Ronny guffawed. "Don't flatter yourself. You're not my type."
Jack wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or insulted. Shaking his head, he sat down on the bench next to Ronny and stretched out his legs. "There was a woman, actually."
"Huh, thought so. I could tell by the look on your face."
"What look is that?"
Ronny crossed his arms. "I've been on the streets for ten years now. I've seen things that would make you cry like a baby. I've seen the look on somebody's face when they don't have anything else. Like they've been sucked dry by a vampire." Ronny glanced at him. "Same thing in your look."
Jack stared straight ahead. "I don't think my situation is as bad as being homeless," he finally said.
"I don't know. Maybe you've got other problems. We all have demons." Ronny pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "Anyway, whatever's eating at you will kill you if you let it."
Jack frowned. "I thought you didn't have any more cigarettes."
"This is my last one." Ronny blew out a cloud of smoke.
As Jack walked home, he thought about what Ronny had said. He wanted to deny it, tell himself that Ronny was crazy and had no idea what he was talking about.
But that didn't mitigate the sting that Jack felt from Ronny's statement. If he were being honest, he felt like he was wasting away every day that passed without seeing Gwen.
He missed her, plain and simple. He'd hoped that with distance and time, he'd forget about her. But the opposite seemed to be happening: he couldn't stop thinking about her.
He wondered how she'd reacted to discovering he'd moved away. Guilt made him wonder if he'd made a mistake, leaving like that, without saying goodbye.
But he'd told her they were over. He'd been honest. Why make things harder with a painful goodbye?
Jack arrived home to his bare studio apartment. Currently, the furnishings included a rickety futon and a cardboard box for a table. He could've gotten more furniture, but it'd seemed pointless. He wasn't planning on staying here for that long.
Where will you go, then? You can't go back to Hazel Island.
A text message made his phone light up. His mom texted him often. Although she'd reluctantly agreed to go to outpatient treatment in return for his help, Jack had soon discovered it wasn't that simple.
Neither he nor his mom had the money to pay for a spot at a private treatment center. He'd also learned that it'd take months, even years, before there would be a spot available at a place that offered financial aid.
At first, his mom had been texting him to help her with something in her new apartment, like hanging a picture, putting together a bookshelf, or unclogging a drain. Then it had been requests for more money. Twenty dollars here, twenty dollars there. Jack had at first told her no, because he wasn't sure what she'd be spending it on.
When she'd fought him on it, he'd relented. He just didn't have the energy anymore to fight his mom, especially when she would lay on the guilt so skillfully, making him doubt himself and his reasons for denying her.
Can you send me money for groceries? his mom's text read.
Jack stared at it, anger rising within him. There was never any gratitude, never any attempt to pay him back. He only got endless demands, draining just as surely as a vampire drained its victims.
I just gave you money, Jack replied.
When he didn't receive a response, he naively thought that was the end of things. But not even fifteen minutes later, his front door jiggled, his mom's voice echoing in the hallway outside. "Jack, let me in! I want to talk to you!"
Jack considered ignoring her. But it was also freezing outside, and the last time he'd tried that stunt, she'd threatened to call the cops. The last thing Jack wanted was a scene.
He opened the door to find his mom not wearing a coat or jacket, her cheeks flushed. He wondered if she'd walked here without one.
"It's freezing," she complained. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.
Close to sixty, Debra Benson was a slight woman, almost frail-looking. But underneath the frailty was a stubborn streak that no one could match.
Her hair was newly bleached blond, her acrylic nails a startling shade of bright red with crystals glued to the tips. Jack didn't want to know how she'd gotten the money to pay for either.
"Are you gonna let me in?" she said in a whiny voice.
Jack stepped aside.
"You still haven't bought any furniture? This place looks like a serial killer lives here." Debra laughed, but it turned into a hoarse cough quickly enough. She didn't sit down: instead, she began to rummage around in Jack's fridge.
"What are you doing?" Jack asked.
"Making food. I'm starving." Debra pulled out a few random ingredients and began to assemble them on Jack's counter. "Do you even have pots or pans?"
"In the drawer under the oven."
Jack watched his mom as she practically ransacked his kitchen. Debra was hardly a cook; Jack was certain she didn’t even know how to boil water for pasta.
"I don't need you to cook for me," said Jack quietly.
"Yet here I am. Aren't I a good mother? I'm always here for you, Jack." Debra filled a pot with water and then liberally poured olive oil in the water, which made Jack wince. "Which is why I'm heartbroken that I have to beg you for money constantly. A mother should never have to beg. If you needed money, I wouldn't do that to you."
His mom fiddled with the knobs on the stovetop until Jack wanted to scream.
"I'm never going to be good enough for you, am I?" he said, almost to himself.
Debra barely glanced up. "How do you work this stupid thing? God, what a piece of shit this place is. You'd think you could find something better than this."
"Mom." He nearly shouted the words.
Debra finally looked at him.
"I can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this."
"Sorry for touching your stove, I didn't know it was important to you." Her words dripped sarcasm.
"This isn't about the fucking stove." Jack's fists clenched. "Do you know why I left all those years ago?"
Debra's expression shuttered. "I don't want to talk about that."
"Well, I do. I left because of you. I left because you're an addict who refuses to get help and because you drive everyone away. I left because I had no choice. You forced me to leave."
Her eyes filled with tears. For a second, Jack felt guilty, but he knew that his mom was talented at using tears as a weapon.
"How can you speak to your mother like that? I clothed you, fed you, loved you. Who gave you a roof over your head? Who stayed up late, helping you with your homework? Not your dad. Me. I did it all by myself. And this is the thanks I get?"
"You don't get a fucking trophy for doing the bare minimum as a parent!"
The words burst forth, Jack hardly understanding what he was saying. But then, he realized that for almost his entire life, he'd waited for his mom to get sober and then admit that she'd hurt him and Danny. She'd apologize, she'd say she loved him, and then they'd live happily ever after.
He'd twisted himself into knots to please her, to make her happy. If he was the perfect son, maybe she'd get better.