Chapter 26 - Isaac
I’m not disappearing, Isaac.
Jackson’s text came late enough in the evening that I was starting to panic when I hadn’t heard from him, expecting the worst after his meeting with Richard.
My heart skipped in my chest when I read his message. He knew I’d need the reassurance, and I love him for that.
But even with his reassurance, I could still hardly sleep last night, lying awake and listening for his breath in the dark.
It had been weeks since I had to go without it that the emptiness on his side of the bed felt wrong.
I kept reaching over, half-expecting to feel skin and warmth, and finding cold sheets instead.
As I make my morning coffee in the kitchen that feels too empty, I stare down at my phone screen, reading his text again and telling myself it really is as simple as it seems. That there’s not more to it.
That he isn’t keeping secrets.
Sometimes I wish I could live outside my own mind.
Campus is still slushy from the night’s snowfall. As I head to the Old Main building, students hurry past bundled in coats and boots, heads down against the chilly wind, breaths clouding in the cold.
During the day between lectures, my eyes drift to every doorway. Every corner of the hall. Usually, I’d see him at least once or twice among the crowd of students. Not today.
My mind wanders. Into shadows. Into memories of all the ways people have left me without warning.
My parents.
My little sister.
Elijah.
Dylan.
I keep glancing at my phone between lectures, convincing myself he’d text while I wasn’t looking. Nothing. I checked again. Nothing.
Halfway through my office hours, I gave up pretending to work. Students came in one by one, asking about assignments, deadlines, and grades. I answered every question like I wasn’t fully present, like half my attention was fixed on the glowing screen of my phone.
By noon, worry had curdled in my chest like spoiled milk.
By two, I’d started rehearsing worst-case scenarios.
By three, I was hovering on the edge of driving across town just to check his father’s guesthouse myself.
Toward the end of the day, I almost texted him to ask if he was okay but deleted it before I could hit send.
Maybe he just needed space. After everything he’s been through with his father, with the investigation, with the stress of reporting us to the university…
space might be the only thing he feels he can control right now.
I need to trust him enough to give him that.
But it’s not him I don’t trust. It’s myself. It always has been.
Old wounds don’t listen to reason.
When I get home, the house is still too quiet. His shoes aren’t by the door. His hoodie’s not on the hook. The air doesn’t hold that faint trace of his scent.
For the first time since he started staying here, the silence feels like an omen.
I turn on the lights, feeling foolish when I hope to see a note or a mug on the counter or his bag of chips a little less full. Any sign that he’s been here. But there’s none. Just the house settling around me like a sigh.
I cook dinner alone, but only because I need something to do with my hands. I eat two bites before checking my phone again.
This time, I’m going to text him.
I can’t keep pretending that I’m not worried, so I start typing out a message. Before I finish it, one comes through from him.
Finally.
Jackson: Can you meet me at the bridge tonight? Around 10:15. Please.
The breath leaves my lungs all at once.
The bridge.
My throat goes tight, and my pulse stutters and then pounds. There’s nothing else to the text. No explanation. No reassurances this time.
Something’s wrong.
This time, I don’t think it’s my emotional hang-ups immediately sending me to that conclusion.
I feel too cold despite the warmth inside the house, ice slithering up my spine until I shiver.
There’s no simple reason I can think of for him asking me to meet him at the bridge, not after what happened there between us.
Not knowing what that place is to me, how many of my ghosts roam that river.
Then there’s that last word that turns something inside me upside down.
Please.
Jackson doesn’t beg, not like this. When we’re in bed, sure, but that’s entirely different. He asks, he nudges, he jokes, he fights. But he never pleads.
I read the text two more times before glancing at the time. 10:15 is a little over an hour away.
There’s no way I can sit still for an hour, so I rise off the stool and put the leftovers in the fridge. I clean the kitchen just to keep myself from pacing. I wipe down the counters twice. Wash each dish twice. All the while, my heart rate refuses to slow.
Five minutes before ten, I grab my coat and my key, locking the house behind me.
No matter what I fear I might find, if he wants me there, if he needs me there, I’m not going to hesitate.
Not now.
Not ever.
The night’s cold, the air sharp with fresh snow, my breath turning white beneath the glow of the streetlamps. I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, start the engine, and grip the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
Whatever this is, whatever is drawing him to that place again, he’s not facing it alone.
Not while I’m still breathing.
The tires crunch over the frozen driveway as I pull out into the dark. The icy road stretches before me, and I press harder on the gas as my pulse echoes one frantic truth over and over.
Jackson needs me.
Whatever’s waiting at that bridge, we’re facing it together.