AN: I'm so sorry for the long delay, it's been a hectic week at work so I've been tired and have been sleeping in instead of writing. Also, these past couple of days I've chosen to be creative in other ways other than writing because I had the most horrible writer's block, but I think I've got it figured out now. Sorry, for the boring chapters that don't really seem to be getting anywhere… There'll be some excitement coming up, I promise!
Special thanks to KittyDoggyLover, Keridwen89, Daynaaa, and Orlando Crazy for commenting! You know how I love 'em!
Carry on This Way
It seemed to Jordan, that her words had a double meaning. At first she did not quite know what she meant with the phrase to her father, "I know what you mean," but the meaning became clearer in the following days. She was finding it harder to manage by herself; the more she tried to be independent the more difficult menial tasks became. On the other hand, perhaps she was not finding it harder, only the same as she had when she was alone, but without the spark to want to do it independently. To make matters worse, Max was adamant on helping her with everything.
"Dad, I'm fine, just, please, give me my space," she pleaded strictly.
"Jordan, I'm only here to help you. You can't do this by yourself," he said.
"Yes I can," with her right hand, she lifted the can opener to the metal container and squeezed the handle together, pressing the sharp metal into the can. She switched hands but, with her cast, found it difficult to maintain the pressure required to keep the mechanism running.
Angrily, she forced it into her father's hand.
He simply turned the gear and handed her the soup, still canned. Resentfully, she slopped it into a pot, added the proportional amount of water and began stirring. She did not say a word of thanks to Max. Her temper was as hot as the element on which she heated her soup.
"Jordan, there's no shame in asking for a little bit of help," Max said after a long while.
Without looking up from the morning paper, un-answering, she slurped her soup cynically, trying to escape from conversation. A long silence followed, the only sound from the table was that of her spoon ringing against the side of the stoneware bowl and the gentle flap of pages as she turned them.
"Is this a problem? You staying here does that bother you?" He persisted.
Jordan sighed. It seemed every corner she turned led to another argument. She chose her words carefully, not wanting to offend her father who, though she had had about enough of already, she still cared for.
"There is no problem with me staying here. Remember, when I came back from L.A., I stayed here. I have nothing against you or this house; it's me. It always has been."
"That's very typical of you to say,"
"Typical? What do you mean?"
"You sound like you're breaking up with a guy. The whole, 'it's not you, it's me,' analogy, is a little dry now. Let's have a real, adult conversation."
Jordan, slightly taken aback that he would see through her so clearly, was reluctant to continue the conversation at all. She preferred to keep to herself on such matters, but it seemed that she was backed into a corner, her father holding the pitchfork of truth.
"This is a real, adult conversation. We're talking aren't we? Not shouting, no signs of a fist fight, or mud balls."
"You know what I mean," he said exasperatedly, taking a seat at the table beside her, "tell me how you feel about living here with me; you say that you have nothing against me or this house, yet you're so unhappy."
"Wow, Stiles moment right there," Jordan scoffed. Never had her father acted so uncharacteristically. "Do you want me to go lie down on your couch and reveal my innermost thoughts and feelings?"
Max shook his head, "You're unbelievable."
"No, you see, you're unbelievable. When did you start caring so much?" She asked, her voice dampened by disdain. She drank the last of her soup and positioned her crutches under her arms, balancing the bowl in nimble fingers; she brought it to the sink. She wandered to another part of the house, hoping her father would not follow.
To her disappointment, he pursued the conversation, "I've always cared about you, you're my daughter. The question is when did you stop caring about me?"
His question hit her hard; she thought for a moment before answering, "I never stopped caring about you either. Trust, maybe." Her last words had an edge to them, which made Max feel ashamed.
"We've been through this. I've done things—"
"And kept secrets—"
"That I wish I could do over; but I did it all to protect you."
"Well, if protection is what this is all about then it was in vain, I don't need protection. I can protect myself; I can take care of myself."
"Damn it, Jordan, when are you going to admit that you need help?"
"I did, when I moved in here with you!" She raised her voice slightly. "Or are you talking in the mental sense?"
"No, I'm not talking in the mental sense," he said softly. He closed his eyes, organizing his thoughts. He felt like going into another room, ending their eternal battle by just giving her what she demanded, but he remembered Woody's fearful words about her accidental death and the heart pumping fear he had personally felt when he went into her silent apartment. Taking a deep breath he continued, "Tell me how you feel about living here."
"You brought me here, you wanted to help me. I wanted to stay at home, but I was pretty much dragged here."
"You came of your own free will," he reminded her.
"Only to appease you and Garret and Woody; I was tired of people doing things in my house, taking out the trash and carrying my groceries up the stairs. I feel like a grown up child here. I can't do anything or get out of the house without an adult present to help me. I feel trapped."
She was visibly shaking. She leaned her crutches against the couch and one threatened to fall, in a fury she tossed it to the ground and fell into the sofa. Her lung began to ache.
"Jordan, the doctors told you not to over exert yourself."
"How do they know what over exertion to me is?"
Max eyed her warily; there was a fire in her eyes, like the fire of a fierce grounding all those years ago. The fire that was present after her mother had been murdered, the flames that burned when she was passionate about something. He felt that it was time he left her alone. He had done enough already.
--- --- ---
She felt like a prisoner within herself. 'Only three more weeks,' she kept reminding herself, with every change of the channel, every meal she ate, and every person that came to take pity upon her.
"God, how many times a day is CSI on?" she asked herself.
"Twelve point three times actually," said a familiar voice.
Jordan looked up; Woody was standing in the threshold to the kitchen. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the TV, "Rhetorical question."
Woody grinned sheepishly. Her father may have backed off since last week but Woody had been just as stubborn and apologetic.
"Come to spread more sympathy? Fluff up my pillows maybe?" She asked cynically.
Woody sighed, coming into the room, "No, but I brought some pizza."
Jordan's mouth watered, but she declined. "I'm not hungry," she lied.
Woody gave her one of his looks that told her that he did not believe her. He took a seat next to her on the sofa, but not so close as to make it look like he wanted to be close to her. He opened the box and the aroma of pepperoni and greasy cheese filled her nostrils. Woody broke a piece off, gestured toward her and said, "You're sure?" She nodded grumpily. "Well I hope you don't mind if I dig in, I'm starved!"
Dig in he did, he ate a quarter of the pizza before Jordan caved in and took a slice, picking at the congealed cheese and meat mixture. It was still a little warm so the cheese stretched as she removed the pepperoni from the top flinging in all directions, splashing tomato sauce all over Woody's dress shirt. Jordan laughed and, after the initial shock, so did Woody.