That One Moment

17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Caiden

T here’s a smell in here that makes my stomach roll. A mixture of something powerfully sweet and potently acrid like cheap perfume covering up the scent of decay. Locking the door behind me, I hit the switch and the bathroom is flooded with bright white light. It’s fancy - as fancy as the house it belongs to. Larger than the one in my small apartment by at least double, with black and white tiles and modern, silver furnishings. The floor though, is wet and tacky, and there’s toilet paper and beer bottles littering the place, bringing ruin to what I presume is a usually well maintained room.

As I press my back to the wall and slide down, I can feel the vibrations of music - the party continuing as I sit and stare at the blank space in front of me, avoiding the floor to ceiling mirror to my right. I don’t need to look myself in the eye now that I’ve finally come to this decision.

Three years.

Three years ago today I was at a party not dissimilar to this one. Only then, I wasn’t alone. Cooper’s smiling face as we danced that night haunts me every single year. He’d been so happy. So alive and so goddamn happy.

Three years.

That’s a long time to mourn someone. One thousand and ninety five days of putting one foot in front of the other and trying, trying so bloody hard to be better. To be everything that Cooper was. To feel like I deserved the life that I got to keep living while at the same time punishing myself because he didn’t. Bringing my drink to my lips, I swallow the last bitter sip of the now warm liquid and rest my head against the cold tiles of the wall.

I’m so done trying.

My phone beeps but I ignore it and instead, pull out the battered brown wallet that Cooper gave me years ago. It’s barely holding itself together, so much like me, I want to laugh at the irony. From inside, I pull out two objects. A photo - Cooper and I when we turned eighteen - and a thin stainless steel razor blade.

Grief is a monster that hangs on your shoulders until you’re too weak to fight it. Until exhaustion settles in and the monster whispers in your ear to just give up. I think if you’re strong enough, you can fight it off. I think you can win and grief can become a part of you but not enough to control you. But my monster has won because I am not strong. I never have been.

I sip at the beer bottle again, groaning when I remember it's empty. Throwing it across the room, I flinch when it smashes on the tiled floor. My mouth feels dry despite the numerous beers I’ve consumed - probably a side effect of whatever pill I got handed on the dance floor - and I rub my tongue over my top lip, the metal of the bar in it clacking against my teeth. With shaking hands, I rest the photo on my lap then lift the blade in my right hand and hold it against the smooth, pale flesh of my left wrist. A mixture of alcohol and nerves makes it hard for me to steady my shaking as I press the sharp end firmly until it breaks the skin.

My heart thuds, banging on my ribcage like it’s begging me to stop. Rattling against its confines and trying to escape the agony I’m about to inflict on it. Squeezing my lips shut, I muffle the sobs that work up my throat as I pull the blade through my flesh. Warm blood oozes from the gash and drips down my arm. My vision whites out on the edges and I blink and look down at the trails of red liquid.

Crimson spots cover the photo of my brother’s smiling face and I close my eyes so that the last time I see him, he’s not covered in my blood. I try to smile while I tell myself this was the best choice I could have made. Now, I’ll see Cooper again. With unsteady hands, and my eyes still closed, I swap the blade to my other hand and hold it to my skin again.

Time stops as I watch my hand holding the blade. I hesitate and in the space of two broken heartbeats, a wave of uncertainty hits me. What if I’m wrong? What if I never see Cooper again? Panic bubbles in my chest, crushing my lungs so I can barely breathe. My vision whites out at the edges and my head swirls like I’m underwater. What if I die and I don’t find him in whatever place lies beyond this? What if there is no place among the stars where I get to be with him again?

I blink rapidly, tears gripping my eyelashes as my chin hits my chest, a broken whimper passing my lips, and I know it the second the thoughts cross my mind - I don’t want to die. Dying without the certainty that I’ll see him again is scarier than living without him.

Dropping the blade, I roll onto my stomach and push upwards, it’s not too late to take it all back. I’ll try harder this time. My legs buckle and I use a towel rail for leverage, pulling myself into a standing position. But my foot slips on the tile and I go down. Reaching for the towel rail again, my fingers brush the cool metal but not enough to stop my descent. I manage to twist my body, missing the basin but my head hits the tiles with a thud. My cheek presses to the cold tile and the last thing I hear is banging on the door before everything goes black.

Awareness creeps in like fog over the ocean, slowly bringing with it a clarity that is filled with a confusing mixture of relief and dread. The beeping of a machine nearby confirms what I already know.

I'm still here.

My eyelids are heavy and I squeeze them tighter together until bright spots dance in my vision. My head hurts but it feels clearer than it did when I first got here.

Vaguely, I remember someone getting into the bathroom and lifting me off the floor. I remember the kind eyes of the paramedics who loaded me into the ambulance and the wide eyes of the other partygoers. I remember arriving at the hospital and a lovely nurse checking my vitals. She’d smiled at me and asked me questions. Then she’d left me for a while and returned later to glue and bandage the cut on my arm. I remember words like ‘triage’ and ‘concussion’ and ‘observation’ and her asking if there was someone I wanted her to call. I remember opening my mouth to tell her to call Cooper but then shaking my head. It hurt both physically and deep inside. I’d still been a little drunk and my head was fuzzy and for a moment I mixed up being here now with being here three years ago. It was the smell that confused me most - the powerful scent of the hospital that reminded me of that night. Even now, with my eyes closed, taking a deep breath, I can still hear my cries, and Jamie's cries and the heart shattering screams of my father. I can still feel the crunch of my own heart and the emptiness that filled my soul as if it was only yesterday.

There’s something else though - something that’s niggling at me about the early hours of this morning, but I can’t quite work out what it is. Someone shuffles next to me. Slowly, uncertain of what or who I will find, I open my eyes. The lights are bright and I lift a hand to shield my eyes as I scrunch them shut again. Pain radiates up my arm and I try again, lifting my lids until I can bear the fluorescent lighting. My head throbs in time with my rapidly beating heart and there’s a drip connected to my hand.

“Good to see you’re awake, Mr Carrington.” A different nurse than the one who triaged me in the early hours of the morning wanders around the bed. She opens my notes then pulls over a machine which she attaches to my upper arm.

“How are you feeling?” she asks once she's jotted down some more notes then takes my wrist in her hand and checks the bandages.

My throat is raw when I try to answer and I flinch against the pain when I swallow. She notices and hands me a glass of water which I gratefully accept, the cold doing wonders to ease the discomfort.

“Okay,” I say. It’s not a lie but it’s also not the truth.

Empty. Broken. Full of regret. Confused. Relieved. Those would all have been better answers but no one wants to hear that. She looks at me with furrowed brows, a groove appearing on her forehead.

She nods as though she’s heard this lie a thousand times already today, but doesn’t let her smile drop. “Good, that’s good. The doctor will be with you shortly and he will discuss the next steps for your care.”

“I just want to go home, when can I leave?” I ask. I don’t even know what the time is but there’s a window near my bed and it’s light out. It was dark when the other nurse first checked me over so I know a few hours have passed.

“Because of your injuries,” she looks at my arm briefly before her eyes meet mine. “You’ll need to be assessed by a member of the hospital’s psychiatric liaison team. The doctor shouldn't be much longer, and he will give you all the details and answer any questions you may have.” She smiles at me again, and I let her words sink in. I know they have to assess me because of my wrist - because of what I tried to do. I understand that, but I really just want to leave.

“You suffered a concussion,” the nurse adds. “But it’s minor, though you may experience some pain and nausea for a few days. It’s best if you refrain from drinking alcohol, spending too much time looking at a screen or doing anything that requires physical exertion.”

She moves a cup of water closer to me. “We’ve put an IV in because along with the physical injuries and concussion, you’re also dehydrated.” I nod and make a show of lifting the cup again.

She leaves, and I’m all alone in the quiet room. The bed next to me is empty, though I recall there was someone there earlier this morning, or at least I think there was. I’m still not entirely sure which memories belong to today. The hospital is louder now too - the chatter of patients and hospital staff, the beeping of machines, the sounds of footsteps up and down the corridor outside my room. There’s also a faint scent of coffee, and when it reaches my nose, my stomach turns. My head hurts worse than any hangover I’ve ever had, and when I lift my hand and rub the back of it, there’s a tender spot there.

With nothing else to do but wait for the doctor to come and assess me, I close my eyes. I don’t fall asleep, but I let my mind wander and it goes to the place it always does - to summers when we were kids, to holidays on the beach and to Christmases in the snow. It goes to the times when I truly remember being happy.

Movement at the door has my eyes shooting open. I feel that confused sensation again - like I’m muddling things up, but my head feels clear. Even the throbbing has subsided somewhat. It hits me then, as my eyes meet emerald green ones that I haven’t seen in three years, what that niggling thing was. A memory that most definitely belongs in this time and place. Of me shaking my head when I thought of Cooper then handing my phone to the nurse and asking her to call my emergency contact.

Fuck.

Shit.

No, no, no.

I curse the me from a few hours ago.

Jamie walks in, closes the door behind him, and sits in the chair next to my bed. I don’t take my eyes off the door as it closes. Even once it’s fully shut, I focus on a nick in the light brown wood and the remnants of a sticker below the frosted glass window pane.

I can feel him next to me, feel his eyes on me. It’s something I’ve felt before - I’m that little rabbit again, being watched by a hawk. He clears his throat and I ready myself for his next words, though I have no idea what they’ll be. We haven’t spoken since Cooper’s funeral.

When I look his way, Jamie’s studying my arm, right where the bandage sits, and though I doubt hospital staff will have told him what happened, he knows . He’s always seen me in ways that make my heart both sink and soar.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, confirming what I already knew. His voice is deeper than I remember, and when I look closer, I notice more that’s different about him. His eyes don’t sparkle like they used to, and his hair, though still the same colour, is messy and unkempt. He’s lost weight too - not loads but enough to notice. And his smile - the one that beamed whenever he looked at Cooper - is nowhere to be seen. Not even the inkling of a laugh line remains.

It seems ridiculous, given our past, that he’d ask this, and I want to yell the truth at him. To rage and scream and hit him and tell him to fuck off. I want to tell him that I tried so hard for three fucking years to be better, to do better.

For three years, I worked really hard to deserve the life I got to keep when I walked away from that crash. I got a job, I moved into a really nice apartment and I even made a friend. I did everything I could to feel like I was worthy of the chance I was given. But I don’t deserve it, I only deserve to feel this pain and this bottomless pit of despair.

I want to say all of this and then, I want him to say he gets why I did what I did.

“You know the reason,” I say, wishing I actually had the strength to be honest with him.

“Okay.” Jamie dips his head and scans his hands, turning them this way and that before curling them into fists and laying them on his lap. He looks back at me.

“Okay,” I repeat his answer, watching him watch me.

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. Shakes his head and wipes a hand through his brown locks before speaking. “Why did you put me down as your emergency contact?”

Tipping my head, I look up at the ceiling. Square, gray and white spotted tiles. At least three of them have long cracks in them and I follow a line from one end of the tile to the other. Then I move on to the next, tracing the line with my eyes, well aware that I’m ignoring the question Jamie just asked.

“Caiden,” he tries again and I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut briefly before daring to look at him.

What a fucking good question. Why did I put Jamie Durand, a man I never planned to see again, in my phone - and on my medical records - as my emergency contact? I mean, I know why, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say.

“There was always a chance this is where I would end up,” I start, wringing my hands together on my lap. “And I needed them to call someone who wouldn’t care if I lived or died.” Jamie lets out a sharp breath, a hurt puff of air, but he doesn’t speak. “I haven’t spoken to my mother since the funeral and my dad…” I let the rest of the explanation trail off. Things with my dad are hard to talk about. I'd have thought cutting my mum out would have been the hard part, but it hasn't been. Maybe because I finally realised what Cooper did all along - that she didn't care enough about us to deserve all the time I spent on her.

“After Coop died, I thought about it long and hard and decided that if anything ever happened to me, I needed the person who dealt with everything to not care about me.”

“So you picked me.” Jamie’s voice is soft, lower than before, and his throat bobs as he swallows audibly. He swipes at his eyes and nods as though coming to some sort of conclusion. “You’re right, I don’t care,” he says as he stands. There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before and even though he’s only agreeing with me, his words sting. I rub at my sternum, and his eyes snap to my wrist again before he notices me following his gaze. Then he stands taller and taps the bed next to my leg.

“I’m going to find the doctor and see if they need anything from me. I have to get back, I have a job and a gir-” he stops himself with a shake of his head. “I have a life to get back to.” With that, he walks out of the room, and I exhale a heavy breath as a bone deep ache settles in my chest.

It doesn’t go unnoticed, that despite everything that went down between us, he came here. For me.

Jamie doesn’t come back for a few hours and I presume he’s washed his hands of me. The hours pass slowly as nurses check me over. The doctor I need to see keeps getting delayed, so I sleep and stare out the window and ask repeatedly when I can leave.

Another doctor comes just after a dinner tray is placed in front of me. She’s older than all the other doctors and nurses who have seen me and she has a strong Scottish accent. She reads through my chart, telling me that the cut on my arm is superficial - I didn’t nick any veins or arteries - and I have a minor concussion. All of which I already knew. She adds that they don’t need to treat the concussion or the dehydration any further, so I’m just waiting on the final doctor to assess me. She tells me that it’s their duty of care to make sure I’m not a danger to myself and I nod in understanding, assuring her like I have everyone else, that I’m not - no longer - suicidal. That I’m okay and that I really just want to go home.

I sleep again, because I’m bored, not because I’m tired, and when my eyes open, he’s there. Jamie. Slumped in the same chair he was in earlier. He’s wearing a different hoodie but the same blue jeans. My heart beats a rhythm that says ‘ you came back ’ and his green eyes meet mine. They say ‘ I came back .’ And we stare at each other for more heartbeats than I can count.

“Right, Mr Carrington,” a doctor says as he enters the room, snapping my gaze from my stepbrother. “I’m sorry for the long wait, but it was good in any case to keep you here for observation.” He introduces himself as Dr Grimes, a member of the hospital's liaison psychiatry team. When he asks me if I want Jamie to leave, I shake my head because for whatever reason, I like the feeling of him being in the room with me.

Dr Grimes spends thirty minutes discussing the incident and trying to determine if I’m a danger to myself or if I have any intentions of hurting myself again. He asks about the medication for depression and anxiety that I was previously prescribed and I admit - with my eyes focused anywhere but on him or Jamie - that I stopped taking them when Cooper died. The weeks leading up to his death were some of the first where I’d actually felt good about myself. When he died, I didn’t think I deserved to feel that way anymore.

The doctor jots down all these notes and I want to ask him what he thinks. I want to ask him if three years has been enough - if I’ve punished myself enough. I want to tell him that all I wanted sitting on that bathroom floor was to see my twin again and I want to ask him if there’s any chance that Cooper knows how sorry I am. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my expression clear and I answer his questions and nod at all the right times and do everything that is expected of me.

“Do you have a support system at home?” Dr Grimes asks. “Someone who can check in on you?” He looks down at his notes. “I see here that you told the nurse you live alone.”

Jamie shuffles in his seat, but I keep my eyes on Dr Grimes. “Yes, I have someone I can call.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jamie move again, I doubt he believes me.

“Great. In that case, I’m going to discharge you back to your GP where you can make an appointment to discuss medication. I’m also recommending talking therapy. I can send the referral today, if that’s something you would like to consider?”

I nod and Dr Grimes continues. “I’ll give you the details of the crisis team should you need to speak to someone urgently. Now, before you can go, we need to run through a safety plan.”

Jamie clears his throat before speaking up. “What is that?”

Dr Grimes keeps his eyes on me while answering the question. “It’s a plan we develop along with the patient to determine what their risks are, as well as the early warning signs and potential triggers. We’ll discuss how to avoid these triggers, what positive actions you can take and who to reach out to for support.”

We spend the next thirty minutes putting a safety plan in place - Jamie listens quietly while the doctor and I talk - after which Dr Grimes flips over a few pages in my chart, scribbles some notes and then closes it.

“A nurse will get your discharge papers finalised and once I’ve sent the referral through for counselling, you’ll get a letter offering you an assessment. Unfortunately, there are waiting lists for some of the therapies but if you need anything before then, please bring yourself to A&E or call one of the helplines we discussed. There is always someone around to help you, Caiden.”

“He really doesn’t need to stay in longer?” Jamie asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Because of what he tried to do. Shouldn’t you keep him here?” My eyes dart from Jamie to Dr Grimes and I clench my jaw. I don’t want to stay here longer. I want to go home.

“No, he’s fine to leave. We would only want to keep him longer if we felt he was a danger to himself or others. There is nothing in my assessment that leads me to believe Mr Carrington is either of those things. So, in this instance, we’d refer him to receive therapy within the community.”

Twisting my hands together, I watch them while taking in his words. Then it’s my turn to speak and I don’t know why I feel so comfortable opening up to this man. Maybe it’s his warm, understanding smile, or the calm, reassuring tone of his voice, but for whatever reason, I want him to know that I want to live.

“Thank you, doctor,” I say. “I think,” I clear my throat before speaking again, “I think this was a mistake. I mean, I made a mistake.”

Empathy shines warmly in the doctor's eyes as he listens to me, before he adds, “I won’t try to pretend I know what brought you to that place, nor will I say that now everything will be okay. There isn’t some magical cure to make things better as soon as you walk out these doors. But I will say that by speaking to someone, and with the right medication, there is a chance that things will feel brighter eventually.”

I don’t think he’s right about my life ever feeling bright again. I gave up on the hope of feeling anything other than hurt and sad a very long time ago but I know for sure that I don’t want to die. Where I go from here, I don’t know yet, but leaving the hospital and going home is the first step.

Jamie stands and thanks the doctor and I’m sure he’s about to follow the older man out of the room. That he’s about to leave, about to walk out of my life. And that’s fine. It’s probably for the best. I don't need him. I never did.

Jamie doesn’t walk out though. Instead, he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at me. His eyes, green like a frostbitten woodland, scan me from head to toe. His brow furrows and I get this feeling that he’s warring with himself over something. My gut churns the longer he watches me and I’m acutely aware of every beat of my heart and thump of my pulse. His presence in my life is wreaking havoc on me and I really need him to leave.

“You can go now. I’m fine,” I say, breaking through the heavy anticipation hanging in the air.

Jamie nods once, then shoves both hands in the front pocket of his black hoodie. “Okay,” he says again. The only fucking thing he seems to say to me now. I hate that fucking word.

“Okie dokie,” a lady dressed in blue scrubs says as she swoops into the room, bringing with her the sweet scent of something floral. It’s a different nurse to the one who was with me earlier. “Your paperwork is sorted. Oops sorry love,” she says when she bumps into Jamie. He takes two steps to the side so that he’s out of her way. She removes the IV from my hand and then says I can leave when I’m ready. I’m still dressed in the same clothes I came in wearing.

Looking down, I scrunch up my nose at my black and white t-shirt that is very clearly covered in my blood. Without another option, I carefully sit up then swing my legs over the side of the bed. My arms feel heavy and my legs shake when I stand, but I manage to straighten up using the cot for balance.

“Did you have a jumper with you, hun? It’s a little nippy outside. Oddly cool for a July night,” she asks as she busies herself clearing up.

“No,” I shake my head. “But it’s fine, I’ll be fine.” A visible shiver catches me off guard - as if my body is calling me out for lying, and I wrap my arms around myself.

“Here.” Jamie’s voice is commanding and I watch as he pulls his hoodie over his head. The movement lifts his t-shirt, giving me a view of his smooth, taut stomach. “Put this on.” He thrusts his hoodie into my hands. He stands next to the bed and waits for me to put it on, leaning on it while brushing invisible lint from his white tee.

“Thank you,” I say, a little stunned at his actions but grateful nonetheless. The fabric is soft and warm and as I pull it over my head, I’m accosted with the scent of him. Sandalwood and vanilla with a hint of washing powder hiding the natural smell of his skin.

For the first time, I notice the tattoo on his left arm, just below his sleeve hem - my twin’s name in an intricate, swirling font that circles his bicep. He runs his hand through his hair - something he seems to do quite often now - and I see a ring continuing on the underside.

Tell Jamie, always. Cooper’s words from the night of the accident are as clear in my mind as they were that night. I never told Jamie and now it feels like it’s too late.

He takes a step towards me, close enough that I can see the scar on his forehead and the little line of faint freckles that run over his nose. He reaches out a hand and I clench my teeth as he takes my right arm and pulls up the sleeve. I watch his movements as he slowly runs his finger along the bracelet there. I was hoping he hadn’t seen it. I don’t need him to know that I never take it off - that some days, I cling to it like a lifeline. The reminder that once upon a time there was a chance, someone maybe cared enough to choose it for me.

The world around me narrows to this one moment as Jamie and I remain locked together, both of our eyes trained on the spot where he’s touching me. His fingers trailing down my wrist, over the bracelet and then back up again. We’re lost for a second. One heartbeat, two heartbeats and then a third before he lifts his head and drops my hand.

“We should go,” Jamie says. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. It’s more like he’s following a set of instructions rather than talking to an actual human being. I’ve noticed that today - his short, clipped sentences. His straight to the point language. When did he stop being the talkative, fun loving Jamie that stole my twin's heart? I wonder if he lost that part of himself that night? Maybe he buried it along with Cooper. There’s no doubt we both walked away from that wreckage as different people.

“Here you go, hun.” The nurse from earlier bustles into the room, breaking me from my thoughts when she hands me some paperwork to sign. “Do you have a way to get home? If not, there is a taxi service outside.”

I sign my name on the dotted lines while shaking my head. “I’ll walk.” It’ll take me at least half an hour but I haven’t been in a car in three years. Being in an ambulance was bad enough, but I’d had no say over that. Taking a taxi is out of the question.

“I’ll drive him.” Jamie’s words have my head snapping up from the paperwork and my eyes meet his, hoping he sees how much that thought scares me. The nurse says something about it being a very good idea, then takes the paperwork from me and leaves the room.

“I’m walking, Jamie. Please, just go back to your life. I’m fine.” This day, hell this week has been too much already. Seeing Jamie again felt like the straw threatening to break the camel's back, but getting in a car would truly be the end of my composure. I’m barely hanging on here as it is.

“Don’t be stubborn, Caiden. Let me drive you home.”

I shake my head and dark hair falls in front of my face. I swipe at it angrily. “No.” Anxiety claws at my chest, threatening to steal the air from my lungs and rip my heart to shreds. My skin prickles and a cold sweat breaks out at the back of my neck.

“For fucks sake, Caiden. Just let me drive you home.” Jamie takes a step towards me and I flinch, moving away from him. “Come on.”

“I can’t, okay?” I bellow. “I can’t get in a car. Not now, not ever again.” The one and only time I tried after Cooper’s death, my head had spun and I’d started shaking as waves of nausea washed over me. The cab driver had panicked when I fell backwards and hit the pavement, he’d kindly pulled me off the wet ground and offered to take me to hospital. I’d managed to shake off the panic enough to get home on the train, but then spent two days in bed. Just me, a bottle of Jack and the memories of a truck hitting a car and one half of my soul dying.

Jamie’s eyes gloss over and he dips his head in understanding. Heat blossoms in my cheeks, shame at how weak and pathetic I am sitting heavily in my heart. “How do you do it?” I ask. How does he wake up and move on? How does he get in a car like doing so never cost him everything.

He shrugs. “I have my demons, Caiden. Cars are not one of them.” He doesn’t offer anymore and I’m left contemplating what demons Jamie Durand has. What became of him after Cooper’s death. A better person would have kept in touch - he is still my stepbrother after all. A better son would have stayed and helped his dad heal. A better brother would have made sure his twin’s boyfriend didn’t suffer his loss alone. I am not that better person. I am still the sad, lonely boy I was all those years ago. Only now that I’ve lost Cooper do I understand what true loneliness really is. Hindsight is a bitch that has me wishing I’d embraced the life I had before Coop left me. The times I could have shared with him, the effort I should have put in. Cooper died, but living is my punishment for everything I did wrong to him and everyone around me.

Jamie rests a hand on my lower back and I startle, not having noticed that he’d moved next to me. “Come,” he says and I let the pressure of his hand guide me out of the hospital room, down the corridor and outside and onto a bustling Surrey street. “Lead the way,” he says. My legs feel weak and the walk which should only take half an hour at most takes a hell of a lot longer. I need to stop every now and then, using his arm to lean on him and catch my breath.

“You don’t need to come with me. I know you have better places to be,” I say for the tenth time, even though we’re only a street away from my place now. There's a niggling in my mind that is sure he just about mentioned a girlfriend earlier. The thought has me clenching my hand at my side.

“I’ll leave once I know you’re home safely.” I stop and spin around, ignoring the fact that there’s people passing us.

“Why?” His caring about me now - being here, giving me his hoodie, traipsing home with me - it’s messing with my head. I need Jamie to hate me, to blame me. I need him to scowl at me like he’s done a hundred times before. I need him to not care, because deep down there are some very complicated feelings towards Jamie that I hid a long time ago, and I have no desire to ever investigate. The fact that I cannot take off this fucking bracelet without the hole in my heart growing bigger is bad enough.

“For your dad.” He doesn’t elaborate and my body deflates against the disappointment. Because while I tell myself I want him to hate me, that part of me that always wanted what he gave to Cooper, what they shared, still dwells, unbidden and unwanted, inside me.