Jack is quiet on theride home, content to stare out the window as I drive us, and every so often I can see the way he casually touches his arm, almost as if checking that yes, it still hurts. The doctor prescribed him some anti-inflammatories and of course suggested a splint and to discontinue use of the arm because of his fracture—and it felt like with every parting word, Jack retreated a little more into himself. I’ve never seen him so down. It has me beyond worried.
I allow him his space the entire ride home and even through the trip up the elevator toward the apartment, waiting until we’re safely tucked inside and he’s throwing his jacket on the back of the couch to try my hand at approaching him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him carefully.
Jack doesn’t even look at me. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Jack,” I sigh. “I know you just got some terrible news. It’s okay to have feelings about it.”
“Feelings,” he scoffs. “I don’t have the luxury of feeling anything about it. It sounds like it’s already decided.”
“I know that it feels dark right now, but things will get better.”
He wheels around, his fists clenched and his eyes hard. “Will they? How can you know that, Abby? Are you some kind of psychic now?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to remain calm, since I know he’s just lashing out because he’s scared. “I’m just trying to help. There’s no reason to be mad at me.”
“I’m notmadat you,” he says. “I’m fucking pissed at my entire life.”
“And you have every reason to be,” I try. “This was a lot tothrow at you in one day. Everything you thought might go wrong did, and now you have to deal with that. It’s okay to be scared.”
His chest begins to heave as his eyes narrow, his face flushed with color as he seems to work himself into a tizzy. “And you just think you know everything, right? That if we justtalkabout it, everything will be right as rain, huh?”
“Jack,” I start, “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m so tired of everyone telling me what I should feel,” he yells. “I’m tired of every fucking thing going wrong. And I’msofucking tiredof talking about it.”
“You’re lashing out at me, and I didn’t do anything wrong,” I point out, feeling my hackles rise. “I’m not the one you’re mad at here.”
“Of course not,” he snorts. “You have all the answers, right? Well, what do you know, Abby? You don’t know how I feel. Everything I fucking love is being ripped away from me, and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.”
“I know that, but—”
“You have noideahow I feel,” he rants, pacing now. He runs his fingers through his hair in a manic gesture, his eyes a little wild. “How could you possibly understand what it’s like to have the only thing you care about taken away from you?”
My eyes narrow. “I think I might know more about it than most.”
“Fuck.” He presses his fists on his hips, looking down at the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, and for a moment I think he’ll apologize, but he just shakes his head instead. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me understand,” I beg. “Help me get it.”
“It’s all Ihave!” he shouts, throwing his arms up in defeat.“Without hockey, I’m just a washed-up nobody with nothing to show for my life. Hockey is theonlything that makes me worth something. There’s nothing else good going on in my life without it.”
I have to admit, that one stings a little, but I try to allow him the chance to take it back. “Really, Jack? Nothing?”
But Jack just doubles down, stomping toward me and glaring at me likeI’mthe one who gave him all his bad news. I know deep down it’s only because I’m the main outlet available to him, but his harsh tone and his hard gaze feel too familiar now—feel too much like all the times my dad has spit vitriol in my direction, making me feel like everything is my fault.
“Tell me, Abby,” he says with venom in his tone. “Tell me what the fuck I have without hockey, huh? Tell meonefucking thing.”
I feel his words pierce through my chest like a knife. Everything good he’s made me feel in the last few weeks seems to deflate into an aching sort of numbness that spreads through my body like sticky sap, clinging to my insides and refusing to let go.
“Well,” I say slowly, quietly, “until about four seconds ago—I thought you had me.”
His eyes widen as he seems to finally understand everything he’s said, and I can see it, the moment the regret sets in. Not that it takes the hurt away.
“Fuck, Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
And part of me understands, it really does—but another large part of me just had every fear I’ve been clinging to regarding Jack brought front and center, and I can’t help the way I back away from him now, needing the space.