Page 19 of Rectify

“From the way he was asking about you, if there is something with Max, she was an afterthought.”

Her observation grates at me, somewhat surprised that he’s as selfish as ever. “Awesome, a taken man who looks at other women,” I drag out sarcastically. “A real catch.”

“Care to share why you hate him so much?” Riley pipes in. “I’d hate to miss out on all the man-hating.”

Looking up from the sink, my gaze finds theirs. “He hurt me, and I don’t want to play nice, and pretend everything is okay just because we’re adults. He’s one person I won’t do that for.” My voice wavers with emotion. “I know I’m fucked up, and complicated, but I’m getting there. I’m trying to do right by myself, and for all the shit I often put myself through, Jay isn’t one of them.” I take a deep breath, and say the next part with so much conviction it overwhelms me. “I owe him nothing.”

They both stare at me with sympathy I don’t want. Lowering my head, I avert their pity. I focus on the dishes and try to regulate each shallow and painful breath.

The minute I saw him, every memory associated with him was conjured up from the dead; the crushing weight of how much trust I gave Jay and how hard he threw it back in my face, is just as painful to bear a second time around.

Everything moved so fast with Jagger and Dakota, I didn’t really ever let myself deal with the consequences of his actions. But here, and now, as a grown woman; I’m standing in my kitchen while my friends have a front row seat to my vulnerability. Finally acknowledging with crushing realisation that he did more damage to me than I could ever do to myself. He destroyed me. Everything I ever believed about myself became real and inescapable, because of how insignificant Jay Evans made me feel.

I can’t go back there.

* * *

Sluggish, and feeling every bit of my age, I roll out of bed half an hour later than usual. After the tense conversation about Jay, Holly and Riley took pity on me and kept the rest of the night light-hearted and jovial. Staying up later than we should’ve, we filled ourselves up on junk food, and sat through one too many episodes ofGossip Girl, courtesy of Holly and Dakota’s never-ending obsession.

Dragging my feet across my French vinyl floors, I’m surprised to see Dakota up and eating breakfast in the kitchen.

“What’s happened? Is the world ending?”

“Ha. Ha,” she responds to my sarcasm. Her eyes still sleepy and movements slow, I know there’s a good enough reason she’s up this early. “I’ve got an early art class today.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Once I get stuck into it, it should be.”

Reaching the kitchen, I check there’s enough water in the kettle before pressing the switch to boil. “Are you still going to your dad’s tonight?”

“Yeah. Are you coming?”

“No, I actually have some plans with Grandma, and I don’t want you guys to wait for me.” I pull a mug out from the cupboard that sits just in line with my head. “Plus, you’ve enjoyed sleeping over mid-week lately, haven’t you?”

“You haven’t come over for ages,” she whines. “And you could always bring Nan. You know she likes Dad.”

I laugh to myself at the mention of my mum and Jagger in a room together. Even though it’s true, and they get along now, after a lot of grovelling from Jagger; it wasn’t always that way. Not only did her heart break because he was away from Dakota and I for so long, but she mourned the loss of a son, more than his mother ever did.

When he was released, her acceptance was just as important as mine.

I’ll see what I can do,” I offer. “But I make no promises.”

“I know that means you won’t come,” she huffs.

“Dakota it’s not a big deal,” I reprimand, surprised by her unusual insistence.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she demands. “I know there’s a reason you’re avoiding dinner.” Ready to sprout off some well thought out excuse, Dakota continues with the inquisition, not giving me a chance. “Is it because of the fight you had with Uncle Hendrix?”

“What?” I stammer. “What fight?” My voice is now a higher octave than usual, my brain bypasses surprised and shocked, and goes straight to the supply of white lies I have told to get out of sticky situations.

“The one that happened at my birthday.”

“Honey, your birthday was a while ago.” I’m stalling, and she’s going to be late for school. This isn’t the time to share details about one of my many secrets. “Almost two months to be exact.”

“I know how long it’s been, Mum.” She looks at me pointedly. “And you’ve been weird ever since.”

“Baby girl, there’s nothing wrong,” I lie. “I’ve just been busy.”

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