You and Everything After

“I know,” she says. Somehow, her knowing makes this feel better. Everything is still awful, but her knowing, her not being surprised by what I’m saying—me not being the one to break it to her completely—somehow that makes this easier for me. And, selfish bastard that I am, I’m relieved by that.

“How long?” I ask. It’s not my place. None of this is. But Kelly is family to me. And she’s being disrespected. I need answers so I know what to do—how to avenge her.

“I think…I think maybe a few months,” she says, her face falling to the side, her eyes moving to our hands. She lets go slowly, folding her arms up to stave off the chill. I push the heater up a level. “I found a text from her last night. Before he could delete it. He’s been deleting everything. Or at least, I guess he has.”

Jared is an idiot. Jared is an asshole. Jared is a poor excuse for a human being. Jared can eat shit. Jared is going to feel pain, really soon. It’s a stream of rants running through my mind while I sit here in the van with Kelly, our view of simple times, of our innocence.

“I feel so stupid,” she says, biting her lip, another tear following along the same path as the first. I reach over and catch it, holding my hand to her face, and she closes her eyes.

“You aren’t stupid. You are amazing. And Jared…” I choke down bile from saying his name. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Several minutes pass. I don’t talk. Kelly doesn’t talk. She lays her head on my hand, and I let her. Every now and then her face winces, like it’s being attacked from the inside. She wants to cry, but she doesn’t want to break.

“Do you want to meet Jackson?” she asks finally.

“I’d love to.” I smile and move the gear into reverse to back out of the lot. We drive back to her home, her ruined and poisoned home with white siding and blue trim. I’m relieved that Jared’s car still isn’t in the driveway. I’m not ready to see him. I won’t be able to help myself. And Kelly needs to call the shots on this.

She helps me from the van, just like she always did. I let her push me inside, over the lip of the door, and then I hug her parents. They look the same, only their hair a little grayer. Her dad looks stronger than when I saw him last, having survived another bout with cancer a year or two ago. Kelly brings Jackson over, a tiny human, bundled in an orange pumpkin onesie that covers his feet. He’s perfect. He’s beautiful. He’s everything Kelly, and nothing Jared. Thank God.

Jared doesn’t deserve him either.

I hold him for a few minutes, and he doesn’t cry. His body feels warm, and his small movements are the coolest things I’ve ever felt—the way his legs jut forward, his hand reaches for nothing, his eyes open and close in slow motion. His yawn is adorable. And he smells like powder and strawberries.

We reminisce about high school, swap embarrassing stories about grade school, and I give them updates on college and life in Oklahoma. It’s a pleasant, safe conversation, but there’s always an undertone of regret when Kelly and I make eye contact. Regret that her world is crumbling, and I know about it, but there’s nothing we can do to fix it. She’s going to have to live through this pain, because even ignoring it would hurt.

Kelly pulls her phone from her back pocket, and her brow pinches as she reads a text. It’s Jared. I know it is. I wait for her eyes to meet mine, and she motions for me to follow her to the door. She doesn’t want me to see Jared. I understand. It’s probably best I don’t.

I say my goodbyes, making excuses for my quick departure. Mom wants me home in time for dinner. It’s the truth in a way, though Mom would understand. I kiss Jackson’s small, fuzzy head, and follow Kelly through the door back to the van. She helps me pack my chair, and I position myself in the driver’s seat.

“He’s on his way home. Said he’d be about twenty minutes. Apparently, they were out of pumpkin filling at five stores,” she says with a harsh laugh.

“Kel, if you need me…if you need me here? If you want me to deal with him? Anything, just say the word,” I say, and she leans in through the window and kisses my cheek, her hand trembling along my face. She’s scared. And she’s angry.

“I know. Not today. Today we get to have Thanksgiving. Jackson gets to have this. And my parents get to have this,” she says, her hand dropping to her side with a heaviness. “But tomorrow…he’s out of the house.”

The blankness to her stare when she says that last part is serious. It’s an expression she’s never made for me, because of me, and I’m grateful I’ve never earned it.