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“Whatcha doing like this, twatface? What’s up?”
He turns away from me, and flinches when I grab his arm. “You’re back.”
“Yeah, got off work late. Passed by the shop, but it was closed already. Sorry I missed you.”
“No worries, mate.”
But now I am, because he still hasn’t looked at me, and his shoulders are stiff. “Did something happen today? Come on, Jet, talk to me.”
“Everything’s fine.”
The brittle, hollow tone of his voice is what shatters my control. I grab his arm, yank him around and slam him back against the wall.
“Stop hiding from me.”
“Like you’re hiding from me?” His lips are bloodless, his eyes hooded. “Fuck you, J.”
“Dammit, don’t.” I shake him and he flinches, hard. Rattled, I stop. “I’m not you. You know what you want, who you are. You know your place in the world. I’m fucking jealous of you.”
“You’re fucking nuts, that’s what you are.”
“I’m confused as hell,” I admit, my voice rough, my pulse deafening in my ears. “But I’m here for you. Have I ever let you down? Let me in, dammit. I know your family is a mess, but—”
“You know nothing.” But sadness tightens his face. “J…”
Fuck. “Tell me. You said, years ago, that your parents were kinda crazy, that they were never around. Is there more?” I can’t help it, I shake him again. I need answers. “Shit, Jet, I may be confused about a lot of things but not when it comes to caring for you. Talk to me, asshole.”
His mouth twists. “Nothing you can do, J.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Fuck you.” But he presses back into the wall, as if he wants to disappear in it. His hair has lost its spikiness tonight. It tumbles softly on his forehead. It makes him look very young.
And I’m pressed really close to him, holding his arm against the wall, and…
“Tell me about your parents,” I say, and this time I’m not taking no for an answer.
He has to see it in my face, because he deflates.
“I always thought my parents were normal,” he says, his soft voice distracting me from the feel of his body on mine. “Only they weren’t. Mom was distant. Scared to speak or do anything but clean the house and cook, then rock in a chair at the window. And my father… He didn’t drink, or play cards, or even smoke. He went to work, came back. But he had terrible arguments with my mother, and occasionally he’d get violent with her.”
“And you?”
Jet shrugs. “He’d beat me sometimes. Nothing life-threatening. Sure, I was scared of him, but I never landed in the hospital or anything. Mom would send me to hide when they fought.” He licks his lips. “Once he beat her up pretty bad. I was little, but I think… I think I remember that. It scared me shitless.”
Goddammit.
“Life was more or less normal.” He’s shivering, his face very pale, so pale I’m worried he’ll slide down the wall. “Everything was okay, or so I thought. Then, when I was sixteen, my dad… he killed my mom.”
Shock jerks me like a bullet through the chest. “The hell? How? Why?”
Jet shakes his head. “They hadn’t even argued all that loud that day. Picked up a kitchen knife and stabbed her until she died. Who the fuck knows why.”
Dread is seeping into my bones, cold like ice. “And you? Where were you?” His eyes flick to the window, his cheeks ashen, and it’s like a punch in the chest. “You were there. You saw it happen, didn’t you?”
He nods. “I was there, on the stairs.”
The ice is wrapping around my spine, crackling. “And then?” When he doesn’t speak, I dig my fingers harder into his arm. “Jet, did he hurt you?”
