Haze - By Andrea Wolfe Page 0,126

had alone since the police and doctors had cleaned up the mess. "I love you so much too," I said remorsefully, like I felt bad for allowing myself to hurt him at all, even if it was totally outside of my control. Plus, the painkillers were making me extra emotional.

"We're gonna be fine," he said. "If we can survive this, we can survive anything together."

No matter how many mistakes we each thought we made, no matter how many ways we could have acted differently, he was right. I knew that I would probably forever scrutinize myself for walking toward that alley—Jack would have his own qualms as well—but then again, I did it because I was trying to be a good person, trying to help someone I believed was in need.

Could I really be mad at myself for trying to help someone else? That was ridiculous.

"Can we handle moving my stuff tomorrow?" I said, laughing in unison with my crying.

"I think we'll take a rain check on that. It's after five now. We need to fucking sleep sometime."

Holy shit. He was right. It had indeed been all night. We should have stayed and partied.

"Can we do something weird?" I asked, struck with a sudden pang of hunger.

"What's that?" he asked, concerned look on his face.

"I want pancakes. Can we get diner food before we go to bed?"

He smiled huge. "Yeah, that sounds better than anything right now."

We checked out from the hospital and said our goodbyes to Jack's band mates. It was incredible that they had stuck around all night with us, trading their sleep for sitting around in a hospital.

Once again, it was clear why Jack had chosen them for his band. Although we invited them to breakfast, they all politely declined due to sleepiness, and that was just fine with us. I wanted to soak up Jack all alone, just like my pancakes would soak up butter and maple syrup.

And when the food arrived, bliss hit me like a drug and followed us home until we fell into a carb-induced slumber.

***

As expected, we skipped moving on Saturday, instead sleeping until late afternoon. Jack got up before me, but I wasn't sure how much earlier. I only knew because he was standing in the doorway when my eyes opened.

"I should call my parents," I said, the first words out of my mouth after achieving consciousness. "They'll hate me for telling them, but I have to. I want to." The decision felt somewhat impetuous and random, but I simply could not help it.

"Do it," Jack said, fiddling with his phone. He was shirtless, the bandage on his side a painful reminder of what we had just survived. He sat down next to me on the bed, my body still buried under blankets.

I don't know why that feeling of longing rushed in, but it did. Last night, I had only really thought about Jack, thought exclusively about the disruption of my immediate surroundings. Disruption of my current world.

As much as it would trouble my parents to hear about their daughter narrowly escaping rape and murder, it would be a way to reconnect, a way to re-include them in my life in a very real way. I had barely escaped danger, and now I desperately wanted to hug them both, the people that had raised and protected me through the earliest portion of my life.

My brain overflowed with memories of growing up, learning to ride a bike, Christmas mornings, family vacations to the beach. I was suddenly imagining my dad with a mustache and laughing inside. He had shaved it off almost a decade ago, but prior to that, it was a serious part of his appearance. My mom always jokingly suggested that he should grow it back and he always grumbled about it.

Good, sweet, loving memories. Jack was my now, and they would always be my then. Stress made the desire to reconnect more poignant than ever before.

I hadn't called my mom since I asked her for rent money, something I regretted every time I remembered it. Life had sped up after that, and I hadn't really wanted to get into the details of my love life. The money sat in my account the whole time, unused as Jack's finances covered us both—and my new job's very plentiful income sweetened things further.

My phone was cracked again, so this call would be the last prior to repair/replacement. It felt symbolic, in a way. My life had been fractured similarly, and now I'd