Chapter 14
JACE
Aside from the quiet clinking of silverware against plates and the monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall, the kitchen is silent.
We all take turns looking up from eating, waiting for one of us to speak.
Pop suddenly raises his head, clearing his throat.
My mama shoots a nervous glance at him before quickly finding her food to be the most interesting thing in the room.
She avoids my anxious stare, shuffling peas around her plate.
“I gotta be honest here, Jace,” he finally grumbles, setting down his fork. “You’re twenty-eight years old. I can’t have you moping around the house over some boy all winter.”
His words pierce my heart, splintering it into a million pieces.
My muscles tense as I decide between throwing my plate of food at his face or bolting from the room.
I turn to Mama, looking for any sign of agreement.
She remains quiet, closing her eyes like she’s wishing she could be anywhere but here.
My lip trembles, and I bite down on it, holding back the scream building in my throat.
“What?” I blurt out, pain lacing my voice.
Pop shakes his head, clenching one fist around his fork. “You know what I mean, dear.” The word, which should be endearing, cuts me deeper than any knife. “Your mama’s been through enough. We’ve all been through enough.”
“I…I haven’t done anything. I’ve only been back two days,” I plead, voice cracking.
Once again, I toss my own feelings aside to worry about my mama, staring at her with uncertainty.
She whimpers softly, folding her hands politely on the table.
Her eyes open, but she forces them to stare at the ceiling as her tears well.
“Girl, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he scoffs, taking another bite of mashed potatoes.
He takes his time chewing, rolling the lump around his mouth before finally swallowing.
The tension between us thickens as each excruciating moment of silence drags on.
Finally, he continues, “I’d expect you to be over all this by now. ”
“I am,” I say sharply, trying to rein in the onslaught of emotions attempting to force their way out.
“I haven’t thought about…Cyrus,” I stammer, cringing at the bitter way his name stings my tongue.
“I haven’t thought about Cyrus for months.
” It’s a lie, but it’s still difficult to say out loud.
My throat tightens painfully around his name the second time, like it’s slicing through my throat on the way out.
My mama’s face softens, her eyes full of pity as she reaches for my hand across the table.
She knows I’m lying; hell, I’m sure Pop does too.
I could barely utter his name, and I’m still sitting here, pretending like Cyrus isn’t an open wound festering inside me.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mama whispers, trying to brush my fingertips with hers as I yank my hand away. “We just worry is all. We just want…”
“No!” I shout, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare tell me you just want what’s best for me!”
“Don’t you take that tone with your mama!” Pop bellows, his face reddening. Mama shrinks back, dropping her head as if I’ve struck her. He turns towards her, lowering his voice. “Kate, why don’t you give Jace and me a moment alone.”
She scoots back in her chair, either unwilling or unable to meet my eyes.
Before fleeing the room, she places one hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
Then, she’s gone, leaving my father and me to stare at each other until one of us folds.
He drums his fingers against the wooden tabletop, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my pulse.
My thoughts race, attempting to come up with a response for every grievance he might have.
He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, like a fish on dry land, before letting out a long exhale.
“What are we gonna do about this, Jace?” he asks, looking away from me.
“Do about what?” I ask honestly, but a harshness creeps into my tone.
Uncertainty hangs between us, and I mentally retrace the entirety of the last two days in an effort to figure out when I acted too fucking sad for him to handle.
They haven’t seen me cry once. I want to scream at him; I got out of bed this morning, worked all day in the garden, and I’m fucking sitting here now, aren’t I?
Will I ever be a good enough daughter for him?
The retorts flash through my mind, but I don’t dare say them out loud.
It would be a waste of air; he’s already made up his mind how this is going to go.
“I need you to try and see it from my point of view,” he appeals, running one hand through his hair as though I’m making it grayer with each word. “You wasted away here last winter, and we let you. I’m not doing it again, girl. I’m not, and I’m not gonna allow your mama to put up with it neither.”
“I just got here. You haven’t even given me a chance,” I wail, squinting at him through tear-soaked eyelashes.
I try to find the context I’m missing from his statement in his face instead, but it’s made of stone.
“I’m doing much better, really. Where is this even coming from?
” It’s another lie, but I say it anyway, eager to say anything that might help me escape this conversation.
“Now there’s no need to sass me, young lady!” The volume of his voice escalates as he lifts from his chair, pressing his palms flat against the table. “We’ve done nothin’ but protect you from the horrors in this world, and you keep runnin’ straight back to ‘em.”
“I’m confused,” I reply, matching his hardened tone and steeling my face. “You still haven’t told me why you’re raising a fuss when I just got home. I haven’t even been here long enough to do anything worth hollerin’ about.”
“Jace,” he barks, his face turning tomato-red.
“I know you were snoopin’ around in that shed, girl.
Your mama even said so, and there ain’t nothin’ in there for you.
We aren’t doin’ a repeat of last winter.
If you wanna sulk around the house, diggin’ up the past and wallerin’ in it, then do it someplace else. ”
My face heats, filling with an emotion caught between embarrassment and betrayal. My nostrils flare, hot air fanning my skin with each breath. I don’t know if I should deny the accusation or face it head-on, but I don’t get the chance to decide before he speaks again.
“You need to let that boy go—let dead things stay dead.”
My blood turns to ice, spreading through my body with an unnerving coldness. I fall back against my chair, mouth agape. My chest constricts, expelling all available oxygen from my lungs. “What?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”
The information he’s unexpectedly hurled at me spins inside my brain like one of those game show wheels.
I hold my breath, waiting to see which answer it lands on.
My throat goes dry. Dead. That’s what he said, but why?
Why would he say that? Does he mean Cyrus is dead?
Pop wouldn’t—couldn’t—know something like that, surely not without me knowing too?
Stomach acid singes its way up my throat, sending me into a coughing fit as I choke on it.
I don’t know whether to burst out laughing or start violently sobbing.
A part of me knows that’s exactly what he meant—a sense of already knowing it’s true.
It’s the possibility I was too scared to admit over a year ago but always lingered in the back of my mind.
A concrete reason for Cyrus’s absolute silence, how he disappeared without a trace.
“I mean...I don’t want you moping over some boy,” he sputters, stumbling over his words and confirming my fears.
Why would he bring him up now if he didn’t mean Cyrus is gone?
“I don’t want my daughter involved with any Gibson.
” He pushes his chair back as he shoves away from the table, and it clatters to the floor.
“Since when?” I scream, my voice climbing to a hysterical pitch.
“Not in high school, or when he moved to the city with me. Quit lying when I fucking heard you. You said dead. You said Cyrus is dead.” My brain races to create imaginary scenarios, stitching together the information I know.
I haven’t seen or heard from Cyrus since he left our apartment two years ago, not a single phone call, text message, or random sighting of him since.
I didn’t run into him last winter, even though I was at his fucking house.
I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, and no one else has said they have either.
Pop never gave a shit about my relationships.
Not once did he ask how Cyrus and I were doing.
Hell, if Mama wasn’t the go-between, I doubt he’d even know I was still breathing unless I was taking up the precious air in his house.
How would he know Cyrus didn’t just break up with me?
How would he know Cyrus is dead? Unless? No, not possible.
“I didn’t,” he denies, shaking his head as he walks away from me. “I didn’t. I don’t know nothin’ about that boy’s whereabouts, and I don’t want to neither. He could be on his daddy’s couch right now for all I know.”
“But he isn’t, is he? Have you seen him at all the last two years?” I choke out between dry sobs. “Tell me you’ve seen him then, during all that time you spend with Elias. Tell me!”
My pop grumbles under his breath but doesn’t reply as he exits the kitchen.
I sit motionless, watching him until he’s gone.
Now that the room is silent, shock slams into me like a freight train.
I want to get up, chase after him, and pound my fists into his chest, demanding he tell me what the hell is going on.
Instead, I’m stuck to this chair, waiting for my mind to wrap around this new reality—one in which Cyrus is no longer among the living.
Eventually, my eyes shift to the window, unsure how long I’ve been lost in my thoughts.
The sun has long since set, and neither Mama nor Pop has returned to the kitchen.
I didn’t expect them to—they’re not big on reconciling or apologizing.
They’ll wait until tomorrow, hoping I’ve cooled off enough that they can pretend nothing happened at all.
Mechanically, I stand, my muscles going through the motions to carry me back to my room.
Each step feels like I’m pulling a lead weight through thick, swampy mud.
The air in my room feels oddly cold, but maybe it’s just lingering nerves from tonight’s revelation.
Maybe my heart has finally broken enough that it’s unable to continue circulating the blood keeping my body warm.
My eyes find my duffle bag still lying discarded on the floor.
Crouching beside it, I toss out clothes and books until I find the little orange pill bottle.
I pop the top off and pour one of the sleeping pills into my hand, tossing it into my mouth and swallowing it dry.
My heavy body seems to float to the bed, no longer requiring my conscious effort.
I cocoon myself in a blanket, letting my eyelids slide closed.
As I relinquish myself to sleep, my heart squeezes, aching for Cyrus as the smell of cherry and clove still haunts the air.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but it’s like a piece of him is still here.