Chapter 42: Bide: Chapter 38

“Fuck.”

I swear as a jagged piece of wire slices my palm open. Bright red blood pools in the centre of my hands, dripping off the edges and splattering on the grass, some of it hitting the toe of my boots. Another curse leaves me as I fish a rag from my back pocket, the wound smarting as I wrap the material around my hand.

Getting injured is a hazard of the job. I’ve gotten a million new cuts, scrapes, bruises, and scars in the last six months, since I made it my mission to fix every single thing wrong with this damn ranch.

The coat of paint the barn needed? Done. The broken fences on the western edge of the property? Fixed. Every bit of old, rusty equipment that Lux insisted could be restored? Basically brand new.

It’s safe to say I’ve been keeping busy. Or as Lux says, annoying the shit out of her. You’d think she’d be happy about how much time I’ve been spending at home; any spare time I have, I make the drive.

It’s easier to pretend here.

The moment I clamber up the porch steps and set foot in the house, Lux’s glare finds me, gaze immediately flicking down to my shoddily wrapped hand. I swear, she’s like a bloodhound, able to sniff out wounds from any distance. “Oh, for the love of God.”

In the blink of an eye, she’s fishing out our well-used first aid kit, huffing as she gestures for me to sit at the table. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

A hand slaps me upside the head when I quietly quip, “You say the nicest things to me.”

“What was it this time?”

“Barbed wire.”

Lux wrinkles her nose. “Nasty.”

Nasty, indeed. “Hurts like a bitch.”

“Good.” My sister tosses the bloody bandage in the trash. “Maybe you’ll learn to be more careful.”

My eye roll becomes a wince when Lux douses my hand in antiseptic without warning, the stinging sensation making my whole hand tingle. “

.”

“It’s deeper than I thought,” Lux tuts, bringing my hand to her face to get a better look, fingers gently probing the edges of the wound. “That’s gonna scar.”

I groan in anticipation; I know what that means.

Lux smirks as she clambers up onto the kitchen counter, rummaging around in the upper cabinets until she pulls out a half-empty jar. My nose crinkles at the sight of it, as if I can already smell the contents; the most godawful, supposedly medicinal blend of garlic,honey and God knows what else. It smells like shit, it burns like hell, and if Lux makes you choke down a teaspoon of it dissolved in water disguised as some kind of fucked up tea? Good fucking luck.

Our mom swore by the stuff. It was one of the few parental things she ever did, slapping that shit on every bruise or skinned knee in sight. Apparently, the habit stuck because now Lux keeps a jar stored away for the same reasons. Last summer, it was full and relatively untouched. The big chunk of it now missing is my fault, and my fault only.

We both cough as Lux twists open the jar and the potent smell attacks our eyes. I contemplate fleeing before the shit can take root in my hair and pores but Lux wraps an iron grip around my wrist. Dumping a scoop on my palm, she disregards my whines of protest, spreading it around until the cut is completely covered before wrapping clean gauze around my hand.

Sympathy? None to be found.

A look that screams ‘that’s what you get for being a reckless dumbass?’ Plentiful.

Letting the stuff do its thing, Lux moves to the sink, slathering her garlicky hands in soap and scrubbing hard enough to rub her skin right off. “You could’ve cut your finger off.”

“You would’ve sewn it back on.”

The joke earns me a dirty look. “You have to be more careful.”

“Yes, mom.”

A wet hand hits me upside the head, again. “I’m serious, Jackson. There’s enough shit going on around here. I don’t need a maimed brother to add to the list.”

“It’s sweet how much you care,” I coo, rising to tug on my little sister’s braid with my good hand. “But I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

A snort escapes her as she swats my hand away. Drying her hands, she lands against the counter, still sporting that disapproving expression as she cocks her head. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be.” At her knowing look of disbelief, I sigh. “It’s been six months, Lux. I’m fine.”

She snorts again. “Fine. Yeah. That’s what you are.”

“Hey, you got broken up with too. You don’t see me smothering you.”

“You don’t see me practically killing myself fixing this place,” she shoots back. Shifting in place, she waves a dismissive hand in the air. “And Mark didn’t break up with me. It was mutual.”

Mutual, my ass.

Mutual breakups don’t lead to you crying so hard, you vomit. I heard her, every day straight for a damn week when she locked herself in her room and wouldn’t talk to anyone. That doesn’t exactly scream to me.

It might be hard to tell, but it’s been a rough few months for the Jackson family. Two pretty fucking colossal breakups that left the eldest siblings out of commission. The twins started college and moved into dorms which sent Lux into even more of a tailspin. Lottie is still a nightmare, or at least according to Grace she is. Eliza hates school and she won’t tell either of us why.

But we’ve managed. We pushed on. We got over it, kind of.

I just keep reminding myself that I’m almost home free. One semester left and I’ll have graduated. A few months until I can get the hell out of Sun Valley. Until I can come home, something I never thought I’d wish for when I left.

“Have you talked to her?”

Lux doesn’t even mention her name but I still tense, still feel that tug in my chest. “No.”

Lux huffs. “Have you tried?”

I shake my head.

“Have you even seen the girl?”

I shake my head again. Not quite a lie but not quite the truth.

In the beginning, I steered clear. She made it obvious she didn’t want to see me—or hear from me or talk to me or be around me—so I obliged. I went two, maybe three, long fucking months without seeing her once.

But it’s hard to avoid someone completely. Especially when you’re used to constantly seeking them out. I started getting glimpses of her again, her disappearing around corners, spotting her across campus. Not enough yet too much.

She dyed her hair. A light brown threaded with highlights that catch in the sun. She looks healthy. She looks happy, which fucking kills me as much as it pleases me. She’s doing better than I was, than I am, and that’s all that should matter to me but the selfish little asshole nagging at the back of my mind hates it. Wishes she was as much of a mess as me. Wishes she felt as fucking lost as I did, as I do.

But apparently not.

And I’m fine with it, really. If she’s okay, I’m okay.

Really.

I hate this house.

I remember last year when I loved it. When it seemed light years ahead of our previous house because the floors weren’t rotten and the walls didn’t have mold.

If I’d known what would happen, I never would’ve resigned the lease.

All these months later and there are still little bits of her everywhere.

I still find herbal tea hidden in the kitchen cupboards. Blonde hair everywhere, stuck to my clothes, little strands in my hairbrush. Some of her clothes and a toothbrush tucked in one of my bottom drawers that she either doesn’t remember leaving here or doesn’t care enough to get.

But some things’s continued presence is my fault. The framed drawing on my desk that I couldn’t bring myself to trash. I took down most of my drawings of her because keeping them up felt creepy, but a pair of sketched blue eyes still lurk. That godawful Bob Ross mug contains an array of paintbrushes, and the handmade one from Isla still holds my morning coffee.

Yeah, I’m a weak man.

I’m contemplating just how fucking weak I am, alternating between staring at that fucking mug and the half-done drawing on my lap that has unconsciously started to bare a resemblance to her, when my bedroom door flies open and three bodies pile into my room.

“Get up,” Nick demands, snatching my sketchbook from my hands and tossing it aside. Ben goes straight to my chest of drawers and yanks them open so he can rifle through my clothes. Cass dramatically shoves the shit piled up on my desk aside and sets down a bottle of alcohol and four shot glasses.

Fucking hell, it’s like they rehearsed this.

“What is this?” I regret asking the question before it’s even fully out of my mouth. My friends collect at the foot of my bed, peering down at me, and suddenly I feel like a kid in trouble. Is this what Ben feels like when we gang up on him?

“This is an intervention,” Cass states, folding his arms over his chest and hitting me with a hard look.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

First Lux, now the guys. I can’t catch a fucking break this week.

“Guys…”

“No.” Nick holds up a hand to stop whatever excuse I’m struggling to come up with. “We’re going out.”

“I really don’t-”

“Don’t want to let your best friends down by being a buzzkill?” Ben finishes for me with not quite what I was going to say. He presses a hand to his chest, his lips jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Aw, Jackie. I’m so glad we’re on the same page.”

Little shit.

I don’t notice Cass pouring shots until he’s holding one out to me, the potent smell of straight vodka ticking my nose. “We’ve let you mope, buddy.”

“For six long fucking months,” Nick mumbles under his breath, earning thumps and disapproving glares from the other two. “What? He’s been living his little vow of silence and celibacy for too long. It’s not healthy.”

“Yeah, because you wouldn’t be any less pathetic if Amelia broke up with your sorry ass.” Cass winces the moment the words leave his mouth, shooting me an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

I just roll my eyes.

Silent, maybe a little.

Pathetic, probably.

Celibate, not exactly. It’s just been a dry spell, with a brief interlude somewhere around my birthday, I think. I thought it would help but it just left me feeling nauseous and empty with my sheets stinking of an unfamiliar perfume and my favorite shirt stained with an awful shade of orange lipstick.

It’s just… I haven’t changed. One heartbreak didn’t suddenly arouse an urge for meaningless hookups. I still want a bit of substance or stability or fucking feelings or whatever.

Even if it is kind of terrifying that, out of everyone, the romantic status I envy the most is Nick’s.

How times fucking change.

With a sigh, the already-on-the-route-to-engagement man sits down on the edge of my bed. “I have to tell you something.”

“Don’t,” Ben butts in only to be ignored.

“She’s seeing someone Jackson.”

Oh, how I wish he wasn’t close enough for mishearing him to be an option. “What?”

“We she’s seeing someone,” Cass corrects, shooting Nick a scowl. “I was dropping Amelia off at Luna’s new place a couple of months ago. Some guy was leaving her apartment.”

That means nothing. She has a roommate.

As if sensing my thoughts, Cass continues, “Amelia said Pen’s got a boyfriend. It wasn’t him.”

Okay.

It still doesn’t mean anything. He could be anyone. A friend. A delivery man. I don’t know, a fucking electrician.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Ben offers me a soft, sad smile that has me bracing for more. “Cass and I drove past that new office she’s working at a couple of weeks ago. She was with the same guy.”

Something about the way he says it, the way he averts his gaze, tells me that is code for something worse.

.

Fine.

She’s seeing someone.

That’s okay. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. Maybe I was hoping for later but whatever. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care. I’m not allowed to care.

Fuck it.

Rolling back my shoulders, I snatch the shot Cass is still holding out of his hand. Without second-guessing it, I knock back the foul-tasting liquid. Shoving the empty glass back towards Cass, I get to my feet, slapping my hands against my thighs. “First round’s on me.”