When I finally stopped reading, I realized that I had been weeping the entire time. I felt like a gutted fish. I got up and went into the living room, making my way past Cara as she sat on the couch, typing on her laptop.
I turned toward her with red, puffy eyes. Her own eyes widened with concern, and she froze as she watched me walk into the kitchen, like she was waiting for me to crumple onto the floor and shatter into pieces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s an emotional book. I’m just getting a glass of water.” I reached for the tequila.
She got up and followed me into the kitchen. “That’s not water.”
“And?”
“It’s ten a.m.”
“And?”
“You look like you’ve been crying for an hour straight . . . and you’re hitting the hard stuff at—and I repeat—ten a.m.”
“Cara, you have the most amazing powers of perception.” I looked at the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, shrugged, set the glass down, and headed back to my room with the bottle only.
“I’m worried about you,” Cara called out as I walked away.
“I’m fine. Just gonna sit in here, read, and have myself a little mental health day.” I turned and smiled and then locked myself in my room.
“Mental health days don’t usually involve tequila at ten a.m.!” she yelled through the door.
“I’m fine!”
I heard her mumbling something, but I was too eager to get to the hard-core Facebooking and internet stalking I needed to do.
I examined the book jacket and copyright page of All the Roads Between carefully. No author photo or bio, just a website and publicity contact at the publisher. I was looking for some clue to the author’s identity, but I didn’t really need any. I knew exactly who had written this book. The only mystery to me was where the author had been for the last twelve years.
From the first line of All the Roads Between, I saw myself in J. Colby’s story. That’s because I was in his story. The long dirt road, the hour-and-a-half-long bus ride to school, the alcoholic dad, the mom who vanished, the secret lunches and meals in the shed . . . These were the details of my own life. Emerson was none other than me. And Jax? He was most definitely Jason Colbertson, the boy next door who had once been my everything . . . my first. The same person I hadn’t talked to or seen in over a decade.
I was having a mild coronary, to say the least.
Some girls might be flattered to be the source of inspiration for the protagonist of a bestselling novel, but I was too busy planning out Jase’s murder in detail. Through my homicidal haze, a million questions rose to the surface. Why did Jase write this book? Why is he telling it from my perspective? Was he hoping I would read this? Or was he hoping I wouldn’t—and just wanted to use my story for his own bestseller? I needed to find him to get the answers to these questions . . . or at least give him a piece of my mind.
I searched for “J. Colby” on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter—I already knew “Jason Colbertson” wouldn’t be on any of these platforms because I’d looked before. Nothing came up; apparently both of his identities eschewed social media. Then I googled his pseudonym and clicked on “Images.”
I’m fairly certain that my heart stopped. I took a swig from the bottle. No chaser, no lime, no salt—just tequila and my angry fingers clicking on every hyperlink.
His picture was pretty much the same on every listed hit. He had grown even better-looking in the twelve years since I’d seen him. More distinguished, more chiseled. But still, there was something boyish and arrogant in his smirk. That fucker.
I knew he would do it. I knew he’d write a book before me. He was brilliant at the age of ten. Why wouldn’t he be at twenty-seven?
Another swig from the bottle, then I read a snippet about him embedded in an interview.
After graduating from Columbia University, J. Colby switched coasts and made his home just outside of Los Angeles. His short stories have been published in the New Yorker and Ploughshares. His highly anticipated debut novel, All the Roads Between, has been criticized for being soft compared to his earlier work, but Colby himself has been quoted as saying, “It’s the grittiest and most real piece of fiction I’ll ever write.” He says his novel is a complete work of fiction but credits his childhood in rural Ohio for being his biggest inspiration.
I started laughing and crying at the same time. I typed in his website URL from the book jacket, which brought me to a clean, spare site with a form box where I could submit a message to “J. Colby.”
Sweet. I would get to tell him directly what a fucking prick he was.
Dear Jason,
You fraud. I wanted to personally email you even though I haven’t heard from you in twelve long years. Not since that day when you did what you did—remember that? Well, no sense in rehashing that right now. Let’s talk about how you stole my life story and got it published. You’re a despicable human being. Why didn’t you ever contact me? You said you would find me and you didn’t. I spent an entire year looking for you, wondering what happened, where you went, why you hadn’t come looking for me yet. Don’t you feel guilty for what happened? And now you’re benefiting from my horror, my pain? You opportunistic piece of shit. I cannot believe that I ever loved you and trusted you. I cannot believe what you did to me . . .
Emiline
P.S. You’re a shitty writer.
I stopped typing, deleted everything, cried, and then took another swig and began again.
Dear Jason,
I don’t understand anything. What happened to us? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you married?
Emiline
P.S. You’re a terrible writer.
I deleted and took another swig.
Dear Jase,
Why?
I deleted, took another drink, and then cracked the book open again.
From All the Roads Between
When we were in sixth grade, the winter brought a deluge of rain, which sucked for me and Jax. He’d carry an umbrella for the both of us as we walked to and from the bus stop, but it usually wasn’t enough. The worst part about rain when you live on a dirt road is the mud—and there was mud everywhere. I’d even find it inside of my socks and between my toes and up the backs of my pant legs. There was just no stopping the mud, but we dealt with it the best way we knew how. We even played in it; we’d cake it on our faces, act like zombies, and try to scare Brian as he practiced with his band in the garage.
My hair had grown out a bit straighter ever since the hair-cutting incident, thank you Jesus. Being twelve is awkward enough without a rat’s nest on the top of your head. Jax was starting to look a little goofier, his skin a little oilier, but I never said anything to him about it. I barely understood the changes our bodies were going through.
We hung out a lot, and pretty soon the kids at school got used to seeing us together.
Everyone said we were boyfriend and girlfriend, but we didn’t care. We liked each other, so if they wanted to say those things about us, then so be it.
When we played together, we’d pretend like we were explorers on a big ship in the middle of the ocean. I’d never even seen the ocean in real life, but I saw it in my dreams. I would say to Jax, “Someday I’ll have a house on the ocean, and dolphins will swim right up to my back porch and I’ll feed them grapes.”
“Dolphins don’t eat grapes, dummy. They eat fish, and they’re better at catching it than you are, so you don’t need to worry about feeding them.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Discovery Channel.”
I wished we had cable, but we didn’t. My dad would always say, “That costs money. Last time I checked, you weren’t making any.”
The urge to say, “Neither are you,” was so strong in me, I literally had to cup my hand over my mouth to stop it from slipping out.
This was all during Jax’s Melville phase. He’d stand on the top of our wooden fence in the pouring rain and point and yell, “There she blows, a hump like a snow hill, it’s Moby Dick!” I would laugh and roll my eyes, but I’d still call him Captain Ahab when he was feeling down, and that would lift his spirits.
We were each other’s only friends. That year Jax’s mother, Leila, was working two jobs and his brother was always busy doing whatever to pass the time. Jax had to quit baseball since no one could pick him up after practice, which pretty much ruined his chances of ever making male friends. He was alienated, isolated, just like me. We were outcasts in every sense of the word, but as time went on, I cared less and less what everyone else thought. All that mattered was us.
We both got into books. Even at twelve, we were determined to read all of the classics. They were probably way over our heads, but we challenged ourselves anyway. Our only escape was that back toolshed among the weeds and out of earshot of my father’s drunken rages. There, we could make our own fictional world. We could be English royalty in the sixteenth century, or wizards or dragon slayers. We weren’t poor, hungry, abandoned kids at the end of a desolate road. We were superheroes and magicians and presidents of our own country.
When spring finally came, we were ready to be outside and explore again. There was a creek about half a mile behind our houses, past the tree line. Because of all the rain that year, it had become more of a river, with the strongest currents right behind where we lived. Every adult warned us to be careful; even my deadbeat dad would say, “You better use that big brain of yours and stay out of the creek. You want to go swimming, you can go to the pool in town.” But the community pool was a seven-mile bike ride away, and it cost three dollars to get in. There was no way I was going unless Leila gave us a ride, and even then, I would have to borrow the money to get in. Frankly, going to the town pool was a pipe dream. It became a myth to us, a fantasy, like Disneyland or Europe. Jax and I would try to imagine what it was like to go there.
“I bet they sell Popsicles and popcorn, and they probably have clowns too,” I said as we lay spread out in the weeds on an old sleeping bag I had found in my garage, enjoying a makeshift picnic. Jax had brought a jar of applesauce, and I had brought Fun Dip that my dad had bought for me at the 7-Eleven. We mixed the Fun Dip into the jar and took turns eating spoonfuls.
“Community pools don’t have clowns, genius.”
“How do you know?” I said.
“Because I just do.”
“I bet there’s a high dive, like fifty feet in the air.”
“Do you know how high fifty feet is? You would die hitting the water. The impact would kill you.”
“You’re such a know-it-all, Jackson. Why can’t you let a girl dream? We’re never going to that pool because no one will ever take us. Plus, it costs money, and last time I checked you weren’t making any.”
He lay back on the blanket, propped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “I’m not a know-it-all—I just have cable. And as soon as I turn sixteen, I’m getting a job. I’ll pay for us to go to the pool. You’ll see. It’s just a big hole with water in it.”
I took the time to inspect every inch of him as he lay there, his eyes still closed. I was so curious about his body. My own body was changing, and I was terrified of it. Jax was getting taller, and I was certain he was going to be as tall as his father, but he looked more like his mother in his coloring and features. Jax’s mom was French, and they both had this creamy skin that looked sun-kissed year-round. His brown hair and brown eyes had strands of gold running throughout them. He was letting his hair grow longer because he’d been watching some show on TV that took place in California. He said everyone in California had long hair.
I was trying to grow out my own unruly brown locks. I didn’t know why since I always wore them in a braid. Maybe a part of me thought I would go to California with Jax one day, and I wanted to look the part. We both yearned for more than weeds and corn. All the books we read gave us silly ideas, filled our heads with things that might never be.
I lay down beside him and stared directly into the sun. He turned on his side and propped his head on his elbow.
“You’ll go blind doing that,” he said in a low voice.
“Leave me alone.”
“Why are you in such a bad mood? You PMSing?”
“What do you know about it?”
“A lot.”
“I doubt that, and even if I were, it’s beyond rude to talk to me about it.” I hadn’t started my period yet, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
In the distance, we could hear Leila calling Jax. “Shit. I better go,” he said. He grabbed the jar of applesauce and disappeared into the weeds. I lay back, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. I woke up just before dusk and realized I had been eaten alive by mosquitos. My stomach was in knots, and my head ached. When I stood, I felt a warmth between my legs. I tried desperately to clamp my legs together as I rolled up my sleeping bag.
By the time I got to my front door, I knew there was blood all the way down the back of my jeans. I closed the door as quietly as I could and tiptoed past the kitchen table into the hall.
“Emerson? Where in hell have you been?”
I tiptoed toward the kitchen, where I could see my father sitting at the table. “I was outside. I accidentally fell asleep.”
His eyes went first to the rolled-up sleeping bag and then to the crotch of my pants. He stood so fast that the force knocked his chair over. “Dad, no.”
Before I could do anything, he grabbed a handful of hair at the base of my neck and forced my head back so we were looking each other in the eyes.
“Emerson!” This time my name was like thunder in his chest. “What in god’s name were you doing?”
“D-Dad . . .” I could feel blood running down my leg at the same pace the tears were flowing. It was going to be a bad day. “I’m having my period.”
He blinked. His mouth dropped open then closed, then he blinked again, let go of my hair, and took a step back. His eyebrows furrowed. He brushed his hand down his mustache a couple of times while he stared off into space. “Go clean yourself up,” he muttered to the floor.
I ran to the bathroom, slammed the door, and turned the shower on. With my hand under the stream of water, I waited and waited and waited. Goddammit, why now? My father hadn’t paid the gas bill, so there was no hot water. Susan, my dad’s weird friend from the motel, told me a month earlier just to take a whore bath if I ever needed to. A whore bath is where you wet a towel and clean yourself with it. By that age, I was aware of why Susan knew those things. A whore bath is what I needed.
An hour later, the bathroom looked like a crime scene. My mother hadn’t even left one maxi pad on the off chance that the prepubescent daughter she had abandoned would start her period while she was at home alone with the whiskey monster.
I was sitting on the toilet in silence, wrapped up in a bloodstained towel, adding up the days in my head until I would be an adult, until I could leave this godforsaken town. Two thousand and seven days, fourteen hours, and twelve minutes until I was eighteen.
“Knock, knock.” A female’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Leila Fisher. Your dad asked me to come over.”
Figures. That fucking coward.
I opened the door very slowly and scanned the hallway. She was standing a safe distance away with her arms crossed. Leila was a thin, naturally beautiful woman with plump lips and long, straight hair. Even though her husband had left her to raise two boys on her own, she still had hope in her eyes. I envied her for that.
“Are you going to help me?” I asked as I twirled my hair nervously.
“Yes.”
I opened the door wider to let her in. “I have a change of clothes.” I held up a pair of tattered underwear. “But these won’t last long if I don’t get a pad or something.”
“I have nothing at the house. I wish I would have known.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said. I could feel the blood flowing again, so I sat back down on the toilet.
“No, I wish I would have known your mother hadn’t left anything. I would have given you some pads to keep here, just in case.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“All right, well . . .” She stood for a moment, as if she were trying to figure out what to do, then she walked toward me and pulled out several lengths of toilet paper from the roll, winding them around and around her hand. “Put this in your underwear, get dressed, and come with me. I’ll take you to the store. Your father gave me a few dollars.”
“He did?” I was shocked.
She laughed. “Of course. He’s not a monster.”
“He kind of is,” I whispered.
“Yeah, but he loves you, Emerson. He’s still here, isn’t he?”
“He doesn’t love me. Look at me.” I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. She laughed. The mood felt lighter. “You’re a silly girl. No wonder Jax is so fond of you.”
There was silence for a few seconds. “Fond of me?” The words came out like a breath. I knew Jax and I were friends, but the way she said those words made me feel like maybe my deepest feelings, the ones I didn’t even consciously acknowledge, meant something. Everything felt lighter, like the planet had been catapulted into the cosmos and we were spinning freely through space and time. My cramps were killing me, I had blood running down my leg, but it didn’t matter: I was floating on a cloud, all because Jax was fond of me. Even though I knew it myself, to hear someone else say it validated everything for me.
“Does he know?”
“What, honey?”
“About my, um . . . um . . .” I pointed to my crotch.
“He was there when your dad came in. He was worried because your dad was in a panic.”
I was mortified. “So he knows?”
“Don’t worry. Just get dressed and meet me outside.”
I did as she asked, walking by my father as he sat at the kitchen table staring out the window.
“Be right back, Dad.”
He didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes my dad would have a human moment, like he did when he went to Leila’s. I imagined what he looked like, out of breath and asking for help. It still wasn’t enough to make me feel completely loved by him, but it was enough to make me feel some kind of love for him. Or maybe it was pity. When you’re twelve, it’s hard to know the difference.
Inside Leila’s Camaro, she blasted Guns N’ Roses. She didn’t turn it down or make an attempt to talk to me the whole way to the store.
Once we were inside the store, she threw a package of pads in the basket, along with some granola bars and Fruit Roll-Ups. “You keep these hidden from your dad, okay? Keep them in your room in case you get hungry.”
I hesitated for a moment. “You know that Jax gives me half his lunch, right?”
“I know. I’ve known for a long time. And it’s okay with me. Your dad’s just not functional. He’s in a bad way. It’s just too bad he can’t go back to that functioning alcoholic we all knew and loved.”
I paused. “You mean my dad has always been an alcoholic?”
“He wasn’t an asshole, but he was always a drinker.” She held up a chocolate bar. “I bet you’re craving one of these right about now.”
“Oh god, I would die for one.”
“I thought so.” She threw it in the basket.
“What else did Jax tell you?”
“It’s not my business. I’ve got enough to worry about myself.” Instantly, the fantasy I’d been harboring of Leila Fisher ever adopting me went poof! I thought she was perfect, that she was the kind of person who could never live with herself knowing that I was next door, neglected and starving because of my drunk father. But I realized she knew about everything—the lunches, the meals in the shed . . . and yet she had never stepped in to talk to my dad about what was going on.
Having a bunch of shitty adults constantly letting you down really kills a kid’s view of the world.
Leila grabbed a twelve-pack of Budweiser and carried our stuff to the checkout. “Pack of Camel Lights,” she said to the clerk, and then paid him in singles.
On the way back, she turned the music down. “Now that you’re a woman, you can get pregnant. You know that, right?”
“Yes. We learned it in sex ed.”
“Okay, well, you and Jax better keep your paws off each other.” The way she said that made me nauseous.
“We’re just friends.”
“You were friends ’cause you were just kids.” She glanced over at me. “You’re not kids anymore.”
Time to change the subject.
“Are you sad that Jax and Brian’s dad left?”
She popped her gum. “It’s been long enough. I don’t think about it anymore. Anyway, Brian and Jax don’t have the same dad. You didn’t know that?”
“No, how would I?”
“Jax never told you? Well, Brian’s dad passed away when Brian was two. Car accident.” She looked off into the distance. “He was a good man. Brian’s just like him.” She seemed choked up.
“Is Jax like his dad?”
“Jackson’s dad left, the fucking coward.” She turned and glanced at me, still chomping on her gum. “Sorry, sweetie, that was harsh. Let’s hope Jax is nothing like his dad. Some men can be real assholes when they want to be. It’d be wise of you to learn that now. I do think Brian is going to make a woman very happy someday.”
I was already getting stars in my eyes over Brian—what twelve-year-old girl wouldn’t? When I’d see him drive up in his old car, I’d run outside and sit on the fence. He’d always walk past me, carrying his guitar, and say, “Hey, cutie.” I was way too shy around him to respond. But I also felt sad for how Leila dismissed Jackson’s sweetness just because his father had left. My mother had left too. Did that make me just like her?
When we got to the end of the road, I noticed Susan’s car was parked in front of our house.
“That your dad’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” It was dark and no lights were on.
“I’m not working tonight. Come over. I’ll teach you how to use tampons for when you’re older.”
I hesitated. “I don’t want Jax to . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry. He won’t pay attention—he’s glued to the TV.”
I was nervous. In the two years that Jax and I had been friends, I’d never once been invited into his house. We either played outside or hung out in the shed. As I walked in behind Leila, I realized that Jax’s house was almost an exact replica of my own, except everything was on the opposite side, as if the houses were mirror images. It was dark, and only the light from the TV in the living room lit our path. The brown, outdated carpet was worn thin, and the whole house smelled of stale cigarettes and something else I couldn’t figure out.
All this time, I’d had this idea of Jax’s house as some pristine image from a Martha Stewart magazine. Now I could see that, despite the warm casseroles his mom made, his life wasn’t all that different from mine.
We walked through the living room, where Jax was watching TV on the couch with his back to us. As we passed, he turned and looked up at me. He shot me a sympathetic smile and then turned back to the TV.
Inside Leila’s messy bedroom, I sat at the end of her unmade bed. I picked up a small article of clothing that looked like a leather tube top and stared at it.
“It’s a skirt,” Leila said.
“This?” I held it up.
“For my work. I’ve been dancing. Didn’t Jax tell you?”
“No.” He was probably ashamed. I knew what she meant by “dancing,” but I wasn’t about to say anything.
She walked over to me and placed her hands on my thighs. She leaned in. “I take my clothes off for money because I got knocked up with Brian when I was sixteen. Ever since then, my life has been a shit show.”
I jerked back. “I’m sorry.”
“I take my clothes off for money, Emerson. How sad is that?” She stared into my eyes as she continued to work the same piece of gum she’d been chewing the whole night.
“Um . . . sad, I guess . . . but at least people want to see you naked?” I was always trying to be the silver-lining girl. In the months before my mom left, I’d trained myself to find a positive angle to every situation. I thought if I could be the happy-go-lucky girl, it would rub off on them. No such luck.
Leila wasn’t looking for acceptance, anyway. She was trying to teach me a lesson.
She stood up and crossed her arms. “Men will pay to see anything naked.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, at least you stuck around. At least you’re here with Brian and Jax.” Leila didn’t deserve accolades for good parenting, but at least she hadn’t abandoned her kids.
Tears slipped from her eyes. I felt my own throat tighten at the thought of my mother living on some beach somewhere in paradise. Leila sat next to me on the bed without making a sound, but I knew she was crying.
“I could never leave these boys. They’re so precious to me.”
“You’re a good mom, even if you have to wear shit like this.” I held up the leather skirt.
THAT NIGHT, LEILA read to me from the back of the maxi pad package. She taught me how to use a tampon, which was weird, and she reminded me over and over again how hard it was to be a young mother. She talked about Brian and his musical gifts. She said he would be famous, a legend. He was ahead of his time and a natural genius on the guitar. She said he was going to save them all, travel the world, make lots of money, and rescue the family from the pits of Neeble.
Occasionally, Leila would go into the bathroom alone and say she was blowing her nose, but I knew otherwise. At about eleven p.m., we heard a knock on her bedroom door, and Brian walked in. There was a glow that followed Jax’s older brother, like he really was heaven-sent. He had longish hair and a superstar smile. I was smitten. I had been from the first time I saw Brian plucking his guitar in the garage.
“Mom? Mom?”
Leila seemed a little out of it as she sat at her tiny vanity stool, staring at her reflection. Brian gave me a small smile as he walked toward his mom, making my stomach do somersaults.
“Brian, I’m fine,” Leila said.
“You should call it a night, Mom. You have to work a double tomorrow. Emerson, I think it’s time to go.” He said it nicely, but it still made me feel embarrassed.
“Of course.”
“No, Emerson, stay. Brian, let her stay. She can read to me and then she can go.”
He looked at me first, as if to ask if this was okay with me. I nodded then he turned back to his mom. “Okay.” He headed toward the door, but as he came toward me he bent down and whispered in my ear. “Don’t let her keep you up.”
I shivered, little tingles shooting down my arms just from his breath on my neck.
“Yes . . . sir.”
He laughed. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ ”
My heart bounced around inside of my chest. “Okay.”
After he left, Leila got under the covers. “Come sit here next to me.” I scooted up to the head of the bed, and she handed me a National Enquirer. “Read that, will you?”
“Okay.”
“I always wished I had a daughter,” she said, and it made me feel good. There were actually people in the world who wished they had daughters.
I read her an article about a boozy Hillary Clinton being shipped off to rehab. “This can’t be true,” I said.
“I knew Hilary was an alkie,” Leila slurred.
“I think this is fake.” I thumbed through the rest of the magazine, past the Jesus sightings and UFO reports. By the time I finished reading all the main articles aloud, Leila was sound asleep. I crawled off the bed and headed down the hallway. I spotted Brian in his room as he smoked something out of a pipe—pot, I assumed. He threw a hand up in a motionless wave as I walked by, so I did the same.
“Hey!” he whispered.
I backed up to his doorway. “Hi,” I said timidly.
He put the pipe down. “Come in here.”
I waved smoke out of my face and walked up to where he was sitting on the bed. “What’s up?” I looked around. There were posters of rock bands on his walls, along with a calendar with mostly naked women on it.
“I’m working on a song. You want to hear it?”
“I’d love to.”
I sat on the bed next to him while he pulled an acoustic guitar onto his lap. “Promise you won’t laugh?”
It struck me that Brian was nervous, and I wondered if he saw me differently. I’d grown up overnight; I wasn’t his little brother’s playmate anymore.
“I would never laugh . . . I think . . . I think you’re amazing.” My voice was shaking with nerves.
He chuckled and then pulled his long hair into a ponytail at the back of his neck. I had the stray thought that Jax would be taller and better-looking than Brian when he grew up, but I banished the thought from my mind. I’d had a crush on Brian for years, and he was about to serenade me.
He strummed the guitar and then plucked out a complicated melody. I thought he was going to sing, but he didn’t.
“What did you think?” he asked nervously.
“It was good, but what about the lyrics?”
He laughed again and then reached out and messed up my hair like he was petting a freakin’ Labrador. “Such a goofball. I’m the guitarist in my band. I don’t write the lyrics.”
“Oh, sheesh, what do I know? Well, anyway, it was really cool.” My face was getting redder by the millisecond.
“Thanks for listening. Hey, it’s getting pretty late. You better scram, kid.”
“Okay.” I put an extra bounce in my step as I left the room, hoping Brian wouldn’t see how totally heartbroken I was that he didn’t try to kiss me. I guess that would have been pretty wrong for a guy his age.
In the living room, Jax was asleep on the couch. I put a blanket over him, and he stirred.
“What are you doing?” he murmured.
“I’m leaving. I just wanted to put a blanket over you,” I said.
He popped up to his feet, suddenly awake. “I’ll walk you.”
“Next door, doofus? You don’t have to walk me.”
“I want to.”
He yawned about five times on our thirty-yard trek. At the doorstep, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“You wanna play explorers out on the rocks?”
“That’s kind of a kids’ game, don’t you think, Jax?”
“Oh, right,” he said. “Well, you wanna go read by the river? My mom picked up some new books from the library for me.”
“Maybe. I have to see how I feel.”
“Of course,” he said through a yawn.
“I better go.” I searched his eyes for a sign.
He just smiled, unaware. Jax wasn’t where I was emotionally or physically, and I was too young for Brian. Damn. “Night, Em.”
“Night, Jax.”
My house was dark, and my father and Susan were passed out in their underwear on the living room floor. I had a bag of granola bars, some Fruit Roll-Ups, a package of maxi pads, and a worn-out copy of Tuck Everlasting. I went into my bedroom and stared at myself in the mirror behind my door.
For the first time, I noticed that my hips were wider and my breasts were finally larger than peanuts. I was a woman. That was the moment I started hating my mother. Even though it had been a couple of years since she’d left, the pain of her absence was searing. I had never felt her abandonment as sharply as I did the day I became a woman. Maybe it was Leila’s flawed attempt at kindness that made me miss the tenderness of a mother. My own had been kind and gentle when she was around, but she couldn’t handle the life she’d been given. Burned bread in the oven would send her into a fit of tears. I didn’t know where she’d gone, and I didn’t know any of her extended family or if she even had family. She had just vanished one day, and there was little impression of her left in our home . . . almost like she had never existed.
