I GET HOME around three a.m., bone tired despite a quick, uncomfortable nap sitting up in a hospital chair that afternoon. The house is dark, but thankfully warmer than when I left it. I walk down the hall, peeking into Aja’s dark room, his dark figure a restful mound on the bed. I continue to my room, the old floorboards creaking beneath my feet. I unbutton the top of my shirt as I go. A sour tang wafts up, reminding me I haven’t showered in nearly forty-eight hours, but I’m too exhausted to deal with that now.
I come to the foot of my bed and stand there. Jubilee, like Aja, is a waifish shapeless heap under the sheets, but I feel pulled toward her, like she’s on the winning side in a game of tug-of-war. I would give anything to surrender. To crawl in bed beside her, feel the length of her body against mine, the heat of her skin, the drumming of her heart. I wonder if she thinks about it, too.
And then suddenly, I’m overcome with the desire to find out. To know if I’m alone in my longing, a lighthouse signaling to an empty sea.
“Jubilee,” I breathe. My veins thrum as I wait for her response. She doesn’t stir. I try one more time.
“Jubilee.” I peer at her in the dark and can just make out her face, the outline of her upside-down pout against my pillow. I walk to the opposite side of the king-size bed and hesitate. In theory, two people can sleep in this bed and never find each other during the night. I should know—Stephanie and I successfully avoided each other for months in a bed this size.
But the thought of Jubilee just an arm’s length away—the waves of her hair beckoning me like the ocean to the shore—proves too tempting to bear. I pick up the extra pillow, reach for a blanket from the top of the open closet, and stretch out on the carpet below her feet, listening to her breathe and waiting for sleep to overtake me. But it doesn’t come for a long, long time.
THE NEXT MORNING, I get up before the house is awake and run to the corner market for coffee and bagels. When I get back, Jubilee is in the kitchen filling a glass at the sink.
“Morning,” I say, setting the sack on the counter. She’s wearing one of my white undershirts and a pair of track pants. Even with the waistband folded over three or four times they still hang on her hips.
“Morning,” she replies, and then gulps the water.
“Um, I’ve got to go back to the hospital this morning. Help Ellie get checked out and settled at home. And then we can leave. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” she says, but the word has a chill. It’s a tone I haven’t heard from her before and it gives me pause. “Can I use your washing machine?” she asks.
“Of course. Anything you need. Oh, and I bought bagels.” I pat the bag for emphasis. “Will you let Aja know?”
“Yep,” she says, putting her glass under the faucet again.
I turn to go, not knowing what to say next. After all, I just dragged this woman across many state lines to my house in New Hampshire with no warning in the middle of the night—I’d probably be a little miffed, too.
WITH A STIFF hug and the promise that I’ll return every other weekend before I move for good in February, I leave Ellie at Stephanie’s house.
“Answer my texts,” I say, fixing her with my best dad look.
“Only if you stop sending stupid ones.”
“Not much chance of that.”
She offers a half smile, and though I want to shout, No more drugs! No more Darcy! No more leaving the house! I decide it’s best to leave on a high note. Besides, Stephanie surprisingly agreed with me that Ellie should be grounded for a month, so at least I can rest in the knowledge that she won’t be leaving home for anything but school for the foreseeable future.
On the way back to New Jersey, Aja taps at his video game, while I let the last few days sink in, along with a bone-weary exhaustion. It’s not until we’re halfway through the drive that I realize Jubilee isn’t speaking. Hasn’t since I picked them up at the house and loaded everyone into the car.
“Did you call in to the library?” I ask, realizing that it’s probably open today—the day after New Year’s—and that she’s missing work.
“Yeah. Shayna’s covering for me,” she says, and turns to watch the passing trees and snow-covered hills out the passenger window.
“Hey, I’m really sorry again, about bringing you into all this. But I’m glad—I’m glad you were here.” I clear my throat.
“It’s fine,” she says, cutting me off. “It was no big deal.”
“Yeah, but . . .” I search for words, the right ones, but they don’t come.
“Really. It’s fine,” she repeats with finality.
And I wonder if I’ve been misreading her this entire time. The glances, the flushed cheeks, the palpable tension in the air between us. Did I make it all up? Have I been so blinded by my own attraction that I imagined Jubilee’s? And then I remember Ellie’s words in the hospital, stuck in my mind like a pebble in a shoe: “emotionally clueless.” But, being in her room, touching her cheek with my gloved hand, her collarbone, her perfectly round breast—I know, I know she felt it, too.
But then what? We’ve never talked about it. About any of those moments, except for that night in the library when she referenced some abstract treatment that she may or may not get. And I think of what Connie said—how I always want what I can’t have. And maybe I need to face the reality of this situation—I want Jubilee and I can’t have her. And maybe Jubilee’s just a step ahead of me and has already figured that out.
When we finally get back to Lincoln, I offer to swing by a drugstore, get her some soup or medicine—it seems like her cold is better, but I feel guilty for not even asking. “I just want to get home,” she says.
I nod. “It’s just that I promised you ramen,” I say, hoping for a smile. “I don’t like to go back on my promises.”
She doesn’t respond. The rest of the ride we pass in silence.
I pull into her driveway and put the gearshift in park. She reaches for the door handle and before I know what I’m doing, I touch her coat sleeve. She jerks her arm like my hand is the mouth of a king cobra.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her eyes on me for the first time since we left New Hampshire.
“Nothing. I don’t— I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to rein in the desperation encircling me like a vine. I exhale. “See you tomorrow?”
“No,” she says.
“What?” My brow rises, then drops, as directionless and confused as I feel.
“I don’t need a ride anymore.”
“Sure you do. It’s still co—”
“I’m not some damsel in distress that you have to save!” she says, and it’s like all air suddenly leaves the car in a whoosh. “I don’t need you to get me soup, I don’t need you to fix my car, I don’t need you to drive me home! I was fine before you came and I’ll be fine now.”
I sit there, my body suspended in time, too stunned to move, to respond.
She looks down at her gloved hands in her lap and when she speaks again her voice is small. “You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”
And then, the door opens, and just like that, she’s gone.
I remain still, unaware of how much time is passing, until I hear Aja’s voice from the backseat. “Eric?”
I glance in the rearview mirror, meeting his eyes, which are as round and wide as mine.
“Can I still go to the library?” he asks, his voice trembly.
“I don’t know, bud,” I say, putting the car in reverse and slowly backing out of Jubilee’s driveway. “I don’t think so.”
twenty-five
JUBILEE