Page 80 of The Same Backward as Forward
“I spent years seeing nothing but the inside of a bottle.” Jackson meets my gaze once more. “I bury my whiskey so it’s there if I need it, but if it comes to that, I’ll sure as hell be getting my hands dirty on the way.”
“We all bury things.” I stare up at the man who pulled me from the ocean, the man who saved my life and brought me Hannah. I hear the question he asked me earlier:You done?
I already told him not to give me any oxy, but suddenly, that doesn’t seem like enough. I have to say it. I have tomeanit. “I’m done.”
“It’s not that easy,” Jackson warns.
“Some of us aren’t made foreasy,” I say.
“The only way out,” Jackson reiterates, “is through.”
I cock an eyebrow, summoning all the arrogance I can muster and holding an image of Hannah in my mind.Everything hair. Everything eyes. Loathes me with a passion.“Got any paper?”
Chapter 14
Every time I almost break, every time I want to trade my soul for a slice of euphoria, for that most delightful of lies, I turn my focus to a new sheet of paper.
I fold.
And I fold.
And I fold.
And I wonder if Hannah checks for invisible ink when sheunfolds my creations. I’ve held off on sending her any more messages. I’ve held my tongue in her presence, too—more or less. At first, it’s because I don’t trust myself not to say something cruel when my brain is screaming thatshehas what Ineed. But eventually, my reason for only saying every tenth thing I want to say to her shifts.
It happens one night when I am roused from sleep and realize that she’s sitting on the edge of my mattress, keeping watch. I pretend I’m still asleep.
And she stays there for hours.
If I said what I want to say to Hannah, if I even hinted at what I feel for her, she’d reinforce every wall meant to keep me out. So Isay very little, and when I am quiet, Hannah the Same Backward as Forward goes quiet, too. In silence, everything else is magnified—every look, every touch, every second she spendshatingme and healing me and trying not to look or touch too much.
I fold her throwing stars and swans and box after mystery box in paper form. And every time she returns to me, I look for one of her tells—a more aggressive tilt of her chin, the very slightest of curves to her lips, a moment when she lingers longer than she should—and I know: She’s unfolding my creations. Every single one.
And I would bet my life that she hasn’t torn a single page.
The only times we both reliably speak are when she hauls me out of bed, when she forces me to confront all the ways my body is weak and frail and refuses to do as it is bid. A single step is a Herculean task, and one is never enough for my taskmaster.
Her temper has a long fuse. Mine is gunpowder. But sometimes when I curse, she curses right back at me, forcing me to give her everything I have.
Eventually, I stop folding paper objects for her, just like I stop thinking so very often of little white pills. I have enough control now to talk to her again, to play and invite her to do the same.
“The name of the game, Hannah the Same Backward as Forward, is Two Moves.” I slide a sheet of paper toward her, then prop myself up, bringing my face that much closer to hers. “It’s a simple game, really. All you have to do is make five words that aren’tsex.”
Hannah’s eyes narrow, and I wonder if she’s considering lighting me on fire.You’d only have to heal me again, I warn her silently.
“I can think of some words for you.” Hannah cuts me down with a look. “Now stand up.”
“Give me a happy pill, and you don’t have to play.” I wonder if I have always been this good at bluffing. I have more on my mind than oxy right now. I’m chasing a different high.
“Try to take a step,” Hannah counters, “and I’ll let you explain to me why the name of the game is Two Moves.”
I lift one foot and place it down in front of the other, shift my weight.A step.I lay out the parameters of the game for her: two moves to turn the wordSEAinto another word, like an alchemist turning iron to gold. To further demonstrate, I take a sizable risk, take Hannah’s hand in mine, and marvel at the fact that she allows me to trace two such letters—all lines, no curves—onto her skin.
She’s soft beneath my touch, and as the pad of my finger skims the back of her hand, I am mesmerized by the veins I can see there.
Hannah demands more steps from me, and I acquiesce. She was probably hoping that I would not, but what pride do I have left? She has seen me at my weakest, my lowest, my worst.
And still, she comes back.
