27 Jamie
The last few weeks have been hard. Worth it, but hard.
I told my dad I was done. That I wouldn’t be working for him anymore.
At first he laughed, said a bunch of shit about how I had nowhere else to go, nothing better to do, how I’d come crawling back in a week. Then he realized I was serious and got pissed. Punched me in the jaw and told me to get out of his sight.
God, I wanted a drink after that. Or to get high. Or both.
But I’d made a decision to stop hiding behind all that shit. And if there’s one thing I’m better at than self-destruction, it’s being stubborn.
So I haven't used. Not once.
Hell, I haven’t even had a cigarette.
Getting sober turns out to be a lot less inspiring than people make it sound. Mostly it just means feeling everything you’ve spent years trying not to feel. The anxiety, the anger, the boredom, the guilt- it was always there. And now that you aren’t muting it anymore it’s fucking everywhere.
A week ago, desperate for something to do with myself, I asked Christian if he had any work I could help with.
Turns out, there’s always something that needs doing. A rental to clean. A fence to fix. A sink to replace.
None of it is exciting, but it gets me out of the house. Keeps me moving. Keeps me from sitting alone in this room with my own head for too long.
The weird thing is, despite all of it, I feel better.
Not happy or fixed, but better. Like I’m finally living my life instead of trying to escape it.
Like I'm finally living my life instead of trying to escape it.
And right now my life feels almost… hopeful.
I drag both hands down my face and head for my room before my brain can short-circuit any further.
The second I open the door I pause. It’s a disaster.
Clothes everywhere. Empty cans. Junk piled on every available surface.
For a second, I just stare at it.
Then I strip the bed.
Gather up the trash.
Crack open the window.
The room still looks rough by the time the lawnmower cuts off and the front door opens, but it looks better. It feels better in here.
Christian walks past my door toward the bathroom, his shirt already peeled off, dried blood streaked along his jaw and collarbone.
“Hey,” I call out.
He pauses in the hallway, one hand on the bathroom door. When he turns, his brows lift slightly, like he’s bracing for whatever shit I’m about to drop on him.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod automatically, then catch myself. “Yeah. I mean… no. But I’m getting there.”
Something in his shoulders loosens at that, just a fraction. A small, tired smile crosses his face. Up close, he looks wrecked- exhaustion clinging to him even though the day has barely started.
“That’s good, Jamie. That’s great.”
He turns back toward the bathroom, and the idea of him disappearing behind that door suddenly feels unbearable.
“Christian.”
He stops. Waits.
“I’m… sorry,” I say. “And thank you. For- everything. Forever.”
It’s not enough. Not even close. But it’s all I’ve got.
He turns back toward me, something shifting in his expression- surprise, maybe. He steps closer, leaning against the doorframe to my room, close enough that I can smell grass and sweat.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re welcome. Always.”
The silence that settles between us isn’t awkward, but it’s heavy.
“I fucked up,” I say finally.
His sighs. “Jamie- ”
“No,” I cut in. “Please, let me talk.” I draw in a breath. “I fucked up. I left everything on you. Gary. Gram. All of it. I fell apart.” My throat tightens. “That wasn’t fair.”
“It’s all been fucked,” he says. “We all lost it when she left.”
“You didn’t,” I say, looking at him. “Not like me. I’m sorry. I’ll be better. And not just because Frankie came back- this isn’t about her. It’s about me.”
Christian looks down for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, but there’s something sharp underneath it.
“You scared the hell out of me, Jamie. Every day. For years.”
I step closer before I can talk myself out of it.
He looks up, meeting my eyes. Behind his glasses, I can see tears in his eyes. “I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared all the time.”
I feels like someone is squeezing my heart at his words.
“I won’t do that again. I promise.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth.
“I’m probably never going to be an Eagle Scout,” I add with a weak huff of a laugh, “but I’m done with all that shit.”
He nods, tight. “How are you? How can I help? Shit- I should have been helping-“
I shake my head, cutting him off. “No- I needed to do it on my own. But I feel good. I feel… clear. First time in years.”
He exhales, and I can see there are still tears, but now he’s grinning a bit.
“How are you?” I ask, realizing- too late- that I should have asked that ages ago.
He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m fucking tired. I’m exhausted. I’m confused. I don’t know what the hell is going to happen- with anything. With anyone.”
“Whatever happens, I’m here, okay. You won’t lose me.”
He nods once and I take another small step into his space. His breath shifts. His jaw tightens, something in his posture going rigid.
“Christian,” I start. His name in my mouth feels different. We’re standing too close now. Too close for it to be casual.
Before I can overthink it, I reach out and wrap my hand around his wrist. Not pulling. Not demanding.
Just… contact.
“Jamie,” he says quietly.
It’s not a warning. Or a protest.
My thumb presses lightly against his pulse, feeling it jump under my skin. His breath catches the slightest bit and his eyes drop to where I’m holding him, then lift back to my face.
“I don’t want to fuck this up,” he says, his voice raw with emotion.
“I know. Me neither.”
The silence stretches again, but it feels electric.
“I love her,” he whispers.
“Me too.”
His free hand lifts, hesitates, then settles lightly at my hip.
My breath stutters. His thumb brushes once, moving under the hem of my shirt, directly against my skin. Heat flares from that single point of contact.
We’re close enough now that I can feel his breath, warm against my skin. We’ve never been like this. Not really. Not even when I lost my mind and kissed him before. That was chaos. Anger. A senseless, thoughtless explosion.
This is something else. A quiet exploration, a tentative discovery.
He closes his eyes briefly. “Fuck, Jamie.”
“I know,” I say, because I do.
Because it feels like something just got exposed between us- something we’ve both been avoiding for a long time.
I lean in, slow enough that he could pull away.
He doesn’t.
I lean up and press my lips to his jaw, just beneath a faint smear of dried blood.
“Go shower,” I murmur.
He exhales, rough and uneven, then turns and disappears into the bathroom. The door closes softly behind him.
I stay where I am, heart racing, feeling more of a high than any drug ever gave me.