Chapter 16
JJ
I should have picked up a shift. I can’t stand staying in my house and staring up at the ceiling any longer.
It’s been days since I heard from Franklin, and the conversation still cuts like a fresh wound.
I should be used to his ways, after fourteen years, but it still hurts like the first time.
At this point, I’m not even mad at him anymore.
I’m just mad at myself for putting up with it.
“You sound… unsettled, Jericho. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re not thinking clearly. This is exactly why I don’t like you isolating yourself out there. I’m flying to New York for the opening, and I’ll be in Chicago afterward. We’ll straighten things out.”
“You hate Chicago.”
It’s all I said. Pathetic. Can’t even stand up for myself.
Isolating? Doesn’t he realize he’s the reason I do that? That I just want him here with me, and if he were like he was supposed to be, then I wouldn’t be alone?
Thinking back on it, there are so many things I should have said—questions I should have asked. But I just took it like I always do.
“You need some supervision.”
“So, you’re coming here to babysit… in a month? Nice, Franklin.”
“Don’t give me an attitude. If you weren’t spiraling, this wouldn’t be happening.”
Spiraling? Who the hell is spiraling? Not me. I may be a little confused about everything going on in my life, but I am far from spiraling.
Despite the distance between us and my disapproval of his lifestyle, I would never do anything to ruin Franklin’s reputation, as much as I’ve considered it at times, when he pisses me off.
I behave. My hookups have always been discreet.
I never tell any of them about Franklin, or the fact that I’m married, and I don’t do anything out in public.
How is it that my actions will have worse repercussions than his?
It’s okay for him to have a different girl on his arm at every event, even though he’s married?
But if I do something to cause attention, the world is over?
I replay the last couple of weeks, trying to figure out where this is coming from, but I can’t pinpoint a single thing. He wasn’t acting like this when I was there. He was just more dismissive than usual. So why now? Days later.
Franklin didn’t answer when I called him earlier today to talk about this more. Which isn’t surprising. But he hasn’t called me back yet, and that is unusual.
The quiet is getting to me, so I crawl out of bed, the chill in the air causing goosebumps to erupt on my arms and legs. I don’t remember the last time I touched the thermostat, but the nights aren’t getting any warmer, so I check it on the way to the living room.
Sixty. I turn it up to sixty-four. It doesn’t need to be so cold in here, but I don’t want it a sweatbox either.
Once I’m in the living room, I look at the dusty television box on the floor that’s been sitting there since I got the house. The wall mount sits beside it. The TV is considered old at this point, but it’s a TV. If it works, then it’s fine with me.
I get to work pulling out all the pieces of the mount and checking the instructions.
I grab the tools I need from the attached garage and get the mount and TV up on the wall in about thirty minutes.
I step back to make sure the TV is straight, even though I used the level.
It all looks good, so I click the power button and sit on the couch that’s too firm since I hardly use it.
The last time I did this exact thing was with Miles. I sat with him on his couch, his couch that was soft and comfortable, to watch a movie. We fell asleep together, and I panicked. Because, of course, I did.
Everything with him is too easy and feels like something I shouldn’t be doing—something I don’t deserve.
He is sunshine, and I don’t want my darkness to dampen that.
That’s what I do to people, apparently. My father told me that a long time ago, when I was just a kid, so I can’t blame all my issues on my marriage.
The only other thing I have to blame is genetics—my father.
I despise him and everything he’s done. I don’t want to be like him, but I can’t help but feel like I inherited parts of him.
Why else do I feel like this all the time?
I’d much rather be Nash, who inherited his looks rather than whatever mental issues he had going on.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not nearly as fucked up in the head as my father was…
but what if I end up that bad? What’s stopping me from turning into him?
There’s an on-going joke that the middle child gets overlooked, but it was the opposite for me.
I got the shit end of the stick when it came to my father, and though it wasn’t any easier for my brothers, it was the worst for me.
I could be sitting in my room, doing my homework, not making a peep, and I was the one he chose to take his anger out on.
Nash tried to help, especially as he got older and bigger, but the more he pushed, the harder our father went.
Until he took the one thing away from us that we loved with all our hearts.
Hollis doesn’t remember much before their deaths, so he says. But he has a lot of issues to work through too, and I think maybe his brain is protecting him a little better. I think it remembers but doesn’t want him to know because he’s struggling enough. The brain is a strange and powerful thing.
Hollis, like me, is always chasing something to make himself feel better.
He just got caught up in drugs while I somehow make my life shit just so I can enjoy these small moments—so the small moments mean more and guilt me into being grateful to be alive.
It’s fucked up. I know how fucked up that is.
And Nash? He’s got to be more fucked up than the rest of us.
He doesn’t even act like anything is wrong. That has to be worse, right?
I set up the TV, and for what? I don’t have cable and don’t pay for any of these subscriptions because I don’t have time to watch television.
But I recognize the one Miles was using, so I click on it and it offers me a free trial.
I accept and go through the sign-up process.
It asks me to choose genres I’m interested in, and it takes me way too long to complete it…
because I don’t know what I like. Do I enjoy comedy?
Do I want to watch dramas? TV shows? Would that be easier to focus on than a movie?
Before I get frustrated, I select a few things I remember liking when I was a kid and continue on.
The movie I watched with Miles pops up, because I chose horror, so I put it on again, and this time I pay attention to it.
An hour in, I notice I’m paying more attention to my phone than the TV, so I pick it up.
It’s almost eleven. Late. But it’s Friday, so maybe he’s awake.
I should have texted sooner to apologize for my outburst. I was an asshole, and he didn’t deserve that.
But I suck at apologies and I’m great at being a dick. It’s a bad combo.
Apologies feel fake—just a Band-Aid. No one ever means it when they say they’re sorry; it’s just something said to appease the other person and move on.
My father said he was sorry, too. Right after he shot my mother in the head.
He didn’t mean it. He was just fucking with us one last time.
All that “sorry, boys” did was fuck me up more, as if what he did wasn’t bad enough.
He’s ruined so many things for me—so many.
And maybe therapy would be beneficial, but therapists all feel so…
distant. How am I supposed to spill all this to a complete stranger and expect them to give a shit when my own husband doesn’t?
How do I tell a stranger the most fucked up thing that’s ever happened to me and expect it to make me feel better?
Getting it off my chest won’t make me feel better; I just want someone to give a fuck about what happened to me.
But caring isn’t free these days. Everyone wants something in return.
Hey, maybe I am spiraling. Maybe Franklin is right…
I pick up my phone to call Miles—because I’m the selfish one and I know he will make me feel better. Even if he doesn’t say a word, just knowing he’s there will help me. And if he’s sleeping, well, at least I’m consistent.
“Hello?” he answers.
His tone is colder than usual. He doesn’t sound like he was sleeping, but definitely guarded, like maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me but feels obligated to answer, anyway.
I should apologize… I should. And it’s not that I won’t mean it, because I would, but that word…
“I set up my TV, finally,” I say instead. Deflecting as usual.
“Oh?” He sounds slightly humored. “That’s a good thing to check off your new house to-do list.”
I huff a laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He’s silent.
Apologize, JJ. Just say sorry.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come by the station again with your nephew. The guys really liked having him there.”
“Did they? I felt like we were in the way.”
“Hell no,” I say. “They love when kids stop by. It’s good for them to understand how important our job is.”
“Are you trying to recruit my seven-year-old nephew?”
“Was there any question it’s what he would do anyway?”
He groans. “Don’t ever say that in front of my sister.”
I understand how that could be scary for a parent to hear.
I’ve heard it plenty of times over the years from different people—parents thanking us but telling us they never understood how our parents sleep at night.
Sometimes they’d say things like “I don’t understand how your parents allowed you to do this. ”