Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
He wheels around, his fists clenched and his eyes hard. “Will they? How can you know that, Abby? Are you some kind of psychic now?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to remain calm, since I know he’s just lashing out because he’s scared. “I’m just trying to help. There’s no reason to be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” he says. “I’m fucking pissed at my entire life.”
“And you have every reason to be,” I try. “This was a lot to throw at you in one day. Everything you thought might go wrong did, and now you have to deal with that. It’s okay to be scared.”
His chest begins to heave as his eyes narrow, his face flushed with color as he seems to work himself into a tizzy. “And you just think you know everything, right? That if we just talk about it, everything will be right as rain, huh?”
“Jack,” I start, “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m so tired of everyone telling me what I should feel,” he yells. “I’m tired of every fucking thing going wrong. And I’m so fucking tired of talking about it.”
“You’re lashing out at me, and I didn’t do anything wrong,” I point out, feeling my hackles rise. “I’m not the one you’re mad at here.”
“Of course not,” he snorts. “You have all the answers, right? Well, what do you know, Abby? You don’t know how I feel. Everything I fucking love is being ripped away from me, and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.”
“I know that, but—”
“You have no idea how I feel,” he rants, pacing now. He runs his fingers through his hair in a manic gesture, his eyes a little wild. “How could you possibly understand what it’s like to have the only thing you care about taken away from you?”
My eyes narrow. “I think I might know more about it than most.”
“Fuck.” He presses his fists on his hips, looking down at the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, and for a moment I think he’ll apologize, but he just shakes his head instead. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me understand,” I beg. “Help me get it.”
“It’s all I have!” he shouts, throwing his arms up in defeat. “Without hockey, I’m just a washed-up nobody with nothing to show for my life. Hockey is the only thing that makes me worth something. There’s nothing else good going on in my life without it.”
I have to admit, that one stings a little, but I try to allow him the chance to take it back. “Really, Jack? Nothing?”
But Jack just doubles down, stomping toward me and glaring at me like I’m the one who gave him all his bad news.
I know deep down it’s only because I’m the main outlet available to him, but his harsh tone and his hard gaze feel too familiar now—feel too much like all the times my dad has spit vitriol in my direction, making me feel like everything is my fault.
“Tell me, Abby,” he says with venom in his tone. “Tell me what the fuck I have without hockey, huh? Tell me one fucking thing.”
I feel his words pierce through my chest like a knife. Everything good he’s made me feel in the last few weeks seems to deflate into an aching sort of numbness that spreads through my body like sticky sap, clinging to my insides and refusing to let go.
“Well,” I say slowly, quietly, “until about four seconds ago—I thought you had me.”
His eyes widen as he seems to finally understand everything he’s said, and I can see it, the moment the regret sets in. Not that it takes the hurt away.
“Fuck, Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
And part of me understands, it really does—but another large part of me just had every fear I’ve been clinging to regarding Jack brought front and center, and I can’t help the way I back away from him now, needing the space.
“Unfortunately,” I say slowly, trying not to let my voice crack even as my eyes start to water, “I think you did.”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“It is, Jack,” I tell him, raising my voice. “Hockey is all there is for you, right? I think deep down you really believe that. That there’s nothing else for you. Not even me.”
“No, Abby, I—”
“Stop.” I take another step away from him, holding out my hands to silently ask him not to come closer. “You said all you need to say.”
“Don’t do this,” he begs.
“I’m not doing anything,” I tell him. “It’s not like we were really anything, anyway.”
He blanches. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I? I mean, it’s like you said, there’s nothing else good going on in your life.”
“Abby, please, I didn’t—”
“I need to get out of here,” I say suddenly.
He reaches for me, but I just take another step back, watching him flinch as I maneuver away. “Don’t go. Not now.”
“I need…” I wipe at my eyes, feeling every insecurity and worry I’ve ever had about us filling me up until I feel like I’m bursting with them. “I need some space, I think. I can’t think with you here.”
“I’m begging you not to go,” Jack says, his eyes pleading.
“You don’t need me,” I say petulantly, feeling a little like a child but too hurt to really examine it right now. “You don’t need anyone, Jack. You made that perfectly clear.”
“I do,” he argues. “I need you. I—”
“Stop.” I shake my head. “I can’t be your punching bag when you’re feeling down, Jack.
I won’t, do you understand? I know how hard this is for you, but you have to decide what your life looks like going forward.
You have to decide whether or not you’re going to let something like this rule your entire life, or if you’re going to face it head-on.
I can’t make those decisions for you, and I definitely can’t sit around and listen to you tell me that you have nothing good in your life without hockey.
I just can’t. Even if we weren’t…” I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“It’s just not true on so many levels, Jack, but you have to believe it. I can’t make you.”
“Abby—”
“Don’t follow me,” I say, turning toward the door without even thinking about my things. I just need to get the fuck out of this apartment before I suffocate from the crushing disappointment. “I need time.”
I can hear him calling my name even as I leave and shut the door behind me, but he doesn’t follow me into the hall, just like I asked. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
There’s a version of me that wants to go back in there and make everything okay—to fix things—but I meant what I said to him.
I can’t make him believe that there is more to him than hockey, just like I can’t forget his face when he told me he has nothing without it, making me feel like nothing in the process.
It’s funny, my dad has been trying to do the same thing on purpose for months, and Jack managed to do it by accident with only a handful of words. I can’t really examine right now why that is.
I pull my phone out of my pocket as I trudge down the hall toward the elevator, dialing Ian’s number. My voice betrays me when I finally hear my brother pick up; it cracks when I ask if his couch is still available. He assures me that it is without question, and I tell him that I’ll be there soon.
Even if everything in me wishes I could turn around and walk back to the place that, until a few minutes ago…had started to feel like home.