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.
A moment later, the door opens, and Kennedy appears in front of me. Her silky blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, and she squints her eyes at the bright light flooding into her apartment from the hallway. Clearly, I woke her up. Oops.
“What are you doing here?” she rasps, her voice still sleepy.
Instead of answering her, I shove past her and into her apartment without an invitation. She closes the door behind us and turns to face me, turning on a light switch beside us. At least she’s starting to understand how this works. I’m tempted to bring up whatever the fuck it was that I felt on her thighs, but I want to sink my cock into her more than I care to hear what the hell is going on with her. This is all part of convincing myself that I don’t care about her. If I don’t ask questions, then I have nothing to care about.
“Take your clothes off. I want to fuck you again.”
Her mouth falls open in shock as if she can’t believe what I just said. What did she think I showed up here for in the middle of the night?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She can’t be serious, can she? Us fucking is always a good idea. It’s the only good thing between us. It’s either we fuck, or I’m hurting her or she’s hurting me. There are no other options.
“I didn’t ask you what you thought. I told you to take off your clothes.” Folding my arms over my chest, I scowl down at her. “Tick tock. I don’t have all night. Do it, or I do it for