Page 155 of Pull Me Under

‘No! Jude, it’s not⁠—’

‘Everything.’ He’s not hearing me. Doesn’t want to hear me. ‘Every moment. Every time you looked at me, every time you touched me – you knew what your family did to mine. What he did to her. And you never said a word.’

‘That’s not – I didn’t⁠—’

I want to tell him. Want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and say, I found out yesterday, I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know how. But the words won’t come. They’re stuck in my throat, jammed behind the tears that are spilling down my face.

‘Get out.’

‘Jude, please, if you’d just let me⁠—’

‘GET OUT.’

The words echo off the walls. Behind him, a machine beeps faster – Reuben’s heart rate spiking.

I open my mouth. Close it.

What can I say? He’s not going to listen. Not now, with his father’s confession still ringing in the air, with everything he thought he knew lying in pieces at his feet.

I could fight. Could plant myself in this doorway and refuse to move until he hears me out.

But the look on his face.

‘Get out,’ he says again. Quieter. Colder. ‘I can’t look at you right now. I can’t—’ His voice breaks. He turns away, back toward his father. ‘Just go.’

I stand there for a long moment.

Reuben is staring at us both, bewildered, frightened. ‘Jude? What’s happening? Who was that?’

‘No one,’ Jude says. Flat. Final. ‘Go back to sleep, Dad.’

No one.

I back out of the doorway. One step. Two.

The door swings shut between us. I stand in the corridor, shaking.

This is what it feels like. To lose everything in the space of a breath.

I did this.

I could have told him yesterday. Last night. This morning.

I didn’t.

And now⁠—

Now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance.

The plastic chair is cold against my back.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Long enough for the fluorescent lights to start buzzing inside my skull. Long enough for two nurses to walk past and give me pitying looks. Long enough for the coffee in my hand to go from lukewarm to cold.

The door to Room 4 stays closed.

I could knock. Could push it open, make him look at me, make him listen. I’m good at pushing. It’s what I do – charge in, demand answers, refuse to be ignored.

But the look on his face.