JENNIE

After a few minutes of sitting with me, Kai gets up, stretches, and says,

"I'm going to get you something to drink. You need food, too."

My fists wrap around his shirt, and I shake my head, begging him not to leave me alone.

He sighs. "You'll get sick if you don't eat something soon," he says, but I know I've won the battle. Kai has never been one to hold his ground.

The last thing I want is something to drink or to eat. I only want one thing: for her to leave and never come back.

"I think your mom is giving Lisa an earful." Kai attempts a smile but fails.

I hear her yelling, and something crashes in the distance, but I refuse to let Kai leave me alone in the room. If I'm left alone, she will come in.

That's what she does, she preys on people when they are at their weakest.

Especially me, who has been weak since the day I met her. I lay my head back on my pillow and block out everything—my mother screaming, the deep, accented voice yelling back at her, and even Kai's comforting whispers in my ear.

I close my eyes and drift between nightmares and reality, trying to decide which is worse.

When I wake up again, the sun is bright through the thin curtains tacked over the windows. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and I'm alone in the room. Kai's tennis shoes are on the floor, and after a moment of

peaceful confusion, the weight of the last twenty hours knocks the breath out of me, and I bury my face in my hands.

She was here. She was here, but Kai and my mother helped—

"Jennie," her voice says, startling me out of my thoughts.

I want to pretend this is a phantom, but I know it's not. I can feel her presence here. I refuse to look up at her as I hear her enter the room.

Why is she here? Why does she think she can toss me aside, then swoop back in when it's convenient? That's not happening anymore. I've already lost her and my father, and I don't need either loss shoved in my face right now.

"Get out," I say. The sun disappears, hiding behind the clouds. Even the sun doesn't want to be near her.

When I feel the bed shift under her weight, I hold my ground and try to hide the shiver that passes through me.

"Have some water." A cold glass is pressed against my hand, but I swat it away. I don't even flinch when I hear it fall to the floor. "Jen, look at me." Then her hands are on me—icy, her touch almost foreign—and I jerk away.

As much as I want to crawl into her lap and let her comfort me, I don't.

And I won't, not ever again. Even with my mind in the place it is now, I know that I won't ever let her in again. I can't, and I won't.

"Here." Lisa hands me another glass of water, from the bedside table, this one not as cold.

Instinctively I grab it. I don't know why, but her name echoes in my mind. I didn't want to hear her name, not in my own head, that's the only place I am safe from her.

"You'll drink some water," she softly demands.

I stay silent as bring the glass to my lips. I don't have the energy to refuse the water out of spite, and I am beyond thirsty. I finish the entire glass within seconds, my eyes never leaving the wall.

"I know you're angry at me, but I just want to be here for you," she lies.

Everything she says is a lie—always has been, always will be. I stay quiet, a low snort coming from my mouth at her claim.

"The way you acted when you saw me last night . . ." she begins. I can feel her eyes on me, but I refuse to look at her. "The way you screamed . . . Jennie, I've never felt pain like that—"

"Stop it," I snap. My voice doesn't sound like my voice, and I begin to wonder if I'm even awake right now, or if this is another nightmare.

"I just want to know that you're not afraid of me. You aren't, are you?"

"This isn't about you," I manage. And it's true, absolutely true. She's tried to make this about her—her pain—but this is about my father's death and that I can't take any more heartache.

"Fuck." She sighs, and I just know that she's running her hands over her hair. "I know it's not. That's not what I meant. I'm worried about you."

I close my eyes and hear thunder in the distance. She's worried about me?

If she was so worried about me, maybe she shouldn't have sent me back to America alone. I wish I hadn't made it home; I wish something had happened to me on the trip back—so she could deal with the loss of me.

Then again, she probably wouldn't want to be bothered. She would be too busy getting high. She wouldn't even notice.

"You aren't yourself, baby."

I begin to shake at the use of the sick nickname.

"You need to talk about this, everything with your dad. It will make you feel better." Her voice is too loud, and the rain is pounding against the old roof. I wish it would just cave in and let the storm outside sweep me away.

Who is this person sitting here with me? I sure as hell don't know her, and she doesn't know what she's talking about. I should talk about my father? Who the hell is she to sit here and act like she cares about me, like she could help me? I don't need help. I need silence.

"I don't want you here."

"Yes, you do. You're just mad at me right now because I acted like an asshole and I fucked up."

The pain I should feel isn't there, nothing is. Not even when my mind flashes with the images of her hand on my thigh as we drive in her car, her lips gently sliding over mine, my fingers threading through her thick hair.

Nothing.

I feel nothing as the pleasant memories are replaced with ones of fists flying through drywall and that woman wearing her shirt. She slept with her only days ago. Nothing. I feel nothing, and it feels so good to finally feel nothing, to finally have control over my emotions. I'm realizing, as I stare at the wall, that I don't have to feel anything I don't want to. I don't have to remember anything I don't want to. I can forget it all and never allow the memories to cripple me again.

"I'm not." I don't clarify the words, and she tries to touch me again. I don't move. I bite my cheek, wanting to scream again, but not wanting to give her the satisfaction. The calming ease that sweeps over me from her fingers on mine proves just how weak I am, right after I'd just settled on a path of perfect numbness.

"I'm sorry about Richard, I know how—"

"No." I pull my hand away. "No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to come here and pretend like you're here to help me when you're the one who has hurt me the most. I won't tell you again." I know my voice is flat

—I hear it sounding as unconvincing and as empty as I feel inside. "Get out."

My throat hurts from speaking so much; I don't want to talk anymore. I just want her to go away, and I want to be left alone. I focus on the wall again, not allowing my mind to taunt me with images of my father's dead body. Everything is messing with me, fucking with my mind, and threatening the tiny bit of reason left inside me. I'm grieving two deaths now, and it's tearing me apart piece by tiny piece.

Pain isn't remotely kind in that way: pain wants its promised pound of flesh, ounce for ounce. It won't settle until you're left with nothing but a flaky shell of who you were. The burn of betrayal and the sting of rejection hurt, but nothing compares to the pain of being empty. Nothing hurts worse than not hurting at all, and that that makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time convinces me I'm going fucking crazy.

And I'm actually okay with that.

"Do you want me to get you something to eat?"

Did she not hear me? Does she not understand that I don't want her here?

It's impossible to think that she can't hear the chaos inside my mind.

"Jennie," she presses when I don't respond. I need her to get away from me. I don't want to look into those eyes, I don't want to hear any more promises that will be broken when she begins to let her self-hatred take over again.

My throat burns—it hurts so bad—but I yell for the person who really cares: "Kai!"

As soon as I do, he's rushing through the bedroom door, looking determined to be the force of nature that will finally move the immovable Lisa out of my room, out of my life. Kai stands in front of me and looks at Lisa, who I finally spare a glance at. "I told you if she called for me, that was it."

Instantly moving from soft to enraged, Lisa's shooting bullets at Kai, and I know she's trying hard to rein in her temper. There's something on her hand . . . a cast? I look again, and sure enough, a black cast covers her hand and wrist.

"Let's get something clear," Lisa says as she stands and looks down at Kai. "I'm trying not to upset her, and that's the only reason I haven't snapped your fucking neck. So don't push your luck."

In my damaged, chaotic mind, I can see my father's head snapping back, jaw popping open. I just want silence. I want silence in my ears, and I need silence in my mind.

I start gagging as the image multiplies as their voices get louder, angrier, and my body begs me to just let it all go, to just let everything out of my stomach. The problem is that there's nothing inside me but water, and so acid burns my throat when I vomit onto my old comforter.

"Fuck!" Lisa exclaims. "Get out, damn it!" She shoves at Kai's chest with one hand, and Kai stumbles back, bracing himself against the frame of the door.

"You get out! You're not even wanted here!" Kai fires back and rushes forward, pushing Lisa.

Neither of them notice as I stand from the bed and wipe vomit from my mouth with one sleeve. Because all either of them can see is red and their infinite "loyalty" to me, I make it out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door without either of them noticing.