“Youneeded money?”
I turn my gaze to the ceiling as if I’ll find a readymade answer carved into the cracked paint. “Jackie, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why doesn’t it matter? Because it’s yours?”
“What?”
“It matters,” he growls. “When did you pawn it?”
“I don’t know.”
Jack steps closer, sweat still shimmering on his broad chest, lips bright and raw from kissing. “When?”
“I don’t know. Last week, maybe?”
His frown deepens as he applies that to whatever’s going on in his head. As he fights confusion and gaps he doesn’t deserve, a puzzle that never ends.
His gaze drops to the mark he’s left on my throat.
Flashes back to my face.
“It was after,” he says slowly. “Wasn’t it? After your parents lost the house.”
My stomach rolls.
Jack narrows his eyes, knowing he’s found something solid in all the things I’m not saying. “You’re still giving Dav money?”
“I didn’t give my dad the money.”
“Who did you give it to then?”
“I don’t know.”
Jack stares, frustration ripping his features apart, and I hate it. It’s late—it’s Christmas Day—and we just shared something magical. Something that made him feel good. And now we’re squaring off in the hallway over something that’s always been here and will still be here tomorrow.
I raise my hands in surrender. “I pawned it to pay a loan shark. Dav put theSironaup as collateral and I couldn’t let them take more of her than she’s already lost.”
“Sol.”
“I know. Iknow.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I open my mouth. Shut it again. There are a hundred answers to that question and none of them deserve space tonight.
But my non-response leaves room for Jack’s brain to snag on a thread. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear water from his ears, and I see the moment he realises he can’t. That he has to check out of this conversation and save it for another day. “Tell me later?”
I nod and it’s enough—for now.
Jack grabs my hand and tows me back into his room. Into his bed. He’s almost asleep when he speaks into the darkness again. “You have to stop.”
“I know.”
“No,really, Sol. I love you…I can’t watch this happen…”
He’s gone then. His breathing slows and he falls asleep with his hand at the base of my throat, while I lie still as a rock, counting his breaths and the waves of the tide, my bones loose, but my chest tight. And not because I’m worried about my dad,or pondering the fate of an ancient instrument that’s been in the Bosanko family for generations.
No. That’s not important.