never got why you’d want to hang on to something that wrings out your emotions until they’re dried up and raw. No thanks. I’m an avoidance-at all-costs guy. The path of least resistance and all that.
I prop the bottle between my legs and lean my head against the pillar. The waves are definitely louder than they were this morning and I let the sound wash over the hundred-and-one thoughts crowding my brain. Seeing Jackie again after all this time is definitely messing with my head; bringing back stuff from the past. And like I said, the past is not a place I care to revisit.
I didn’t think I’d have to.
I didn’t think I’d have to see Jackie Delaney ever again.