***
Just when he was slipping back into the shadows as his relationship with Regan became yesterday’s news, the horrific death of his father thrust him into the limelight once more. Not even a three-week absence from school could save him. Once he returned—something he was loathe to do—everyone turned their attention on him—the killer. Many students were visibly scared of him. He should have reveled in their fear.
He didn’t.
“You did nothing wrong,” Regan assured him as they walked the halls.
Students parted like the Red Sea, flattening themselves against the lockers and turning their faces, afraid to look at him. Afraid he would take a baseball bat to them if they made eye contact.
He said nothing, and when she tried to lace her fingers with his, he pulled away.
He avoided Regan as much as possible in the three weeks following the incident. There was the investigation, which didn’t take long because the case was open and shut. Clear self-defense. Even now, Jeremy sported a plethora of stitches, fading bruises, and scratch marks from the altercation—another reason he refrained from going back to school earlier. He looked like a victim, and that made him vulnerable.
Regan’s work schedule helped. It kept her at a distance, and he let most of her calls go to voicemail. He didn’t want to talk through his feelings about his dad, and he knew that’s what she wanted. Girls think communicating feelings promotes healing. They have no idea how a man’s mind works. He didn’t need words. He needed alone time. He needed the slopes, his snowboard, and Bad Religion.
Of course, Roy and Regan’s parents didn’t understand this either. Roy hovered all over him, knocking on the apartment door every five minutes to check in. He didn’t want Jeremy to live there anymore. He thought it would mess with his head. Regan’s mom just wanted to keep stuffing him full of home-cooked meals—trap him in a perpetual food daze so he wouldn’t think about his dad. He became her surrogate son whether he liked it or not.
He was suffocating under everyone’s sympathy.
“I’m a patient girl,” he heard Regan say, like she was testing him.
He bristled. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just don’t wanna hold hands.”
She sighed. “I understand.”
“Look at the way these people are staring at me,” he said. “Like I’m the bad guy.” He snorted and shook his head.
“Who cares what they think?”
“I mean, my dad attacks me. Almost kills me. I defend myself, and I’m in the wrong?”
“You’re not in the wrong, Jer. They’re just scared. We don’t exactly have a lot of students in this school who’ve taken someone’s life. You’re a . . . novelty.”
They turned the corner.
“Did you really just call me that?” he asked.
“I don’t mean it to sound flippant. But it’s true.”
“You make me sound like a sideshow freak,” he replied, automatically touching his scar.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Stop,” she said softly.
“Stop what?” he snapped.
“Stop being mean to me,” she replied. “I know you’re angry and hurt. I know you don’t wanna talk about it. I know you don’t wanna be here. I know you don’t wanna be around me.”
She paused.
Jeremy looked away, afraid he would agree with her and make her cry.
“I’ll . . . I’ll just give you some space,” Regan said.
He nodded.
The guilt was insurmountable. He wasn’t looking for space. He just felt like he was with the wrong person right now. He loved Regan, and he knew she was trying to help him, but she wasn’t the person who could do it right. She was too much of a girl about it. He needed someone else—someone who wouldn’t ask him to share his feelings. He needed someone who would poke fun at him and give him a better perspective on the entire situation.
He searched for that someone all morning.
“Found you,” he said at lunchtime, sitting in a chair next to her.
The room was dark with only minimal light pouring through the window blinds.
“Never thought to hide out in the band room,” Jeremy went on. “Good choice.”
“They never lock that back door,” Hannah explained. “Always the front one but never the back.”
She opened her lunch bag and handed him a pack of chips. He took them automatically, like it was customary.
“Thanks,” he said, shoving a cheesy Dorito in his mouth.
She opened her own bag of Doritos and ate.
“So, you killed your dad,” she said nonchalantly.
Jeremy nodded.
“Heard it on the news. Like a trillion times.”
He said nothing.
“Too bad you’re nineteen. At least if you were a minor, they wouldn’t have flashed your name all over the screen.”
He snorted. Well, twenty now . . .
“Why’s it public knowledge anyway?” Hannah went on. “It’s nobody’s damn business what goes on in someone’s private home.”
Jeremy smiled.
“Your dad almost kill you?”
“Almost.”
“Did he have a weapon? There were conflicting reports about a gun being involved.”
“No, just his fists.”
Hannah fell silent for a moment.
“So, now your life is fucked from here on out? Traumatic event equals angry kid equals stolen property equals carjacking equals prison time?”
Jeremy snickered.
“Come on,” Hannah teased. “You know you wanna be a cliché.”
He was so happy he found her. She was exactly who he needed to talk to.
“I thought about it,” Jeremy said.
“And what would you do first?”
“Oh, start small. Petty theft. Maybe traffic pot for a while before I feel it’s safe to move up to the big leagues.”
“Naturally you’ll become addicted to drugs,” Hannah pointed out.
“Naturally.”
“And live in squalor in a whorehouse.”
“No other way.”
“And go on hooker binges because you have no self-worth,” she continued.
“None.”
“No violent crimes, though,” Hannah said. “Doesn’t fit your profile.”