Page 53 of Fade into You

“It’s okay, Falstaff,” she calls.

Is it okay, though?I wonder.

The giant white dog greets us with a wet nose and thick wagging tail, so happy it keeps bumping into us as we move through a living room and kitchen, Jessa turning light switches on with her elbow along the way. “Falstaff, down!” she says. Then to me, “Her room’s this way.”

“Okay,” I answer, the only response I’ve given her since we left the club.

Down a short hallway, then Jessa pushes open a door, darkened inside except for a small night-light plugged into the wall. We sloppily lower Mack onto the bed sideways, and I stand there in the doorway, watching as Jessa proceeds to scoop her sister up in her arms like she’s a little kid even though they’re the same size, and repositions her so that her head rests on the pillows. She pulls her sister’s arms out of her leather jacket and folds it in half at the foot of the bed. Methodically, like this isn’t the first time she’s had to do this.

She glances at me as she stands up. I’m not sure what to do, so I just pet the dog, who’s now sitting on my feet. I don’t think I should walk away, but it could be weird that I’m just lurking here. She tugs the blankets from underneath her sister’s body and pulls them up to her chin, smoothing them down before leaning over her and whispering something close to her ear.

I clear the way for her, ushering the dog down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I watch as Jessa closes the door and starts to walk toward me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, if she wants me to get out or stay or say something or be quiet. She comes close to where I’m standing and pats the dog’s head, finally glancing at me, if only for a moment.

“Umm,” she begins, looking down before meeting my eyes again. “I’m sorry—”

“What? No, why? Don’t—don’t be sorry, I—I’msorry,” I stutter.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “But I don’t think I can drive you home. I need to stay here. I can’t leave her alone in the house right now.”

“No, I—I don’t want to go home. I mean, I don’t need to go home. I mean, is it okay if I stay?”

She bites her lip and nods, and when she looks down I can see a bruise forming on her cheekbone in the bright light of the kitchen. I want so badly to touch her face, to pull her into my arms, to do anything to make this—any of this—better for her.

I turn toward the fridge and open the top freezer door, the frosty fog of condensation flowing over me while I search for something to use.

“Are you… hungry or…?” Jessa asks.

“No, I’m trying to find some…” I pull out a bag of frozen corn and a bag of mixed vegetables. I was hoping for peas, but corn will work.

“Um, corn?” she mutters uncertainly.

I replace the bag of mixed vegetables and close the freezer, pull the towel that’s threaded through the handle of the stove, and wrap it around the frozen corn.

“For your face,” I explain.

She touches her cheek and winces a little, as if she’s forgotten what happened. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.

“You should sit,” I tell her, bringing the makeshift ice pack closer to her.

She takes it from my hand before I can touch her, clears her throat. “Um, let’s go to my room.”

“A-all right.”

“I just don’t wanna be down here when my parents get home,” she adds, as if she needs to justify herself.

“Okay.” I nod and smile—try to, anyway—then follow alongbehind her as she leads the way through the kitchen to another door, up a set of stairs. Her room is in the attic—her roomisthe attic. Somehow that feels very appropriate for her. The exposed wood rafters. Liner notes stapled to the walls, posters. Raw, unfinished floors. Rough-and-tumble. So very Jessa. Butter-soft yellow shines through underneath all the clutter. Ironically, also her.

My room—or myhalfof my room—would say exactly zero true things about me.

“It’s a work in progress,” Jessa says, as she sees me taking it all in.

“I like it,” I tell her. “It’s veryyou.”

She plops down on her bed and lets out a long, heavy sigh. I go to sit down next to her, then pick up the frozen corn pack she set down on her bedside table. She shifts away from me like there’s some invisible bubble of space she’s supposed to be maintaining around herself.

“Here,” I tell her. “Come here.” She lets me scoot closer, lets me bring the towel to her cheek. I try to be gentle as I press it to her skin. She closes her eyes. “Does it hurt?”

She swallows hard, whispers, “Not really.” But I can tell she’s lying.