“Not funny.” But I smile anyway because she’s here, lying on my bed, eyes still puffy from her crying jag, but other than that looking healthy as can be.
Puffy eyes is a vast improvement over bone-white and bloody and dead.
“Do you tell him absolutely everything?” she asks. “Like, did you tell him about the time you pooped in the bathtub and it floated and you called it a boat?”
“I was three!”
“But did you tell him?”
“No.”
“What about the time you barfed all over Allen’s lap on the bus on the class trip to the zoo? Did you tell him that?”
“Those are disgusting and ridiculous examples. Is there a particular reason you’re choosing to be as gross as possible?”
“I guess I just feel like it.”
“Well, unfeel.”
“Unfeel? Is that a word?” She laughs at the look I shoot her and says, “Okay. Answer this. Did you tell him all about the nightmares and the panic attacks?” Her voice gentles. “Did you tell him about your mom? Or about how worried you’ve been about your dad and his drinking?”
I take in a breath, ready to answer, and then I stop. Carly knows all that. Some, because she lived through it with me. Some, because she knows me so well I don’t need to tell her. The stuff about Dad’s drinking, because I confided in her. In the beginning, she even helped me count the bottles on the counter and the ones in the fridge.
But Jackson doesn’t know—at least, not everything. Parts of it we’ve talked about. And parts of it, like the anxiety stuff, I think he pretty much figured out. But some of it, I just didn’t talk about because . . . I just didn’t. “Not all of it, no.”
“Why not?” Carly asks. “Shouldn’t you tell him everything?”
“I . . .”
“Double standard much? He’s supposed to bare all for you”—she pauses and looks at me and grins—“which I’d like to be present for if it’s all the same to you. Anyway, he’s supposed to bare his soul for you, but you get to keep secrets?”
“They’re not secrets. It’s just, I can’t tell him everything. I don’t always think about explaining stuff like that. It’s just part of . . . I don’t know . . . part of me. And other stuff, I guess I don’t think he really needs to know. Or maybe I don’t think he’d want to know.”
“And you don’t think maybe it’s the same for him?”
“No, it isn’t the same. The stuff he doesn’t tell me is different. It’s important. It’s—” About the game.
And I can’t tell Carly that.
So I’m doing exactly what Jackson does. Keeping secrets. Or, at least, avoiding certain topics. Because sometimes that’s just the way it is.
I sigh, thinking about our argument and about Jackson, the way he was there for me, the way he came to me when I needed him, when Carly needed him, instead of going after the girl with the green eyes.
“I made it all about me,” I say, covering my face with my hands. “I knew he had a rough evening, too, and I just focused on my stuff.”
Rough doesn’t begin to describe it. On top of everything we all went through on that mission, Jackson had to deal with being responsible for all our lives and facing down a shell wearing his dead sister’s face.
I could have cut him some slack.
I could have started the argument another day.
I just didn’t think. No wonder he said he wanted some time to himself. Why did I do that?
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask.
Carly rolls facedown and slides off the bed headfirst so she ends up half-on, half-off, supporting her torso on her straight arms, her face above mine.
“Nothing’s wrong with you. Actually, you’re the least wrong that you’ve been in two years. Couples argue sometimes. No biggie.” She slides the rest of the way off the bed, so we’re lying side by side. “It’s not like he broke up with you. I mean, he didn’t, did he?”
“No.”
She rolls on her side and stares at me. “Do you love him?”
I study the ceiling, trying to decide how to answer. Do I want to say it out loud? I’ve told Jackson that I love him, but that was under duress while he was dying in a deserted building in Detroit after he took a Drau hit meant for me. And I qualified that declaration by telling him I didn’t forgive him, that he had to live so he could beg forgiveness. On the romance scale, that’d have to score a negative ten.
And maybe I’ve said it once or twice since then in a joking way—I can’t even remember if I have or not. But I haven’t actually said it said it. Maybe I’m afraid to love him. Or maybe I’m just afraid to admit it out loud.
Bad things seem to happen to people I love.
I haven’t told anyone else how I feel about him. Not even Carly.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to answer. Not out loud. But you have to answer it in your own head. In your heart.” She pauses, then says in a slow, sonorous tone, dragging out each word, forcing a huffing exhalation into each vowel, “Love . . . means never . . . having . . . to say . . . you’re sorry.”
“Did you seriously just say that to me?” I surge up and grab a pillow off my bed and whack her with it. She grabs another and whacks me. “Did you really just tell me that love means never having to say you’re sorry?”
Puffy eyes is a vast improvement over bone-white and bloody and dead.
“Do you tell him absolutely everything?” she asks. “Like, did you tell him about the time you pooped in the bathtub and it floated and you called it a boat?”
“I was three!”
“But did you tell him?”
“No.”
“What about the time you barfed all over Allen’s lap on the bus on the class trip to the zoo? Did you tell him that?”
“Those are disgusting and ridiculous examples. Is there a particular reason you’re choosing to be as gross as possible?”
“I guess I just feel like it.”
“Well, unfeel.”
“Unfeel? Is that a word?” She laughs at the look I shoot her and says, “Okay. Answer this. Did you tell him all about the nightmares and the panic attacks?” Her voice gentles. “Did you tell him about your mom? Or about how worried you’ve been about your dad and his drinking?”
I take in a breath, ready to answer, and then I stop. Carly knows all that. Some, because she lived through it with me. Some, because she knows me so well I don’t need to tell her. The stuff about Dad’s drinking, because I confided in her. In the beginning, she even helped me count the bottles on the counter and the ones in the fridge.
But Jackson doesn’t know—at least, not everything. Parts of it we’ve talked about. And parts of it, like the anxiety stuff, I think he pretty much figured out. But some of it, I just didn’t talk about because . . . I just didn’t. “Not all of it, no.”
“Why not?” Carly asks. “Shouldn’t you tell him everything?”
“I . . .”
“Double standard much? He’s supposed to bare all for you”—she pauses and looks at me and grins—“which I’d like to be present for if it’s all the same to you. Anyway, he’s supposed to bare his soul for you, but you get to keep secrets?”
“They’re not secrets. It’s just, I can’t tell him everything. I don’t always think about explaining stuff like that. It’s just part of . . . I don’t know . . . part of me. And other stuff, I guess I don’t think he really needs to know. Or maybe I don’t think he’d want to know.”
“And you don’t think maybe it’s the same for him?”
“No, it isn’t the same. The stuff he doesn’t tell me is different. It’s important. It’s—” About the game.
And I can’t tell Carly that.
So I’m doing exactly what Jackson does. Keeping secrets. Or, at least, avoiding certain topics. Because sometimes that’s just the way it is.
I sigh, thinking about our argument and about Jackson, the way he was there for me, the way he came to me when I needed him, when Carly needed him, instead of going after the girl with the green eyes.
“I made it all about me,” I say, covering my face with my hands. “I knew he had a rough evening, too, and I just focused on my stuff.”
Rough doesn’t begin to describe it. On top of everything we all went through on that mission, Jackson had to deal with being responsible for all our lives and facing down a shell wearing his dead sister’s face.
I could have cut him some slack.
I could have started the argument another day.
I just didn’t think. No wonder he said he wanted some time to himself. Why did I do that?
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask.
Carly rolls facedown and slides off the bed headfirst so she ends up half-on, half-off, supporting her torso on her straight arms, her face above mine.
“Nothing’s wrong with you. Actually, you’re the least wrong that you’ve been in two years. Couples argue sometimes. No biggie.” She slides the rest of the way off the bed, so we’re lying side by side. “It’s not like he broke up with you. I mean, he didn’t, did he?”
“No.”
She rolls on her side and stares at me. “Do you love him?”
I study the ceiling, trying to decide how to answer. Do I want to say it out loud? I’ve told Jackson that I love him, but that was under duress while he was dying in a deserted building in Detroit after he took a Drau hit meant for me. And I qualified that declaration by telling him I didn’t forgive him, that he had to live so he could beg forgiveness. On the romance scale, that’d have to score a negative ten.
And maybe I’ve said it once or twice since then in a joking way—I can’t even remember if I have or not. But I haven’t actually said it said it. Maybe I’m afraid to love him. Or maybe I’m just afraid to admit it out loud.
Bad things seem to happen to people I love.
I haven’t told anyone else how I feel about him. Not even Carly.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to answer. Not out loud. But you have to answer it in your own head. In your heart.” She pauses, then says in a slow, sonorous tone, dragging out each word, forcing a huffing exhalation into each vowel, “Love . . . means never . . . having . . . to say . . . you’re sorry.”
“Did you seriously just say that to me?” I surge up and grab a pillow off my bed and whack her with it. She grabs another and whacks me. “Did you really just tell me that love means never having to say you’re sorry?”
