AN: I don't own the characters or the song "Shotgun Down the Avalanche" by Shawn Colvin. I'm not too thrilled with this chapter, because I don't think I write from Jack's POV very well.

I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche
tumbling and falling down the avalanche
so be quiet tonight, the stars shine bright
on this mountain of new fallen snow
but I will raise up my voice into the void
you have left me nowhere to go

I must have sat there for an hour, maybe two. Waiting. Thinking. Trying not to think. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill her. I couldn't figure out which one of them I wanted to hurt more, but it didn't matter, because of course I wouldn't do it. That's not the kind of person I am, unless I'm provoked or threatened in some major way. Then again, don't you think this would qualify as being provoked?

I guess they did a good job of hiding it. I hadn't even noticed anything out of the ordinary until, at dinner, Fi suddenly turned pale and withdrawn, both of which were very unusual for her. She stopped participating in the conversation, which admittedly wasn't that interesting, I mean, the Thelens aren't exactly fascinating, but I'm her brother and I can tell when something's up.

I volunteered the two of us to clear plates. She helped me mechanically, gathering dishes without complaint. When we got to the kitchen I abruptly set down the plates I had been carrying. "All right, what's up?"

And surprisingly enough she actually told me. Everything.

When she finished, neither of us were quite sure what to do, or what she had witnessed earlier might have meant. Should we barge in on Carey, demand an explanation? Should we report Fi's story to Ned and Irene, who would probably have some things to say about all of this? More importantly, how were we ever going to deal with this? Already I was having trouble thinking of her as Mom. This was a betrayal. I wasn't sure either of us would ever recover enough for things to go back to normal.

Fi decided to stay with Annie for the night and maybe come home in the morning. And then I came here to sit and wait. I tried not to think of it as "lying in wait." I didn't have some evil plan. I just wanted to confront her. I wanted to find out why. Wasn't it bad enough that she should go out and sleep with some random guy who wasn't our father? Did it have to be him? It was sick. I couldn't figure out which one of them I blamed more.

Sitting, not lying, in wait gave me more time than I had intended to really think about the implications. The more I thought about it and the more unsuccessful I was in my attempts not to think about it, the more difficult it was to separate shock from anger, until they fused into some kind of gigantic ball of resentment that was just waiting for the right time to explode. I started thinking about ways I could handle this that didn't involve talking. On some level I knew that it wasn't all about me, that I shouldn't take it so personally, but come on. Think about it. Your mother-that term was really getting harder to use-is sleeping, as in spending the night, as in having sex, with someone up until now you thought was one of your closest friends. Thinking about it was enough to turn my stomach. I didn't know how Fi could have kept it a secret for so long. It must have been so hard for her. I wished she had told me sooner; maybe I could have helped her or been there for her. Already I was staring at the phone, thinking of people I could call, ways to ruin their lives.

By the time she finally got home, I had mostly succeeded in clearing my head, calming down. At least, until I saw her. Then it all came rushing right back, maybe even stronger than before. When she saw me she just stopped. She stood there in the doorway with the front door standing open, a silhouette. I couldn't make out her face, and I was glad. It would only make this easier.

I love you so much and it's so bizarre, a mystery that goes on and on and on
this is the best thing and the very most hard, and we don't get along
after countless appeals we keep spinning our wheels
on this mountain of new fallen snow
so I let go the catch and we are over the edge
you have left me nowhere to go

She didn't say anything. I decided to get the ball rolling.

"She told me the whole story."

"She doesn't know the whole story." On the defensive this early in the argument? She closed and locked the door, stepping tentatively toward me.

"She knows enough."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. It's over now."

"She said you'd say that. But it's not, is it?"

Silence.

"Yeah. I thought so."

"What do you want from me?"

"That's a dangerous question." I couldn't help but laugh a little, mirthlessly. What do I want? I want you to be normal. I want you to tell me that it isn't true, that of course it isn't true, and how could it be, because of course you aren't the kind of person who would do something like this.

"I told you, it's over. Just don't don't push--" She sounded tired now, more than before, but I needed to keep pushing.

"I think I have a right-"

"No, you don't," she says matter-of-factly.

"I think I have a right," I continued, as I had been practicing, "to tell you that you need to choose."

"Fine. I've chosen. I'm here, aren't I?" She came in all the way now, leaning against the wall opposite from me.

I lifted an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"Please don't be obnoxious."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"Stop pressing the answer. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Can I go--" She had never been good at arguing. I remembered the way her fights with Dad used to end; he'd still be talking or yelling and she'd just walk away. Later he'd come back, or she would, and then they'd talk in low tones, so low I couldn't hear, until it was over and everyone was happy again. That wasn't going to happen this time.

"No. We have to talk about this."

"I really don't want to talk about anything right now."

"Well, that's just too fucking bad, isn't it?" I stood up, getting closer to her now. The force of my own anger surprised me, though, and I couldn't come up with any more words for a minute.

I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche
sometimes you make me lose my will to live
and just become a beacon for your soul
but the past is stronger
than my will to forgive
forgive you or myself, I don't know

"Okay," she said calmly, which was actually more infuriating than if she'd gotten angry, yelled back, swore. "What do you want to talk about?"

"How could you do it?"

"You can't possibly understand. God knows I don't. It just happened."

"Things like that don't just happen," I said through gritted teeth.

"Look, frankly, I'm not sure what you have to be so--" It was a weak argument, and she knew it.

"You don't know why--"

"That's not I just don't--"

"You don't think I have a right to be a little bit upset when I find out that--I can't even say it."

"Well, you won't have to think about it anymore." But I will. Don't you get it? Every day. Every second.

She was quiet for so long that I wondered if she'd fallen asleep. I didn't know what I was waiting for.

"Did you even think--did you even think about how we would be affected?"

"I didn't plan on you finding out," she answered quickly, too quickly, and I could tell right away that she regretted it. "That's no. I did think--I don't know."

"I just--"

"No, that's enough." She came closer, close enough to touch, and it seemed like something had finally snapped, though I couldn't tell whether whatever it was had snapped in her or in me. "I don't feel like sitting here and being berated by you right now about my bad choices. I'm more than capable of punishing myself for it, okay? Just-go to bed," she ordered, as if she still had motherly jurisdiction. But she didn't, and I wasn't sure she ever would again.

I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche
tumbling and falling down the avalanche
so be quiet tonight be sure to step lightly
on this mountain of new fallen snow
but I will raise up my voice into the void
you have left me nowhere to go

I was tempted to go like she'd said, to sleep and pretend that none of this happened in the morning, just keep pretending until it became true. But something possessed me, to use Fi's terminology, and I grabbed her by the wrist.

"We need to talk," I told her. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look hurt. She just looked tired, as if the life inside her was simply gone, and she was just a body going through the motions now. She pulled her arm back but I gripped more tightly and she stopped struggling.

"Okay," she said, calmly, infuriatingly, again. "Let's talk. Go ahead," she encouraged tolerantly. I could feel my anger rising. She knew, too. She knew the effect she was having. Suddenly it hit me: this was her method of fighting back. Maybe it had been the way she won her fights against Dad. No raised voices, just these mind tricks. I just stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at her. Finally I let go, stepped back, and she sighed heavily. "Look, it is over. I'm sorry. It was just a mistake."

I couldn't form any coherent sentences, so I stayed quiet. "It might be hard, but we'll get through this, okay?" It was her turn to come closer to me now. "We will. I promise. It's over."

She reached out to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I stepped away. "Don't touch me."

She just nodded, a little sadly, and retreated to her bedroom. I heard the door close and lock. I decided to go to sleep, too, wash the aftertaste of this whole night away. Maybe in the morning she would be right. Maybe we would get through it. Right now, though, I really couldn't see how things could ever be the same.

I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche