“Thanks,” I reply. He gives me a tight-lipped smile and walks back over to the other side of the counter to help the people standing there. Once again, I’ve let the chance of a conversation, of reaching out, of being a typical college-aged girl, slip through my fingers.
It’s then that I’m reminded of something my therapist told me, “Jillian is dead, but you aren’t. You can’t change the outcome of what already happened. You can only go forward. You have to move on. Let go. The past is the past, but you aren’t going that way, are you?”
Would she want that? Would Jillian want me to let go of the pain? To move on? To forget what happened? She was such a kind person, always smiling, always helping someone. She was my best friend, and because of the domino effect of incidents, she isn’t here today. Knowing Jillian, she would expect better of me, expect me to be happy and smiling, to carry on remembering her, and loving her, but she has no idea how much her memory hurts me. How much it hurts, because I am the reason she isn’t here. Me. It’s all my fault.
“Excuse me,” someone mumbles as they pass by me, and it’s then that I realize I’m still standing in the coffee shop. I need to get out of here. With my coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the now quiet street. Everyone should be in or near their classes now.
Everyone but me. I choose to skip creative writing today, even though it’s one of my favorite classes. It’s too soon to see Jackson’s gorgeous but frightening face after what happened. Sipping the icy coffee through the straw, I’m met with a surge of joy. I don’t once look over my shoulder, knowing that Jackson is in class right now, waiting for me to show my face and not following behind me.
When I reach my apartment, I walk in and toss my stuff onto the small sofa in the living room. The place starts to look more and more like a home every day. I both loathe and enjoy it. Locking the door, I slip off my sneakers and walk over to the couch, settling against the cushions of the sofa.
I have to call my mother back because if I don’t, she’ll call my old therapist, probably the dean of the university, before sending out a swat team or worse, she’ll show up here. Entering the unlock code on my phone, I navigate to my call list and sigh as I hit the green call key.
The phone rings once, almost as if she’s sitting right on top of it, watching for my call to flash across the screen.
“Hi, sweetie! I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I just wanted to check in and see how things are going. It’s been a while since we talked.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s been three days, Mom, and I’m doing good. Going to classes and enjoying living the college life.” The lie comes easily since I’m used to telling people that I’m fine when I’m not. I think about the scabs on my legs I’ve been picking on and the new cuts right below. My mom can never know about any of those.
“I hope you aren’t staying inside your apartment all day and night. Remember, your therapist said it was good for you to get out and socialize, meet new friends.”
“Of course not. I’m really making an effort, Mom. I promise.”
There’s a rattling noise, and I swear when she speaks again, her voice is thicker, filled with emotion. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I was so worried about sending you off to college, but your father and therapist told me you would be fine. You’ve made so much progress. I wish I was there to see it.”
I haven’t, and I really don’t want her here. I don’t want her to find out how big of a lie this all is. How close to the edge I am. She’ll make me come home, make me go back to the therapist every other day, and that’s the last thing I want right now. Sometimes the best thing you can do is leave someone alone and let them navigate the dark waters alone. I don’t want or need anyone else’s help, least of all, my overprotective mother’s.
“I know, but I’ll be home to visit for the holidays, and then you can see. I promise everything is okay. I love and miss you.”
“I miss you too. Remember, you can call us anytime. If you need anything or to just talk. I know your father isn’t that easy to talk to, but he does love you and is proud of the strides you’ve made.” I think that’s a lie my mother tells herself.
As if us moving states away after the accident didn’t hurt my father. He had to quit his job of twenty years and find work elsewhere. That night didn’t just change my life, it changed everyone’s lives. Everyone I cared about was affected by my actions. My father will never admit it, but he’s ashamed to call me his daughter, and I don’t really blame him. I’m ashamed that my heart is still beating most days.
“Yes, I know, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Study group and all, but I can call you in a couple of days. Okay?”
“All right. Please, be safe and take care of yourself, honey. I love you so much,” she says into the phone. I don’t say anything, and instead, hang up. The accident made my mother love me more, while it made my father resent me. All of that is okay, though, because the way they feel about me doesn’t matter. I know I’m a killer. I know I did this to myself.
Taking another sip of coffee, I’m hit with a jolt of joyful pleasure as it reaches my belly. I shouldn’t be able to be happy, even if it’s from something as simple as drink or food. Feeling sick to my stomach, I walk into the kitchen and pour the beverage out, watching as it swirls down the drain.
Throwing the cup away, I walk back out into the living room. I’m feeling antsy, but I know if I start doing something, I’ll feel better. My apartment is already spotless, so I pull my books out and start on some homework.
For about two hours, I work on my paper for economics class. I nibble on my bottom lip as I scribble down sentence after sentence.
The sound of heavy knocking on my door has me damn near falling off the couch. I know without even looking through the peephole who it is. I should let him assume I’m not here, but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment because I unlock the door and pull it open a little bit.
Jackson’s stupidly handsome face greets me, but he isn’t smiling. No, the look he’s giving me promises pain and fear.
“You missed creative writing. I told the professor I would stop by with the assignment.”
Wow. I’m a little shocked. It’s unlike the Jackson that I’ve come to know now, but I give him the benefit of the doubt and open the door a little wider, extending my arm out for him to hand me the paper. My naiveté is almost laughable.
Catching me off guard, he shoves the door open, forcing me to take a step back as his hulking frame fills the doorway. The stoic look on his face gives way to a malicious grin, and I know something bad is going to happen. Fear snakes up my spine and tightens around my throat.
“You… you didn’t come here to give me homework, did you?” I bite my bottom lip to stop it from quivering. Every time I’m alone with Jackson, I am reminded of how different he is.
How little he cares. It’s shocking because the boy I remember would’ve killed anyone who looked at Jillian or me the wrong way. But I guess that boy died when she did.
“How did you know?” He grins, stepping all the way into the apartment, closing the door behind him. We’re completely alone now. Yes, if I screamed loud enough, my neighbors would hear, but I’m not sure they would do anything.