41. Isaac
Chapter 41
Isaac
I ’m not sure how many hours Jo and I sat on the cold, hard tile of the shower, but I do know that my chest feels like it’s been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. My brain runs through moments of my life where I may have ever cried that much.
There was the time when Dad accidentally ran over the neighborhood stray cat with his lawn mower. I sobbed for days.
But this?
And Jo finding me?
My heart doesn’t quite know which way to go.
Death is not an emergency. Once someone is gone, there’s no rush. No need to call an ambulance or decide what happens next right away. I sit on the edge of my bed, fresh from an actual shower, and grapple with the idea that I can be grieving while I still enjoy Jo’s presence in my apartment. Knowing that she’s in the next room is enough to make me hopeful that I will be able to manage this pounding in my chest. She found me when I needed her the most, and Sam would want me to figure out why she came.
No regrets.
I glance over at the alarm clock on my bedside table while I struggle to pull a clean sock over my damp and wrinkly skin.
The sound of pots and pans clanging together echoes down the long hall to my bedroom.
“I’m serious,” I yell from the spot on the edge of my bed. “You do not need to cook.”
“I’m serious,” her strained voice replaces the clangor of kitchen supplies that I haven’t used in months. “You need to eat.” I sigh, pushing myself off the mattress and running my fingers through my hair.
“Order a pizza or something. My wallet’s on the counter.” The light from the bathroom is my only guidance to the dresser drawer where I rifle through t-shirts. I can’t hide in here much longer, but the thought of walking out there and seeing Jo in my clothes with wet, unbrushed hair?
It’s unbearable.
Her voice carries down the hall once more. “Black olives and mushrooms?” I hate mushrooms.
“My fave,” I respond, “Get some buffalo wings and a two-liter of Coke, too.” I peer down the hall, but she’s out of sight. The pile of sopping shower clothes catches my eye on the bathroom tile. Jo’s bra peeks out from under my CCR crewneck. I scoop the the pile into my arms, throwing them in the washing machine with what I assume to be far too much detergent.
“Isaac James Britlyn.” I drop the lid shut with a slam as Jo comes flying into the bedroom, the contents of my wallet spread out in the palm of her hand. “What in the actual fuck is this?”
“My wallet,” I respond, cooly, shrugging my shoulders and cranking the washing machine dial.
She found it.
Why am I so fucking dense? I told her to open my wallet.
“Isaac.” The edge of anger has faded to something completely different.
How do I tell her that I’ve been in love with her since the first time she looked me in the eye? How do I tell her that it’s always been her, even when I was being stupid or she was being stubborn? I pretended for so long.
No. I lied to myself.
Blatant lies.
That it wouldn’t work.
That I wasn’t enough for her.
That Victoria was easier.
I won’t deny that I was fucking stupid.
How do I tell her that I would do anything now to get her to feel the way I pretended for too long that I didn’t feel about her?
“Yeah?” I say, playing dumb.
Okay, maybe I’m still stupid.
“Isaac.” She repeats my name for a third time, taking a step closer to where I stand at the entrance to the bathroom. The lights from above the mirror filter over and around my body onto her.
“Jo.”
She opens her hands, the display of contents like a shrine to the life that could’ve been between us.
“The key cards.” Her voice is quiet. “The hotel key cards.”
“The key cards,” I repeat. One from each of the hotel visits we spent together.
“You kept the key cards.” She’s matter-of-fact and emotionless, but memories cloud my vision of the way she looked in the hotel beds. The nights we spent forgetting that a world existed outside just the two of us.
The two nights that I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to see what was sitting right in front of me.
“Is…,” she continues, a quiver in her voice. “Is this?” She sets the two key cards down on the top of my dresser, pulling another stack of notebook paper from the envelope.
I don’t keep cash in my wallet. Just an envelope of Jo.
“He wanted you to be safe,” I try with all my power to hold myself together, but you and I both know I’m a crier. I watch as she unfolds the small hand written note, tears welling up slowly at the base of her eyelids.
“How to change oil,” her voice shakes as she reads aloud. She flips to the back. “How to check a battery.” A singular tear rolls down her cheek. “How to jump a car.”
It’s taken me twelve years, but only one long stride separates me from what I need.
“He wrote these?” Her eyes flit to mine, the green barely visible in the dark room.
“I haven’t kept my promise to Leo. I haven’t kept either of my promises to him.” She closes the distance between us, keeping her eyes locked on mine. My wallet falls to the ground, but she keeps the notes clutched to her chest.
“I think,” she begins, her voice fading behind the sound of the furnace kicking on. “I think I need to sit down.” I nod, attempting to guide her to the edge of the bed with my hand on her lower back.
“Not here.” She says calmly, but I’m unsure why. “Let’s sit in the living room.” I watch hesitantly as she moves from my room. “The pizza should be here soon anyway,” she relays back to me.
The living room is a mess. Empty takeout containers and scattered beer bottles from my near week-long bender. I don’t even have the energy or capacity to be embarrassed as the chaos of the last few days replays itself in my head.
A knock at the door startles me out of my self-pity, but Jo beats me there, handing cash to the delivery driver. Clearly not something that came out of my pathetic, emotional wallet. I approach from behind, taking hold of the Coke bottle and plastic bag of hot wings, while she balances the pizza in one palm and pushes the door closed with the other.
“I’ll grab plates,” I try to fill the silence while Jo settles onto the ground with her legs under the coffee table. She opens the cardboard pizza box, skillfully avoiding my eye contact.
“Are you okay?”
“Cups.” She cuts me off, keeping her attention fixed on the pizza. “We need cups too.”
“Got it.” I tuck the plates under my arm and open the cabinet left of the microwave for two plastic glasses. “Ranch?” I ask before I take my spot on the couch.
“Duh.”
Is she mad at me?
Did I do something wrong?
“Jo?” She lets out a low sound from the back of her throat, thrusting her hand out to take the ranch dressing bottle from where it’s tucked under my arm. “Did you just grunt at me?” I sit down on the couch cushion just to the side of where her back rests. My knee is dangerously close to grazing the skin of her shoulder.
“You withhold ranch, I grunt.” She shakes the bottle upside down, squeezing the liquid onto the plate before she even sets it down on the table.
“Jo.” I reach for a tiny corner slice of the square-cut, Chicago-style thin crust pizza from our favorite local parlor. Happy’s Pizza was the location of many finals-week study sessions where more of my time was spent staring at Jo than at my notes.
It was honestly a miracle that I passed any of my classes.
But she pulled me along.
“Would you look at me?” It comes out more annoyed than I want it to.
“No.” She takes a bite of her pizza slice, and I catch a glimpse of ranch dripping out of the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darts out to catch it, and any remnant of the sauce is gone in the blink of an eye.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
She huffs, dropping the slice down onto her place. “Because if I look at you, I’ll cry. And if I cry, you’ll comfort me. And I’m supposed to be the one comforting you right now.” She leans forward, knocking my knee gently, and grabs the two-liter bottle of pop. It lets out a dangerous hiss when she twists the cap, but the fizz stays contained to an appropriate level.
“Jo, look at me.”
“Coke, Princess Isaac?” The dangerously chipper tone coming from her mouth pisses me off. We need to talk about this.
“Hmm.” Words evade me.
“Oh, who’s grunting now?” She grabs my glass and pours until the fizz reaches the top rim, resting her finger at the edge to stop it from overflowing.
“Sam died,” I retort. “Sam was sick, and he died, and you came and found me.” An image of my brother sitting in his hospital bed flashes behind my eyes. I will never get over losing Sam. This, I already know.
But I will also never get over losing Jo again.
Her head falls forward, and she lets it hang there for a moment before taking a deep breath.
“My dad died, and you have his handwritten notes in your wallet.” She shoves a mushroom into her mouth. “I think I need a minute to process all of this.”
I can do that.
If there’s one thing Jo and I are good at, it’s time.
She lets out a wide yawn, attempting to cover her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I’m sleeping here tonight.”
The matter-of-fact tone from earlier is back.
“Great, you should.” My voice is flat, but all the pizza I’ve eaten is now threatening to come back up.
“Do you still keep spare toothbrushes under the sink?” She looks up at me, the tiredness evident in the dark circles under her eyes.
“Some things haven’t changed, but I’ll get it for you. You have done more than enough for me today.” She doesn’t fight me, but slumps back into the cushion and flings her legs up onto the chaise. She’s fast asleep by the time I return.
As much as I’d like to carry her to bed with me and drown my grief in the scent of her shampoo, I grab a blanket off the chair in the corner of the living room and tuck it around her gently.
“Goodnight, Jocelyn,” I whisper, and start my nighttime routine.