Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“Trish wants to have lunch, surely that isn’t dangerous,” I mock.
“I don’t care if it’s dinner, lunch, or a party. I don’t want you spending any time with them. You killed their daughter with your underage drinking and driving. You’re lucky we knew the judge. Otherwise, you would be in prison right now.” And there it is. He always finds a way to bring me down, to make me feel lower than dirt.
Looking away, I say, “I’m starting to think I would rather be in prison.”
“Oh, stop it, sweetie,” Mom interjects, obviously, trying to defuse the situation. “Everything is looking up. Plus, you seem to be doing well at Blackthorn. College is just what you needed.”
“Yeah, about that…” I fiddle with my silverware. “I was wondering if maybe there was another option. Maybe a different school I could attend. I like Blackthorn, but I’m…”
I don’t even get to finish before my father interrupts, “You’re so goddamn ungrateful. First, we make sure you don’t end up in prison and help you so you can afford to attend this school, and then you ask if we can find you somewhere else to go.”
“Travis,” Mom scolds, her cheeks turning red.
“Don’t bother, Mom. I don’t know why Dad doesn’t admit that he’s ashamed to have me as his daughter. He’ll never let go of what I did. He’ll always hold it over my head, reminding me of how shitty of a person I am.”
“Kennedy,” she says, sighing. I can see how torn she is. She’s being tugged in both directions, but I don’t need my mom to take my side. I know I fucked up, but I don’t need to be reminded of it every day.
Scooting out of the booth, I can see my mother wants to reach for me, but I shake my head at her. “I’m going home. You guys don’t have to come here anymore. Clearly, Dad doesn’t want to see me, and I’m done feeling like shit. Done being treated like this. I know what I did was wrong. I know I fucked up, but I can’t change it. I can’t fix this.”
“Wait, Kennedy, don’t leave, you haven’t even eaten yet.”
Almost laughing, I say, “You’re more concerned about me eating than what I just said, and that is one of the problems, Mom. I love you, but I can’t do this anymore.”
I leave the diner with tears in my eyes but hold my head high as I walk down the sidewalk.
When I get back to my apartment, I make myself some breakfast and crawl back into bed. My fingers move all on their own, tracing over the scars, each one a reminder of how close I was to breaking. I’ve survived so much so far, surely, I can survive Jackson a little longer.
I’ll just avoid him, just like I’ll avoid my parents. I’ll live in my own little bubble and hide from the rest of the world. Either way, I’ll survive because something tells me that’s what Jillian would’ve wanted.
15
Jackson
My parents spent the rest of the weekend trying to calm me down, telling me I need to stop being angry and see a therapist. Fuck, therapy? There is nothing and no one that can fix me. Sitting and talking about my sister’s death with some doctor, who has no idea what I’m going through, isn’t going to help me. I don’t care if it helped them.
I’m actually relieved when they finally leave after dinner. We said our goodbyes at the restaurant, and I started walking home. The problem is, I don’t want to go back home. I don’t want to sit alone at my place, but I also don’t want to go anywhere else. I don’t want to talk or feel, which leaves me aimlessly walking around town.
It’s dark outside, the air crisp, and when I check the time, I realize it’s almost midnight. Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I look around to see where I am. It doesn’t take me long to notice I’m basically standing across the street from Kennedy’s apartment complex. Fuck, can’t I get away from her? Anger surges to the surface and all the calming down I’ve achieved by walking around evaporates into thin air. She fucking ruins everything.
Before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m across the street and walking into her apartment building. Climbing the stairs, I take them two at a time, suddenly, I have this deep, primal urge to see her, feel her like I did when she was at my place, bent over my couch with her ass in the air.
I bang my fist against her door, the sound echoes through the otherwise silent hallway.
“Open up, Kennedy,” I yell at the door. “Do it, or I’ll kick it down.” I continue banging, not giving a shit who I wake up. I’ll wake up the entire fucking building if I have to.