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I’ve thought about Jace a lot since the day we moved in here. I’ve wondered about his parents, about the bruises, about whatever it is that “didn’t happen in my house.” Sometimes I just want to pull him aside and tell him I’m here if he needs me. But then he’ll treat me like I don’t exist, or at the least, like I don’t matter. And while I hope it’s not intentional, it still hurts.
And then there are moments like these… when I just want to reach out and hold him, but… it’s so damn hard to connect with someone who constantly acts as if they don’t want to be seen.
20
Harlow
Jace doesn’t know how to cook, but he sure knows how to wash dishes. It was the first job that was given to him when he started working at the rink almost four years ago. Over time, he moved to the counter, then later, promoted to some form of management.
I know all this because Jace tells me so while he stands by the sink, washing, then drying every dirty dish in sight. It’s strange to hear him talking so openly about himself, but it’s also kind of nice. Like he’s giving me a gift—one I plan to unwrap slowly.
“To be honest, I think Lana gave me the front counter so I could get used to talking to people,” he says, his back turned to me.
“You don’t talk to people a lot?”
He turns to me, still sitting at the kitchen table, and dries his hands. Then he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s just me and my grandpa at home, and he’s not really much of a talker.”
So no parents at all.Noted.
Jonah had mentioned that Jace lived with his grandpa, but he didn’t say it was just the two of them. I want to ask him about the bruises now, and about what happened to his parents, but I don’t want him to shutdown like he did before. Instead, I ask, “Do you think it helped? Moving you to the counter?”
Jace tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if deep in thought. “I guess,” he says finally. “But I was born and raised here, so people know me, or think they do, so the only small talk they attempt is about basketball.”
I get up and start putting the now clean dishes away. “Is that how you and my dad got to talking? Basketball?”
“In my defense, he knocked on my door and wanted to talk. What was I supposed to do?”
“When did that happen?”
“The day after I told you both about the bet.”
I visibly cringe at the thought.
“It wasn’t bad,” he says. “He apologized for your mom for that first night and then gave me his number just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case anything like today happened.”
“Right.” I nod slowly. “So I take it that’s when he told you about Christian and how everything went down?”
“Yes, and noteverything,obviously, but enough.” He pauses a beat. “Trust me, I didn’t go looking for the information.”
“So you already knew about him when we went to the creek that night?”
“Yeah…”
“Then why did you ask if it was true?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Is that why you reacted the way you did today? Because you knew it was him.”
He shakes his head. “It could’ve been any guy with his hands on you, and I would’ve reacted the same way.”
“What—” A breath catches in my throat. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says through a sigh, and I can see the moment the walls slam down around him. Arms crossed, he leans back against the sink, his gaze lowered. “Do you think he’s coming back?”