yours.

[34] Jasper

The words play on a relentless loop through my head. "I don't think I'm ready for this yet. I don't think I'm ready for this yet." And on and on it goes, this broken record of regret.

I don't know why I said it. It's not true. It was all my mouth could come up with when my brain was spiraling out so wildly and couldn't think of anything better. Miles' question -- his simple question about Max -- was enough to send me tumbling back through two years of grief and pain, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

And now, later that evening in my own bedroom, my brain won't let it go.

"Of course I'm ready," I mutter to myself, aggressively folding and unfolding a fresh load of laundry. "I've been ready. I don't..." I groan. Why did I have to say that?

But deep down, a part of me thinks maybe I did mean it. Maybe I'm... not ready for Miles.

"Jasper."

The voice startles me, and I turn to see my father lurking in my doorway. "Yes?"

His mouth sets into a grim line. "Your mother would like to have a dinner -- a family dinner -- tonight," he says calmly. "She says it will be ready in ten minutes."

I glance back down at the pile of laundry heaped on my bed and try to wash away everything I'd been thinking before, about Miles and relationships and Max. I'll need a clear head if I'm going to be dining with both of my parents tonight. "Of course. I'll be down in a minute."

My father lingers for a moment, like there's something else he wants to say, but in the end he just turns and disappears into his room, the soft click of his door shutting the only thing to let me know he's gone. I slouch in relief, bunching a T-shirt in my grasp. Miles can be a problem for another time, I try to tell myself.

But all through dinner, I can't stop thinking about him. He really shouldn't matter this much to me -- I only met him a few weeks ago. But he's given me more attention than I could ever ask for, and I guess that's enough to win my stupid brain over.

I pick at my roast beef and vegetables with a fork, keeping my eyes trained on my plate and not at my awkwardly silent parents at the table with me. Finally, my father clears his throat, muttering, "The beef is good, Ella." The best compliment he can give her. He lifts his beer bottle and takes a swig.

"Thank you." Everything goes silent again.

I get the feeling my father still has something on his mind, but whatever it is, I really don't want to hear it. Because usually it's just a criticism for me, or a complaint about work, or a passive-aggressive comment about my mother, and none of those would particularly enhance this terrible dinner. Not the food -- the food is fine, or what little I've eaten of it anyway -- but the people eating it.

After a few more minutes of wading through the tense silence, my father glances across the table at my mother. "Ella," he starts, his voice controlled, "did you know Jasper was out for three hours last night? Without permission?"

My mother's grip on her fork tightens, and she mumbles, "Oh, really?"

"Really."

What's left of my appetite vanishes as I prepare myself for the argument to come. "I did have permission," I say under my breath, nudging a head of broccoli with my fork.

My father slowly turns to face me. "What was that?" he growls.

I stand my ground. "I... I did have permission." My voice shakes as I speak. "You said I could go--"

"When you proved yourself to be a responsible, obedient son," he cuts in. "And so far, I haven't seen it."

My face burns with shame. "That's not what you said."

"Oh, is it not? What did I say, then?"

My father watches me expectantly as my mother's gaze drills into her plate, like if she stays still long enough, she can disappear. And it almost works. All my attention is on my father, on his angry brown eyes and curled lip. "You..." I can feel the fight draining out of me. "You told me to leave. You said you wanted me out of the house. And I was back by ten, like I said I'd be." I don't mention his reaction to my return, the harsh words he threw my way -- so easily, too, like they meant nothing to him. "I didn't do anything wrong."

My father barks a laugh, slamming a fist on the table and sending my mother's glass rattling across the table. "You didn't..." he wheezes, and I feel my face crumple. "You didn't do anything wrong?" he repeats, incredulous, and I remain silent. "Not a great grip on reality, I see." Another sip of his beer, and his words slow, growing looser on his tongue. "It's that boy, isn't it? He's making you do this. He's a... a poor influence on you."

My panic spikes at the mention of Miles. Please, don't bring him into this. "He's not, I swear."

"Like your word means anything."

And that's it. I rise from my seat, pushing violently away from the table and rushing out of the dining room before I can say something I regret. My mother calls after me, and my father orders me to finish my plate, but I don't care. I don't stop until I'm safely in my bedroom with the door locked behind me, and even then, my breaths still come in fast, and my mind races with ideas of what I did wrong and how I should face my father next.

It's times like these when I wish I still had a working phone. If I did, I could easily just call a friend to help me out of my mess, and then I wouldn't have to deal with everything so... alone. But of course, I can't do that, because my father broke my phone a year ago -- I'm sure as a way to keep me isolated.

I rest my forehead against the closed door, listening for any shouts or warnings coming from downstairs. When I don't hear anything, I trudge back over to my cleared bed and flop down onto it, rolling to stare at the ceiling.

I know I need to fix things with Miles, and soon. He's my ticket out of the house and away from my father, and I really can't afford to lose that.

* * *

The next day, I wait hours in my room until I hear my father leave for work -- ten minutes late, I note -- before venturing into my bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. I spend the entire time working out how to talk to Miles and make everything up to him, eyeing myself in the mirror as I work through possible openers.

Hey, Miles. Too casual.

What's up? Too... not me.

So... about yesterday. I don't want to lead with my problems. That might scare him off.

Miles I'm sorry for leaving please forgive me. I shake my head at my reflection, losing both hope and patience with myself. Way too desperate. Which, I guess, I am.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive on Miles' doorstep, my hair still damp from showering and my underarms damp from anxiety. I knock on the door, too scared to ring the bell. It occurs to me that it's still early, and Miles might not even be awake yet. Or he could be out doing something-- 

A second later, Miles opens the door.

Just the sight of him sends my heart racing, and I try to calm myself enough to get a word out. And that's all I get: a word. "Hi" is all I can manage.

Miles just stares at me, and panic spears through my heart. He's angry, I realize. Then, more specifically, He's angry with me.

"Are you... are you going somewhere?" I motion to the lanyard holding his keys dangling from his grip. He's also already wearing his shoes, and for a moment, I let myself wonder if he was on his way to see me. But that's stupid, I know. He wouldn't have his keys with him if he was just going to walk next door.

"Yup. My mom left for work and gave me her grocery list."

"I can go with you," I offer, then instantly regret it. He never invited me; he probably doesn't want me to--

"Sure. Come on." He pushes past me, down the driveway to his car.

I chase after him. "Wait, wait, Miles." He turns to face me. I don't actually know how to continue -- I never did work out a good starter -- so I try, "Can we... talk?"