Page 53 of Pieces Of You

“Hey,” she says, but she’s not talking to me.

Stepping around me, Dean replies, “Hey.” And then he just stands there, silently, like an idiot. Exactly the way I am.

“So…” Jamie rocks on her heels, her eyebrows drawn as she looks up at Dean. She’s in a dress today, past her knees, light pink with white floral print and lace around the neckline. A braided leather belt exposes the curve of her waist, and as unattractive as it seems at first glance, it suits her to perfection. “How are you feeling?”

Dean grips the back of his neck, eyes downcast as he says, “Extremely embarrassed. And remorseful, and—”

“Yeah, no…” she cuts in. “I don’t give a shit how you feelemotionally.I meant physically.”

“Right,” Dean deadpans. “Yeah, I’m okay… thanks to you, I guess.”

“Well, you know me,” she almost sings. “I’ve got that shit in the bag with all my experience.”

Dean cringes, hissing a breath.

“How did you word it exactly?” She’s putting him in his place for the shit he said, and so she should. Her teeth show with her exaggerated smile as she slaps his arm. “That’s right. My mom was a drunk, and it’s whatkilledher.” She turns to me, all expression wiped. “I left a bunch of stuff at your house.”

“I’ll take you there after school to get it.”

“You can’t just bring it tomorrow? It’s all on the bed in the spare room.”

Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I nod and lower my gaze, because I’ve never felt as small as I do at this moment. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thank you,” she says, and the way she says it… the genuine gratefulness in her tone has me looking up and right into her eyes. “And thank you for opening up your home to me when I needed it.” She reaches into her locker again, pulls out a bunch of hydrangeas. Handing them to me, she says, “For your mom... for letting me stay.” Her voice breaks at the end, her emotions cracking under the weight of her words. “Can you please let her know that I truly appreciate it?”

All I can do is nod because the sudden ache in my chest prevents any other response. The fucked-up thing is, I know why it hurts to see her like this.

Or why it hurts to see her at all.

I just don’t know how to admit it… to myself or to anyone else.

* * *

The spare bed is made,the sheets immaculate, not a single crease. Even her bag that she’d packed is overly neat. The zipper’s open, and I can see her clothes in there, folded methodically in a pile as if they’ve never been touched. Her messenger bag is here, too, the one she uses for school, and I should’ve realized she might need this stuff prior to her asking for it back. I would’ve brought it with me on Sunday when I picked her up from work, but I didn’t know she wouldn’t come back with me. Foolish, now that I think about it, because why the hell would she?

The flap of the messenger bag is open, and the corner of a sketchbook peeks out at me, teasing me with all the things it could reveal.

I shouldn’t look through it.

Iwouldn’t.

With a heavy sigh, I sit down on the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands. Not surprisingly, I haven’t slept well the last couple of nights, my mind too consumed with thoughts of a girl too broken to repair. Not that I want to “fix” her. Not that I even could. But maybe she was right. Maybe I do have some messed-up God complex because I hate the way we left things.

My need overpowers my conscience, and blindly—miserably—I reach for the sketchbook and flip it open. The first page is a sketch of Esme, and I smile. Jamie’s captured Esme’s entire personality in her eyes alone, the sadness mixed with hope, and then her face—a face that bears the lines of age and grief and life and heartbreak. I study the sketch for far too long before moving to the next page. It’s another older lady, one I’ve never seen before. The only reason I can assume to know who it might be is the string necklace she’s wearing with beaded letters that spell out her name:Gina. I’d heard Jamie mention her name before, but I never asked her who she is to her, and now I regret it because I might never get the chance.

The following sketch is… a complete contrast to the first two. It’s a giant dick and balls, wearing a backward cap and a goofy-ass grin, and look, I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but I’m pretty sure it’s a picture of me. Of how she sees me. And I imagine her in her house, on her couch, sketching this up, laughing to herself because it’s fucking ridiculous, and I find myself doing the same—the ache in my chest somewhat easing because, at some point when I wasn’t around, she was thinking about me. Even if it was in this way, she was still thinking about me, and that has to mean something.

An idiotic smile still in place, I start to flip to the next image, but something slips from between the pages and lands by my feet. It’s a folded sheet of paper from the same book, and I’m so quick to pick it up and reveal its content, I don’t have time to prepare for what I’m about to see.

It’s a sketch of a compass in the center of an anatomic heart, but the heart is misshapen, wrapped tightly in vines as if it’s about to explode. Beneath the drawing are two simple words—words that instantly wipe my smile and replace it with a downpour of regret and desperation:Forever lost.

“Holden!” I’d been in such a trance, staring at the drawing for who knows how long, that I didn’t even hear the front door open. I knew Mom was coming home today. I expected her arrival. I should probably get up to greet her, but I can’t seem to move. “Aww! Did you get me flowers?”

My eyes drift shut, and I can’t for the life of me find my voice. The second I got home, I placed the hydrangeas in a vase and set it in the middle of the kitchen table.

“Holden?” Mom calls out again.

“In here!” I finally speak, then listen to her footsteps near. I wait until she comes into view before saying, “Jamie. The flowers. As a thank you.” I can’t even put together a complete sentence.

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