Page 37
“That’s how you got your scars?” Jackson finally asks.
When she glances up, she is surprised to see his eyes are fixed on the jagged line across her left palm. It largely went unnoticed compared to the thick mark the car’s dashboard left etched on her face.
She squeezes her fist shut, swallowing hard. “I’ve caused a lot of pain,” she whispers. “And I’m pretty sure my whole family might secretly hate me for it.” A mix of a laugh and a sob chokes free from her, sounding as ugly to her ears as she feels. She forces herself to look him in the eye. “So yeah. I do think it’s my fault this is happening to us,” she says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me now too.”
For a few seconds, she anticipates that the Mimic’s knocking will start up again, that the monster will somehow hear her confession and be ready to drag her out into the night before sinking its claws deep inside her chest to pop her heart with one swift, irrevocable squeeze as her blood seeps down into the dirt and roots of the mountain.
The sheen of sadness plaguing Jackson’s eyes only manages to twist the pressure in her chest further. Don’t you dare pity me, she silently begs, knowing the feeling is wasted on her. She is so very tired of all the pity.
Instead of saying anything, Jackson tugs his arms out from his flannel one by one and lets the fabric drop to the linoleum floor.
“What are you doing?” she says, freezing as he pulls up the sleeve of his undershirt.
Amidst the muscle of his biceps rests a slanted line of discoloration about two inches long that is puckered and imperfect against the rest of the smooth skin.
“Earlier tonight, when you and I were first waiting in the checkout line, I told you all my family comes out here every year for Thanksgiving,” he begins, glancing sideways from his arm. “Well, they do. But the truth is, this is the first time I’ve been back here in years.”
Winnie settles close on his other side, whimpering again as she looks up at him with dark, worried eyes. He straightens the dog’s collar, and for a moment the light clink of the silver tags is all that fills up the aisle.
“My cousins and I used to go out to this spot on the lake near my grandparents’ house,” he says while scratching beneath Winnie’s chin. “There was this cliff that overlooked the water about ten feet high at the lowest level and closer to thirty feet at the very top. It was perfect for jumping off.”
His jaw clenches, and Jane notices the heavier rise and fall of his chest. “There was this local kid that used to follow us around sometimes. We barely knew him, but he liked to watch us do the jumps.”
When Jackson’s breath shudders, Winnie rests her head upon his lap. “Well, one day we all went out to the cliff at the lake. My cousins and I were being real show-offs, doing flips and pushing each other. We weren’t paying any attention to the kid—to Liam—not even when he went up to the highest level and was shouting at us to watch him.”
The dread in Jane’s gut fans outward in a hungry iciness, freezing her as she watches it all replay in Jackson’s eyes with a frigid clarity. She shakes her head. “Jackson, you don’t have to…”
He pauses for a moment, focusing only on sliding his hand down Winnie’s head in a slow, rhythmic motion, as though the dog might be the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. “Liam was too small,” he finally says. “He didn’t jump out far enough to clear all the rock.”
Jane’s ears flinch as she imagines the sound. She fights to keep the horror off her face, instead wringing her hands together as another heavy breath shudders through him.
“I went into the water after him, but it was already too late. I couldn’t help him,” Jackson says, staring forward blankly. “God, I wish more than anything I could have helped him.”
He glances down at the scar on his biceps once more and brushes his thumb across it. “What I’m trying to say is, I understand it—that fear that your family will resent you for something you could have handled differently. I let it control me for a long time, but…”
“But what?” says Jane.
Jackson meets her gaze. “But they still invite me back here every year,” he answers, then tugs down the sleeve of his shirt so only a small sliver of scar remains visible. “That kind of love doesn’t just go away, you know? And I guess I just got tired of hiding.”
Winnie shifts her head in his lap then, whining lightly now that he’s stopped petting her. Jackson shakes his head again as a hollow laugh escapes him. “I sure picked a great time to come back, huh?”
Jane frowns, eyeing where he drops his hands to rest on his lap. It would be easy to reach for one, to squeeze it in a quick gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, instead picking at her nails.
He shrugs once, and she knows the weight of everything he has just admitted has slipped firmly back into place atop his shoulders. “We all have something we’d rather keep under the surface, Jane,” he says, glancing down at the scar on her palm. “Unfortunately for you and me, we have to live with it where everyone can see.”
As she silently looks over his exhausted features, the clarity is sudden—that his looks are not ones of pity, but rather ones of recognition, of understanding.
Of guilt.
After a few seconds, his eyes meet hers; again, she can see exactly where the night has stolen nearly all the softness from them, leaving him looking more like a stranger than the boy she first met over by the marshmallows. “So,” he says, leaning a bit closer, “do you still think you’re the one the Mimic wants?”
Jane closes her hand into a fist so that the scar on her palm gets swallowed up. “What happened with Liam doesn’t mean it’s after your heart, Jackson.”
“Then why do you think it’s after yours?” he asks, and the slight urgency that’s entered his voice surprises her. Winnie raises her head from his lap then with a small whimper. “Honestly, Jane,” he says, shaking his head. “Why your heart? Just tell me.”
Jane’s body locks up as she catches the intensity now burning in his eyes, and with it burns away any further desire she has to discuss this. She darts her eyes away, clearing her throat as she picks up his discarded flannel from the floor. “I don’t know,” she mutters while sinking her fingers into the shirt’s soft, well-worn fabric.
She can see it laid out between them like a phantom thread, the place where he has tried to bridge a connection between their pain. But she knows his regret and guilt are nothing like hers. She knows that while they might wear similar armor along the skin, the blood hidden beneath hers is mingled with something far more poisoned—something that is steadily rotting the flesh and bone, so that she wonders how much longer she’ll be able to call herself human at all.
