chance to know. Jackson had to be protected, whereas I couldn’t be. And that was all well and fine until Mama got sick unexpectedly and Jackson came over all jittery and disturbed.
He leaned slightly in my direction and though bitterness coated the tender flesh along the inside of my cheeks, I took the hand that stretched out desperately toward me. I was rewarded with a slight squeeze to my fingers, the rough palm as familiar as my own. I’d felt each of those calluses develop over time, smooth baby skin that had gradually roughened over the years. Sometimes I felt guilty over them, as though they were my fault, as if I should have prevented them. Mostly I was envious that he only had them on his hands.
“How long will she be like this?” he whispered, as though he was afraid to voice his discomfort with the situation too loudly.
I wanted to snap at him, tell him that if he showed up when she got back from her appointments more often, he’d know. That just because Mama wanted him to do something didn’t mean he had to. I bit my scarred tongue instead. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He was, as always, just doing what he was told.
“It varies. Sometimes a few hours. Sometimes a few days.”
“I’ve never heard it. Is it always so...” He trailed off and I could feel his pleading eyes watching me, begging me to reassure him. He wanted me to finish his thought for him so that he wouldn’t have to. He wanted me to protect him from even giving his worries a voice, even if he didn’t know that was what he wanted.
The beast in me thrashed and screamed, bloodied the cage I locked it in around Mama and Jackson.
“Sometimes.”
This is nothing
, I didn’t add.
Usually it’s worse.
But you’re here and she’s protecting you
,
even now.
Even in the state she’s in.
“How do you do it?”
That angry, wild part of me stilled at the sound of his anguish. Even it was protective of Jackson, despite its constant desire to lash out.
I squeezed his fingers and shot him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. He returned it, hesitantly.
“I just do,” I told him before turning back toward the wall we’d been staring at. He followed suit and together we sat, still clutching hands, the sound of Mama’s retching background noise. We were her “precious book-end babies” with matching hair and eyes. One dark and angry, the other light and whole.
Chapter Five
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
I glanced over my shoulder and felt a grin tug at my lips. Brandon’s hair was a mess at the best of times, always too long to be considered stylish, too short to be intentional. After sex, it was nothing short of a disaster. And I liked it. I liked seeing those dark locks chaotic, knowing I was the one who caused it. That this was something I could screw up and that would be okay.
“The usual.”
“So, everything then?”
“Basically.”
He never pushed for more. Not like some would have. Sometimes that bothered me. Sometimes I wanted someone to acknowledge it all. I wanted someone to take my hand and tell me they saw the worlds I was juggling. I didn’t even want to hear that I was handling it all okay. That it was admirable and I was strong. That my patchwork scars didn’t take away from my pretty face. I just wanted someone to
see
all of it and if Brandon did, he never said so out loud.
“What about you?”
He wrapped one of my curls around his finger, watching closely as he pulled it free and the strand sprang back into place.
“There’s a game tomorrow night. Probably going to Sharkie’s to catch it.”
I rolled back onto my stomach and stretched, careful to not do so too hard lest I pulled his ill-fitting fitted sheet free, exposing the bare mattress underneath it.
“Got a lot on it?”
“Enough.”
And I never pushed him for more. Never asked why he chose to make his money by betting on ball games and the odd fight instead of something more “respectful.” Never rode him for not having a plan
He leaned slightly in my direction and though bitterness coated the tender flesh along the inside of my cheeks, I took the hand that stretched out desperately toward me. I was rewarded with a slight squeeze to my fingers, the rough palm as familiar as my own. I’d felt each of those calluses develop over time, smooth baby skin that had gradually roughened over the years. Sometimes I felt guilty over them, as though they were my fault, as if I should have prevented them. Mostly I was envious that he only had them on his hands.
“How long will she be like this?” he whispered, as though he was afraid to voice his discomfort with the situation too loudly.
I wanted to snap at him, tell him that if he showed up when she got back from her appointments more often, he’d know. That just because Mama wanted him to do something didn’t mean he had to. I bit my scarred tongue instead. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He was, as always, just doing what he was told.
“It varies. Sometimes a few hours. Sometimes a few days.”
“I’ve never heard it. Is it always so...” He trailed off and I could feel his pleading eyes watching me, begging me to reassure him. He wanted me to finish his thought for him so that he wouldn’t have to. He wanted me to protect him from even giving his worries a voice, even if he didn’t know that was what he wanted.
The beast in me thrashed and screamed, bloodied the cage I locked it in around Mama and Jackson.
“Sometimes.”
This is nothing
, I didn’t add.
Usually it’s worse.
But you’re here and she’s protecting you
,
even now.
Even in the state she’s in.
“How do you do it?”
That angry, wild part of me stilled at the sound of his anguish. Even it was protective of Jackson, despite its constant desire to lash out.
I squeezed his fingers and shot him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. He returned it, hesitantly.
“I just do,” I told him before turning back toward the wall we’d been staring at. He followed suit and together we sat, still clutching hands, the sound of Mama’s retching background noise. We were her “precious book-end babies” with matching hair and eyes. One dark and angry, the other light and whole.
Chapter Five
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
I glanced over my shoulder and felt a grin tug at my lips. Brandon’s hair was a mess at the best of times, always too long to be considered stylish, too short to be intentional. After sex, it was nothing short of a disaster. And I liked it. I liked seeing those dark locks chaotic, knowing I was the one who caused it. That this was something I could screw up and that would be okay.
“The usual.”
“So, everything then?”
“Basically.”
He never pushed for more. Not like some would have. Sometimes that bothered me. Sometimes I wanted someone to acknowledge it all. I wanted someone to take my hand and tell me they saw the worlds I was juggling. I didn’t even want to hear that I was handling it all okay. That it was admirable and I was strong. That my patchwork scars didn’t take away from my pretty face. I just wanted someone to
see
all of it and if Brandon did, he never said so out loud.
“What about you?”
He wrapped one of my curls around his finger, watching closely as he pulled it free and the strand sprang back into place.
“There’s a game tomorrow night. Probably going to Sharkie’s to catch it.”
I rolled back onto my stomach and stretched, careful to not do so too hard lest I pulled his ill-fitting fitted sheet free, exposing the bare mattress underneath it.
“Got a lot on it?”
“Enough.”
And I never pushed him for more. Never asked why he chose to make his money by betting on ball games and the odd fight instead of something more “respectful.” Never rode him for not having a plan
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