Chapter 9
Jillian
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Days blurred together until they stopped feeling like days at all.
Morning, afternoon, evening, each one slid into the next without edges, without meaning, without anything to hold on to.
Jillian sat on the couch, knees pulled up, staring at the wall like it might eventually give her something to feel.
She couldn't remember how long it had been since Moe dragged her into Everstill. A month. A year. Longer.
There was no clock in the house. The one on the stove wasn't set. Without her cell phone, she was unable to tell which day of the week it was.
Time stretched and folded and dissolved until she couldn't tell one hour from the next.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost forget that she'd worked at the store today. She navigated her day by routines. After work, she returned home with Moe and usually slipped into the shower.
But she wasn't ready to take her shower. She wasn't ready to move. She waited for dinner because eating meant the day was almost over, and sleep was the only time she got a break from the misery pressing down on her. In her dreams, she was back home with her mother.
Moe hovered nearby. "What do you want for dinner?"
"Whatever," she murmured.
"How do the clothes fit?" he asked.
She glanced down at her legs. Brent had taken a couple of pairs of jeans from the store, cut them down, and re-sewn them to fit her.
Moe had asked him for that favor. It shouldn't have made a difference to her.
They were still stiff and heavy, but she had to agree that it was better than wearing the same set of clothes day after day.
"Fine."
He waited, as if he expected more. She didn't give him anything because she had nothing left to give. Whatever he fixed to eat, she'd end up picking at until he finally told her to put her dish in the sink.
She stared across the room. All she wanted to do was give up. This wasn't how she wanted to live.
The tension in the room snapped. Moe crossed the room, grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her off the couch. She stumbled, her legs stiff from sitting too long.
"Come on," he said, his voice low but firm. "You're going outside."
She blinked at him, dazed. "Why?"
"When I'm in a rut, I ride." He held on to her. "I'm tired of you moping around."
"I'm not moping."
"It's all the fuck you do."
"You don't understand."
He ended the argument by taking her out the door, down the steps, and toward the motorcycle parked at the curb. The air was cool, the sky washed in pale evening light. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
"I don't want to go anywhere." She tugged against his hold, but he refused to let go.
Moe swung a leg over the bike, then looked back at her. "Get on behind me."
She hesitated. He'd never put her behind him before. She always sat in front, where he could keep his arms on each side of her so she didn't fall off the motorcycle.
A spark of hope ignited. Maybe he no longer cared about her running away because it was impossible to leave Everstill.
She climbed onto the seat behind him, her hands hovering awkwardly before she finally rested them on the sides of his jacket.
He never looked back or checked to make sure she was secure on the seat.
It wasn't like she could jump off and run.
The invisible barrier keeping her prisoner made sure of that.
He started the engine. The rumble vibrated through her bones.
As the bike pulled away from the house, she leaned back slightly, letting the wind hit her face.
It didn't clear her head. It didn't make her feel alive.
But it was movement, and movement was better than sinking deeper into the couch and disappearing.
They rode through Everstill's empty streets, past the courthouse with its manicured lawn, the gas station with the flickering neon sign, and the boarded-up feed store. The town looked the same at night as it did during the day, only slower.
Moe's silence settled around her, and she realized he wasn't punishing her. He was trying to shake her loose from whatever had taken hold of her lately.
But she wasn't sure anything could.
When the sun dipped low and the sky turned dusky blue, Moe slowed the bike and pulled over near the edge of town. For the longest time, he simply stared straight ahead.
She sat behind him, her hands resting lightly on his jacket, and gazed into the fading light. How was she supposed to keep going? She couldn't breathe with all the weight pressing down on her.
Her depression was worse than when her mom was first diagnosed. Even worse than when she was forced to move her mom into the memory care unit at the nursing home.
She had no idea how to shake off the darkness.
And every night, no matter how long she stared at the ceiling in the darkness, Moe still slept beside her, his hand wrapped around her hand.
She hated to admit it, but his hold on her every night was the only thing keeping her from crumbling.
He cut the engine. The silence that followed consumed her.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice low, rough. "You've been like this for days."
Was he blaming her for her mood? Something inside her snapped.
"You know what's wrong," she said, her voice sharp and shaking. "You kidnapped me. I don't want to be here. I want to leave."
He stared straight ahead like her words were nothing more than wind, making their point and then blowing away. There was no inclination that he heard her.
The lack of response made her throat tighten. She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. "I had a life, you know," she whispered. "I had... I had someone."
Still nothing.
Her chest ached. She blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling, but they came anyway, hot and blurring the world around her. "My mom," she said, her voice breaking. "She's sick. She doesn't remember things anymore. Some days she doesn't even know who I am."
Moe dropped his hands from the handlebar.
Jillian pressed her forehead against his back, her breath trembling. "I used to sit with her every chance I could," she whispered. "Even when she didn't know me. I'd talk to her and pretend she was listening. Pretend she was still in there somewhere. Pretend I hadn't already lost her."
Her words spilled out faster, rawer. "And now I can't even do that.
I can't see her. I can't hold her hand. I can't say goodbye.
I can't—" She choked on the rest, her throat closing around the truth.
"She's slipping away, and I'm stuck here.
I'm stuck in this place that doesn't make sense, with people I don't know or like, and I can't get back to her. It might already be too late."
The wind carried her words into the fading light. Moe sat still in front of her, not responding.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her breath uneven. "You took me from her," she whispered. "You took me from the only person I had left. My mom has no one. She could die alone. And I'll never see her again."
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. The sun dipped lower, the sky turning a bruised purple. Jillian stared at the horizon, her chest aching with a pain she had no idea how to treat.
Moe finally turned his head, just enough to see her from the corner of his eye. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone.
"Hold on. We're going home." He started the engine.
She didn't have the strength to argue. Didn't have the strength to do anything except breathe and accept that nothing she said or did would change her circumstances.