Chapter 9 - Jackson
Whatever stupid crush I had on my teacher is sure as fuck gone now. I never expected anything to come from it, but now I truly am relieved nothing did.
He’s such a fucking asshole.
Either he’s wrapped around Professor Grant’s finger or he really is like so many others in this town.
Honestly, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable to feel like this is so fucking unfair, that this whole thing is bullshit.
Because why am I the only one facing consequences?
And what am I even supposed to be getting from this damn paper? If he thought I’d see myself in the kind of bully and tyrant that Gilgamesh was, he’s even more of a dickhead than I thought. If anything, that’s Pierce. However, not even Enkidu could change him into a good person.
It’s late in the evening on Thursday, and I’m only halfway finished with this essay, pretty much just bullshitting my way through it at this point.
I’m about ready for a break when an idea comes to me through the barrage of curses that I’m mentally hurling at my teacher. Pulling up a fresh tab in my browser, I start a new search for Dylan Ross. It’s not the first time, and I know I’m not the only one in this town to do it.
As usual, the only thing that pops up is his name being talked about in forums with old pictures of him. When I search on social media, none of the profile images match.
It’s petty, I know.
But if I could figure out the mystery of what happened to him, maybe I could have some ammunition against the professor who’s trying to ruin my life.
I’ve never considered blackmail before. I’m just that pissed off.
After about half an hour of searching deeper, my stomach rumbles.
I peer into the kitchen, but I know the only thing I have in there is a container of leftover chow mein in the fridge that’s probably no longer edible.
I don’t really keep food around here since I usually just order takeout or go raid the main house for dinner.
I’ve also never really spent time trying to make this place feel like a home.
Everything is pretty much the same as when my dad decorated it years ago—or rather hired someone to decorate it.
The only thing that’s different is the row of nutcrackers that I made room for on one of the shelves.
My mom used to collect them, and most of these are some of my favorites that I stole from the house.
Leaving the guesthouse, I take my laptop with me. I might decide to cook something, so I figure I can continue working while I do. I doubt I’ll run into my dad since he usually works late or keeps to his study upstairs.
To be safe, I’ve been using some makeup I borrowed from Erin on the bruise on my jaw while I’m around the house. I’d prefer not to get kicked out because Pierce decided to start yet another fucking fight.
It’s like he’s all too happy to have a new person to torment.
I should’ve walked away. I shouldn’t let him keep getting under my skin. But everything’s been getting under my skin lately, and maybe I thought having someone to take it all out on would help.
It hasn’t.
Once inside, I set my computer on the kitchen island and open the fridge.
It’s fully stocked since my dad meal preps over the weekends.
I don’t feel like putting in too much effort, so I take out some chicken and heat up a skillet.
After cutting up and seasoning a single chicken breast that I’m sure my dad won’t miss, I throw it in to cook before going back to my laptop for a few minutes.
I’m adding in some rice and chicken broth to the skillet when I hear footsteps coming from down the hallway.
Just my fucking luck.
I keep my back turned to the entrance of the kitchen while I stir everything. “I was only making enough for me.”
I meant to tell him that in a hey, I’m not using all your food kind of way, but it came out sounding a lot more rude than I intended.
“That’s alright.”
My dad moves through the room to open the fridge, taking out one of his containers of whatever he made last weekend. He passes behind me and pops it into the microwave.
“Venom’s looking good this year.”
Is he really trying to make small talk?
Probably not. He’s probably trying to remind me of how disappointed he still is that I never wanted to play hockey like he did in college.
Because that’s what he loves to do.
Remind me how much of a disappointment I am every chance he gets.
“Haven’t really been keeping up,” I tell him because…fuck it. Might as well disappoint him even more.
After placing the lid on the skillet, I open the fridge again and take out some broccoli.
I’m worried that if I don’t look busy, my dad will keep trying to have a conversation with me, eventually bringing up school or my future or something else that’s bound to lead to an argument.
So I ignore his presence and start cutting up broccoli.
“Dylan Ross?”
I peer over my shoulder and silently scold myself for leaving my laptop open on the counter.
“Um, yeah,” I say as I go back to my task. “My friends and I were talking about him the other day. I was just looking him up out of curiosity.”
“Don’t you have more important things you could be working on?” he asks, disapproval dripping off his tongue. “Like schoolwork?”
“I was just taking a break. I am allowed breaks, right?”
“Yes, Jackson,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But this hardly seems productive.”
“That’s kind of the point of a break,” I mutter under my breath.
My dad falls silent after that. Thank god.
After getting the broccoli cut up, I slide it off the cutting board with the knife into the skillet and put the lid back on to finish cooking. When the silence becomes a bit too unsettling, I peer back to see my dad staring at me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
I lean back against the counter next to the stove and cross my arms. “How hard is it to make chicken, broccoli, and rice?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It rarely ever forms a full smile. “I’m not talking about the food.”
I didn’t think he was, but I hate how our conversations always seem to lead there.
Food is easy. My mom taught me how to cook, and I’ve always loved it.
My future is different. I don’t know what the fuck I want to do.
Changing my major was partly a fuck you to my dad because he wanted me to come work with him, and I’ve never wanted that.
I’ve always loved reading and writing and literature, but…
applying it to a career? There’s journalism, teaching, maybe something in publishing.
I just haven’t been able to narrow it down.
“I’m twenty-two, Dad. Of course I don’t know what I’m doing. But, at some point, you just have to let me figure it out for myself.”
I feel like a broken record. I’ve told him that before, usually out of spite more than anything. This time, I say it with more sincerity, almost like a plea.
I’m too fucking tired to fight tonight.
“You’re right.”
Okay, did I just have a fucking aneurism or did my dad actually say that I’m right about something?
He glances down at the screen of my laptop again before looking back up. “Just be careful, okay?”
I’m saved from having to figure out how to respond to that when the microwave beeps. He opens the door, takes out the container that has steam rising from it, and grabs a fork from a drawer.
“Good night, Jackson.”
He doesn’t spare me another glance as he heads out of the kitchen and probably back to his study.
It feels like the first time in a long time that one of our conversations didn’t end with one or both of us shouting. For some reason, it has me feeling a little more uneasy than if it had.
Trying to push it out of my mind, I finish up with dinner. Scooping it all into a bowl, I set it aside and leave the skillet to soak in the sink. I shut my laptop, tuck it under my arm, and carry my food back out to the guesthouse.
While I eat, I try to look a little more into Dylan, but I’m getting nowhere. I probably never would’ve gone through with blackmailing my professor anyway. I don’t think I could ever sink that low.
Just as I decide to give up, an email notification pops up on the screen. I click on it without thinking, expecting spam.
And then a chill rushes through my bloodstream.
From: Dylan Ross
To: Jackson Ellis
Subject: Hello, Jackson.
Looking for me?