He brought himself back to the present when Brennan spoke. “I think it’s really fine,” she said a little breathlessly. “I thought it would be much worse. This isn’t even as bad as the time my mom backed into one of our cars with the other one.” She took a deep breath. “And that dent popped out within a week. I don’t even think I need to take your insurance information.” She said all of this too quickly, with only the one breath between, as if she had to get it all out before she lost the nerve.
“Are you sure?” Jonas asked, frowning. “If I’ve damaged your car, I should really pay.”
She looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there; as if letting Jonas off was the fastest way to get away from him. It didn’t ease his conscience.
“It’s fine,” Brennan said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “You can’t see the scratches in the paint and the dent is hardly noticeable. Not worth the rise in your insurance premium, is it?”
He shrugged. She was watching him. He tried not to think how he must look to her: messy hair and pajamas, like he’d just rolled out of bed. You did just roll out of bed, Jonas reminded himself.
She turned to leave. “I’d better get to work, though,” she said.
“Wait!” Jonas pulled out his wallet, opening it and taking out a lone twenty-dollar bill that had been there since before The Accident. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had at the moment. “At least take this.” He held it out to Brennan, and when she didn’t make any move to take it, he inwardly groaned in frustration and took a stumbling step forward. He pressed the bill into her hand, admittedly a bit roughly. “For the trouble,” he said. “For the work you missed. For—” For something; he just couldn’t let her leave. It felt too easy.
“I don’t need …” Brennan spluttered weakly. Her glasses were half fogged up again.
“Take it,” he said.
“It’s really fine.”
“Take it!” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice, “I don’t want it!”
She looked startled by his change in tone, and she took the bill. “Okay,” she said, still watching him carefully, brown eyes wide behind her glasses.
“Okay,” he said, letting out a breath. Unhinged. Calm down. “All right. I’m sorry. Again.” He just wanted away—away from here, out of the heat, back in his room.
“I’m really not upset about it,” she said quietly. She looked a little uneasy, and made eye contact even less than she had before (if that was possible). He wondered if she was just shy.
“All right,” he said. “I guess I’d better head off then. I’ve got something I need to drop off for my sister.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just pay a little more attention to the road.” She laughed uncomfortably, as if she had been trying to make a joke or a witty comment.
Jonas stared at her blankly for a moment and then forced an awkward laugh, not because he found it funny, but because he felt awkward on her behalf.
He got back into the Bus and pulled forward enough for Brennan to get past him. She got into her car and pulled out of the parking lot, driving away, on her way to work. He sat there for a few moments, letting the Bus idle. Eventually, he shook his head and put the van into gear.
Taylor looked absolutely shocked to see him when he pulled up to give her the form. Jonas had expected her surprise; why should she expect her brother—who never left the house except for visits with his doctor, his prosthetist, or his rehab therapist—to actually be out and about? She would have made a big deal about it, but Jonas shut her down with a frown and a shake of his head.
So Taylor just thanked him quietly and took the permission slip.
Jonas drove home and locked himself in his room, throwing the fake leg back into the corner of his closet and settling in to play video games, trying to drown out the pain in his missing left foot.
He didn’t leave the room for the rest of the night except to use the bathroom down the hall. His mom brought him a plate of dinner (homemade pizza, his dad’s specialty), but Jonas just muttered, “Not hungry,” from his place in the bed, staring at the wall. His mom set the plate on his desk and walked over to the side of Jonas’s bed. He didn’t turn over. She hesitantly touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “No fever. Are you feeling okay?” Her words were laced with concern. Guilt squeezed his stomach again.
“Yeah, fine,” he said. “I’m just not hungry. Thanks, though. I’ll try to eat some in a little while.”
Elise Nguyen-Avery was quiet. She sighed and gently ruffled his hair (that was how he’d woken up in the hospital after it happened—to his mom ruffling his hair). “Okay,” she said. “I love you. I’m here, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispered. Whispered because he was afraid that if he spoke any louder, some of the churning inside him might escape and he might cry again. He didn’t want to cry right then. You’re angry, not sad, he chided himself.
His mom’s hand stilled, entwined in his hair. She seemed like she might say something, but she just turned and left the room.
Later she peeked in again. “Thank you for taking the permission slip to Taylor.”
Jonas hadn’t told her about his fender bender. He wouldn’t tell her; she’d just feel bad about asking him to go in the first place. She’d think it was her fault, and it wasn’t.
“You’re welcome,” he mumbled. He heard the door shut and turned over so he could see the poster on the closet door, with its sloppy mass of black ink. Irrevocable. Un-take-backable.
4
brennan
“Can I get a pound of the honey roasted turkey, sliced on a two?” Two. Deli speak for sandwich slices.
Brennan flashed a smile at the customer on the other side of the counter. “Sure!” she said, feigning cheerfulness. Her feet were hurting again. She hadn’t sat down since she’d gotten to work. Keep busy, her brain demanded. Distraction is key.
She glanced at the clock as she opened the deli case and grabbed the turkey in question, slapping it down on the slicer and laying a piece of tissue paper down for the meat. She sliced back and forth, the rhythmic hum of the slicer creating background noise.
Finished, she picked up the piece of paper with the turkey and weighed it. One pound on the dot. Brennan always felt lucky if she got the exact measurement she’d been aiming for. She put the turkey in a plastic bag, sealed it, and slapped on a sticker with the price. Thanks for shopping! it said. Then Brennan said the same, out loud. She handed the bag to the customer, who smiled, thanked her, and went on about their shopping business.
Brennan sighed, turning and leaning back against the deli case. She eyed the clock once more. One minute until four, and then she’d go on break. She wasn’t used to working in the evening; she normally worked in the morning and afternoon. She’d picked up a shift for a co-worker who was having back pain, apparently so badly that he couldn’t even walk. Brennan doubted the validity of this excuse, however, since she’d seen said co-worker out at the movies with his girlfriend on one of the days he was supposedly in so much pain that even sitting up was an effort. He had seemed to be sitting up just fine. Snogging his girlfriend just fine.