PRECIPICE [h.s.]

Chapter Forty Five*

☼☼☼

But in what world do these things go the way we want them to?

And I know I didn't cry

But I don't think I loved you

And in what world do we exist, not separate but as two?

'Cause I know I didn't cry

And that said something to you

If that world exists, I'd believe

That love might have some chance of being true

☼☼☼

Jamie's P.O.V.

August 18th 1997

The knocking of a door will always give me anxiety. It's an irrational fear because I don't know who is on the other side. Monica and Jess have keys. James yells "JAIME" when he walks up my driveway. And Harry always appeared at my back door.

Except for now, apparently.

The door only gets a quarter of the way open when I see his long hair and I immediately go to shut it. His quick reflexes catch it before it closes.

I might feel like breaking his fingers, but I don't have it in me to do so. With a sigh of defeat I ease open the door and only take a little bit of comfort in the fact that he looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Can I come in?"

I lean my hip on the door frame, not allowing him a step inside. "No, the dump is closed to visitors."

Harry huffs out a breath, clearly frustrated. Who is he to be upset? He doesn't get to be hurt. And for the love of god, why is he not jumping in to deny everything I'm saying. I mean the first words out of his mouth should have been "You're not trash!" or "I'm sorry." Is that too much to ask?

Harry crosses his arms, unmoving. "If I can't come in, will you come out here so we can talk?" I guess it is.

I stand my ground. "No, sorry, trash doesn't get taken out for two more days."

He runs his hands through his hair. "Please let me explain."

I don't think there is anything he could say to make me feel better. I will always remember Harry's mom calling me trash and him saying nothing about it.

"I think it would be better if you left."

"I'll come back and try tomorrow."

"I'm not saying leave my house. It'd be better if you left the shore. Go home. You're clearly missed."

"It's not what you think."

"Here's what I know. Your mother called me trash. You didn't deny it. I ran and you didn't follow me. I don't know how much more explaining that requires."

"I'm sorry. That's not how I wanted you to meet my mom. I didn't want you to meet her at all."

"That's clear. You didn't want me to meet anyone in your family. You treat me like the trash under your bed, but I'm sure you have a housekeeper to take care of that."