Jo
It’s a circle: Davis did what he did, but he did at least some of it after he lost me, except nobody ever realized it was him until I’m the one who looked into it. And come on, what kind of kid decides to check out her own sperm donor just because he was in the area at the right time, and he had a proper trigger?
Not Forgotten doesn’t know about my adoption hearing. I’ve never looked up the transcript, as though anyone showing any interest at all will make them suddenly visible to other people. I have no idea if his name is on the record as trying to claim me, but even if Jamie doesn’t want to admit it, I do know one thing: whatever he’s done or not done, Stanley Trevor Davis was in jail because of me, so now he’s shanked and maybe dying because of me.
Jamie’s pulled me into his lap and he rubs my back, apparently just the epitome of patience, and he didn’t learn that from Helen. Maybe he learned it because of Helen, but he’s not imitating her. Maybe Elias was eternally patient.
Once my initial outburst is over, I can’t really say I mind this. My head already hurts because my sinuses have been packed full of snot for a while, and my face is all hot the way it gets when you’ve been up all night crying, either from exertion or lack of sleep, but being with Jamie is nice. At some point he’s going to have to come around to my way of thinking because, serial killer or not, Davis wasn’t caught until I intervened. It’s my fault, even if the world doesn’t find out.
Oh, God. What if Kara and Tess finally reveal where they got his name? On the one hand I feel like they wouldn’t, because it’s more fun being mysteriously close-mouthed about it, and what would their PR person say about admitting that yeah, actually, they got that information and then Tess took my husband? Honestly at this point the second bit is comforting just because it’s less likely anyone will reveal the first.
God, I never thought I’d be thankful that Jake and Tess cheated on me.
I’ve reached the point where Kleenex isn’t enough, but it feels weird just abandoning Jamie, so I catch his hand and give it a squeeze first. “Be right back.” He frowns but doesn’t try to stop me, and I head into the bathroom to get a fresh washcloth and run it under cold water. It’s more for cooling my face down than cleaning it, and I’m really going to have to get back into my moisturizing routine with all this abuse of my skin, but I’ve been here before. That sucks, because come on, there are some paths you just never want to walk again, but here I am.
The weird part is how I actually feel hungry. It can’t be as simple as telling Jamie about my guilt and having him not bolt for the door, can it? Obviously my parents understand what I’m struggling with, because Mom was going to have Amanda break in, but Jamie didn’t know. The whole point was that Jamie didn’t know. Who’s going to believe me when I say Davis only killed two people—that only is doing a lot of heavy lifting—if they also know that I’ve got a complicated preexisting relationship with him?
When I come back to the living room, Jamie stands up and my heart drops. Is he leaving already? “I was going to reheat mine,” he tells me, gesturing toward his burrito, “but I figured I should ask if you want yours done, too.”
Uh. Okay, stop the panic. “Yeah, thanks.” Except maybe I’m too transparent because, instead of picking up the burritos, he comes over to me and offers a hug.
I don’t so much accept as fall into it. He wraps his arms around me and we all but melt together, and he kisses my hair, and my cheek, and …
And hesitates. I pull back and take his face in my hands, keeping him close but not pulling him in. “You don’t have to kiss me.” It comes out hoarse, but it’s understandable, because he shakes his head.
“What if I never kiss you?” His voice is a little scratchy, too.
I shrug. “As long as we’re not kissing anyone else, I’m good.” And at least I was on top of it enough to make that plural. It’s not just a Jake question, but a can I be satisfied in this relationship question.
Jamie shakes his head again, constrained either by my hands or some internal force. “You want me to kiss you.”
“I want you to want to kiss me,” I correct, and it’s too vulnerable, maybe, but I have to say it: “But mostly I just want you to want to be with me.”
That gets me his lopsided grin and he tilts his head down so our foreheads touch. “That I know for sure.”
I hug him again, because I know he’s willing to do hugs, and kiss his cheek when I pull back.
Just his cheek, though. Not even the corner of his mouth. Of course I want to kiss him, but I also want to make it clear I respect his boundaries and I’m not pushing for more right after I said we’re fine. There are layers to his smile, like maybe he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as he grabs our burritos and takes them into the kitchen.
I tuck myself into the corner of the couch, coffee close at hand—I’m not as picky about coffee temperature as I am about food—and pick up my phone. Ugh. At some point it should be smart enough to conclude that you don’t want to see any more notifications, thank you. You’d also think that, say, Moms would learn the same thing.
I’ve had rough patches, check. I’m not always good at reaching out when I’m feeling low, check. Even though we don’t one hundred percent know my ancestry, we can conclude that I come from two highly addictive personalities, check. I’ve got a complicated relationship with alcohol, which is the only substance I’ve ever even touched, check. But come on. Dialing and texting over and over isn’t going to make me think she’s any more concerned after the third call—or thirteenth—than after the first.
I get the cough syrup without alcohol. I buy melatonin instead of other sleeping pills. I’ve got the razor, sure, but I’ve never used it for anything other than shaving, and even then, Amanda’s stocked the kitchen with a nice chef’s set. God, imagine Amanda doing a wellness check after I’d used one of those.
Picturing who’d have to find me isn’t the only reason I’ve never seriously considered killing myself, but it’s a pretty strong one. After waking up and seeing my mother like that, I’m far more likely to try to find some way to let time pass without me noticing than to end its flow completely.
Jamie comes back with two plates and sits down on the middle cushion rather than using it as a buffer. “I can text her,” he offers, since I’m looking at my list of missed calls.
Look, I love my mom, but I wrinkle my nose. “Any chance I could see what she’s texted you?”
He shrugs, unlocks his phone, and passes it over. He doesn’t even pull up his messages or lean in to keep an eye on me. Jamie just hands me his phone and picks up his plate.
Oddly, or maybe not, she hasn’t inundated him the way she has me. There’s just one: Thank God. She wasn’t replying at all, so I wasn’t sure. I hope it’s not too much if I ask you to stay with her for a while and try to get her to leave the house for a bit. She likes to shut down and convince herself nobody’s going to miss her. I mean, accurate, but ouch.
It’s a request for Jamie, though, so I hold the screen so he can read it. He shrugs and waits until he finishes chewing. “Does that mean take you out for dinner or is a walk along the lake enough?”
“Ugh, I’m not sure I want to be around strangers today.” I start to set his phone down, but he reaches for it instead, and I pick up my burrito and make some good progress as he taps around and then nods.
“Ricky and Chase are offering their place. Chase said that, for you, he’ll make some mini quiches.” He’s a bit wary, like maybe I’m not up for the teasing, but I laugh.
“Yeah, okay. But only if he fully commits to the breakfast-for-dinner thing so I know for sure how much he loves me.”
Jamie shakes his head a little. “The other guys have said kind of the same thing. They don’t really know everything, but …”
Right. I don’t want to text the group chat and put it in writing, but yeah, it’s kind of a big event going on in my life. They’re Jamie’s friends first, but they’re my friends now, too. “Should I tell them?” I want to know, like maybe it’s fine that I’m leaving a major life decision up to him.
Jamie tilts his head and chews on his lip. His frown line’s back, and I’m the cause. “Yes,” he finally says, taking a bite of his burrito without adding anything else.
Before I can change my mind, I pick up my phone, find the group chat, and write: I’ve got some stuff I need to tell you guys.
Chapter Twenty-Six – coming October 26
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