Page 79 of The Same Backward as Forward

“Remains to be seen.”

“I might be a lost cause,” I tell him, “but I wouldn’t hurt her.”

Jackson turns his attention to the barrel of the shotgun. “Made her flinch.”

He isn’t wrong, and we both know that Hannah is not a person given to flinching.

“You done?” Jackson asks, his gaze on the gun.

“Making her flinch?” The words get caught in my too-dry throat.

Jackson sets the shotgun down, then turns and lets his eyes settle on mine. “Are you done,” he says, the pace of his words deliberate and slow, “or am I getting you more?”

More oxy.That’s what he’s offering. And there is a part of me that wantsmore, more, more, more, more. That needs it.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” I say, well aware that’s not a yes—but it’s not a no, either. “I think they might be memories.”

“That so?” Jackson resumes cleaning his gun. Minutes pass. He reassembles the gun, sets it on the table, and leans back. “If you have to piss,” he tells me, “you’re on your own.”

I take that to mean that I am not forgiven for making Hannah flinch.

Eventually, Idohave to piss, and the bathroom might as well be a mile away for all the good my body will do at getting me there, but Jackson was clear enough, and I’m a stubborn son ofa bitch, too. I grit my teeth as I sit up. I manage to stand but can only take a half-step at best.

I’m not going to make it.I don’t have it in me to ask for forgiveness or beg for help. Instead, I force myself to remember Hannah flinching.Idid that.Me.So I swallow my pride, and I sink to my knees, and I half-crawl, half-pull myself toward the bathroom.

When I make it, I realize that there’s no way I’m getting myself up—and then Jackson is there. He bends to help me, and I shake the bastard off. For the longest time, we’re caught in a standoff, the fisherman on his feet and me on the floor.

A new rock bottom.

Finally, I look up at Jackson, and I tell him what he needs to hear. WhatIneed to say. “If I ask you to bring memore—don’t.”

I tell myself that I’m not doing this for Hannah. I have no right to make her my reason for anything. I know that. But I also know that I cannot take the risk of ever making her flinch from me again.

Jackson hooks his hands under my armpits and hauls me up, and this time, I don’t fight it. “Ask me,” he says quietly, “why I bury my whiskey.”

I don’t. I don’t have to.

Jackson has the decency to give me some privacy to piss, then he helps me back to the mattress. Once I’m settled, he meets my eyes. “What do you remember?”

He’s referring to what I said earlier—about my dreams.

“Fire and drowning.” Tossing off the words lets me pretend like they don’t matter. “Some kind of underground chamber, torch and all. Bones. A knife in my hand. Real cheery stuff.”

My bearded companion doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “That’s not all.”

He isn’t wrong. I think about a stone room and a voice tellingme that I havedone thisto myself. “Detox.” I breathe through that word as surely as the pain. “I remember detox.”

Jackson gets me back on the mattress. “Only way out,” he grunts, “is through.”

The voice of experience.I continue refraining from asking him why he buries his whiskey. “How old was he?” I say instead, my tone gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “Your son?”

I hope he knows: This isn’t me lashing out.

“Three days.” Jackson expels a heavy breath. “Eden and I only got three days with him.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “We were young. She didn’t have much use for me after that.”

“Eden.” I know it’s none of my business, but a piece of the puzzle is right there. “Was she related to Hannah?” That might explain how protective he is of her.Especially if…My mind churns. “Her mother?” I guess.

He doesn’t deny it, and that’s answer enough.