No More Confessions

by Louise Rozett

It’s not the volume of Jamie’s voice that’s making everyone in the dining room stare—he’s speaking so quietly I’m leaning forward to hear him. It’s the air. The air around us has changed.

  Now my mother stands, too—I’m the only one left sitting. I’m not sure my legs even work at the moment. “Let’s go outside and talk about this,” my mother says.

  Jamie practically snarls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Take it down a notch,” Peter warns as he puts himself between Jamie and my mother.

  “I’m going outside with him,” I say, even though I’m still not standing.

  “No, you’re not,” Peter says. He grabs Jamie by the arm, and Jamie shakes his hand off easily but stumbles a bit. Now we have the attention of the waiters and the host, who are on their way over to our table.

  “Problem?” the host asks my mother.

  “Our friend had some drinks and I’m taking him outside,” Peter answers for her.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” The host eyes Jamie, clearly noticing that he’s not dressed for the dining room at our fancy hotel in his army jacket and construction boots.

  “Pete, let me. Okay? It’ll be fine,” I say, not sure that it will. “I need to talk to him.”

  I grab onto the table and hoist myself up. I start walking out of the restaurant and Jamie follows me. My mother and Peter follow Jamie. They stop in the lobby but I can see them watching us through the big glass windows that look out onto the street.

  When Jamie and I get to the bottom of the steps at the hotel’s entrance, I ask the only thing I can think to ask. “Why?”

  His eyes burn as he stares me down—there is no trace of whatever it was I thought I saw in his gaze last night. “You made me look stupid today at that school.”

  I didn’t make him look stupid. Did I?

  I try to stand my ground. “You could go there someday, Jamie. You think everybody has talent? Most people don’t. But you do.”

  He takes a few steps toward me. “You know I don’t belong at a place like that.”

  I step up onto the staircase to put some distance between us, to get some height. “I’m not—I don’t care if you go there or not. I just—”

  “You want me to be some other fucking guy.”

  It nearly kills me to hear him say this. It takes me a few breaths to come up with a response. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to be with you? I’m just trying to show you that you can leave Union—you’re supposed to.”

  “I don’t want your choices. I’m not you.”

  My anger obliterates whatever sympathy I was feeling. “You know what? You’re right. You’re not me—you’re stronger, and you usually have more courage than I do. But right now? You’re a coward.”

  Jamie spins away from me and punches the first thing he sees—the brick pillar at the bottom of the staircase. Something cracks and I gasp as if I’m the one who just broke my hand. But it doesn’t matter—he’s not feeling anything right now except rage.

  Regina once said to me that I thought I was too good for Union and too good for Jamie, and that I was just going to end up leaving him behind. Was she right? Am I trying to set Jamie on a path like mine so that I won’t have to leave him behind?

  Or is this just history repeating itself—once again, Jamie breaking my heart by walking away for one reason or another?

  Maybe, in a way, it’s both. Jamie can’t be with me because he can’t handle me loving him and wanting the best for him. He can’t handle me believing in him—it’s too much pressure.

  He doesn’t think he can be the person I see, or he doesn’t want to. Either way, the result is the same.

  I watch as Jamie disappears into the darkness of the park across the street.

  *

  All I want to do is curl up in my bed. We just got home and I’m exhausted, confused and possibly delirious after two nights in a row of barely any sleep. But I told Holly that I’d go to Cal’s party with her tonight. For some reason, it’s really important that she go.

  As we drive downtown, I tell her about the Boston disaster. “Wait,” she says, trying to wrap her brain around it all. “You left him there?”

  I ignore the knot in my stomach. “What else was I supposed to do, Hol? He told me to go. And as my mother said, he’s an adult. Though that part is debatable, in my opinion.”

  This morning, after I’d been awake and worried most of the night, Jamie sent me a text telling me to go home without him, that he would take the train. He didn’t say anything about where he’d spent the night, or whether he’d gotten his hand looked at.

  It took some doing for my mother to convince me that we should leave without him, but I finally agreed. I was a hot mess in the car on the way home. Mom asked me about Jamie’s drinking, and I told her what had been going on. She confirmed what I already knew but hadn’t really accepted—he’s sick and needs help. And while I thought I was helping by trying to show him his future, I was just pushing a whole bunch of buttons that might as well have been labeled “self-destruct.”

  Occasionally, it’s not so annoying that my mother is a mental health professional.

  “What’s going on with Cal and Robert?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

  Holly takes a few seconds to formulate her answer as we stop at a light. Clearly she’s got news, too. “Um, I’m not really sure. I went out with Robert over the break while Dad was here. And I might have kissed him.”

  Robert must be out of his mind with joy. “So, you’re seeing both of them?”

  She leans her head on the steering wheel. “Not for long. That’s why I need to see Cal tonight.” The car behind us beeps—the light is green. Holly hits the gas.

  I take a tiny bit of pleasure in knowing that Operation Save Holly worked.

  I smile a little, looking out the window as my town goes by, giving way to New Haven. When I was younger, New Haven felt like a land of opportunity that was out of reach. Now it just feels like part of where I live. Maybe it’s because I’m 17, which somehow feels much older than 16.

  Losing my virginity probably has something to do with that.

  I’m trying so hard to separate that night from what happened last night—I don’t want drunk Jamie to lessen what happened with sober Jamie.

  They are two separate people to me at this point.

  When we get there, we have to go into the dorm the back way to avoid having to show ID. It’s a big party—it takes up a whole lounge and spills into a hallway and a few of the rooms.

  Cal sees Holly the moment we walk in and comes straight for us. He’s tan—he just got back from spring break somewhere with a bunch of his friends, and this is the first time he’s seen her in a week. He hugs her and lifts her off the ground, spinning her around. When he puts her down, she takes his hand and leads him away from the crowd of people into a corner to talk.

  Perhaps we’re not going to be at this party very long and I’ll get to go to bed after all.

  It only takes about 30 seconds before I hear Cal’s voice over the music. He and Holly are arguing. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it’s clear he’s furious—she must have told him about kissing Robert. I see that she’s being as calm as she can, explaining things to him, but he’s too wrapped up in being angry to listen. Other people start to notice. Cal’s friends are finding the whole thing amusing.

  I take out my phone and call Robert, getting his voicemail. “We’re at Cal’s party downtown, and it’s finally happening. I’ll keep you posted on where we’re going—I don’t think we’re going to be here much longer.”

  Cal is literally pitching a fit at this point, which is just making Holly calmer. The crowd has grown, and they’re practically hysterical at this point as Cal puts on a serious show. I wonder if they’re laughing at him, or at the fact that he’s so upset about his girlfriend—who’s still in high school—dumping him. I’m hoping for both.

  I’ll give it one more minute and then I’m pulling her out of her
e. I lean back against the wall, comfortable in my invisibility as I look around at the party. Although I’m feeling like 17 is a long way from 16, these people are definitely older than I am.

  There’s a woman standing in one of the doorways, talking to people in the next room. When she flips her shiny hair over her shoulder, I realize it’s Rachel. I haven’t seen her since I puked at her art show. My behavior that night was not the classiest. Come to think of it, it was not unlike Jamie’s behavior the other night.

  Note to self. Maybe Peter was right—maybe alcohol doesn’t bring out the best in me either.

  I think it’s time to apologize. It’s not going to cost me anything to do it. I make my way over there and tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and doesn’t recognize me for a second. Then an unpleasant smile crosses her face, and she steps out of the doorway, giving me a perfect view of the person she’s talking to.

  Jamie.

  “Jame, you didn’t tell me she was coming,” she says, the tone of her voice matching her fake smile.

  “I didn’t know,” Jamie says, his eyes locked onto mine.

  “This is Rose, right?” Rachel asks him.

  Ooh, she’s good—I’d almost forgotten how good. She’s trying to make me feel as if I’m not interesting enough to remember. And it’s working.

  The whole time I’ve known Rachel, I’ve always had the impression that she is pretending—pretending to be nice to me, pretending to like me, pretending that her interest in Jamie is a meaningless flirtation with no real substance behind it because she would never, which of course would mean that my presence in her life doesn’t threaten her at all.

  But it looks like she’s decided there’s no longer any point to all that pretending. And I wouldn’t be surprised if my performance at her art show a few months ago had something to do with that.

  The gloves are off now. Fair enough.

  She turns to Jamie, takes his good hand and squeezes it, saying, “I’ll give you two a minute to talk.”

  She walks away without another glance, leaving me to wonder what Jamie told her to give her the impression that we need to talk.

  I look down at his hand. It’s wrapped in a lumpy Ace bandage with ragged tape around it, like he did it himself. “You got home from Boston okay?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” The noise of the party fills in the silence between us. “Is there something you want to tell me about her?”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  I shake my head. This is the most infuriating thing about Jamie—infuriating beyond belief. “Let’s not do that thing where you pretend you have no idea what I’m asking so that I have to do all the work. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “She invited me to this party.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Today.”

  “So you’ve been talking with her today about this party, but you couldn’t be bothered to tell me where or how you were after you made me leave you in another city because you were pissed off that I was trying be supportive?”

  Jamie gives me his hardest stare. “Is that what that was?”

  We’re never going to see eye to eye on this, ever. I see that now. We’re probably both right and both wrong—the truth, as always, in the middle somewhere.

  “Maybe you don’t recognize it because no one’s ever done it for you before, but yes. That’s what that was.” The party is now so crowded that we’re getting jostled around, but I decide there’s no time like the present. “If you hated what I was doing so much, why did you sleep with me the other night?”

  He takes a few seconds to answer. “I’m a guy, Rose.”

  Sucker-punch.

  I know he doesn’t mean it that way. I know it as surely as I know anything. I fight to hold on to that certainty just long enough to deflect his ugly words.

  “I know what you’re doing.” He holds my gaze without saying anything. “I see a future for you beyond bartending for these people and living with your father, and that freaks you out. So it’s easier to fail me now and get it over with. Acting like what happened between us the other night didn’t mean anything to you is so much easier than letting me see that it did.”

  Rachel comes back to check on Jamie. I can see her out of my peripheral vision standing there, waiting to be acknowledged. Neither of us looks at her.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Leave. But even if you go home with her—even if you sleep with her, if you haven’t already—I’m not letting you off the hook.”

  He does leave, but he leaves alone. I don’t even bother to look at Rachel—I’m done with her. As I start searching for Holly, I can’t stop replaying my conversation with Jamie in my head. Soon I’m practically shaking with anger. When I finally find Holly after what feels like an hour of pushing my way through the party, I’m furious.

  Cal still has her cornered. He looks like he’s ready to go a few more rounds.

  Well, so am I.

  “Holly! Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Cal snaps at me.

  “Are you done?” I ask Holly. “Great. Let’s go,” I say without waiting for an answer.

  “Wait a minute—” Cal starts.

  I whirl on him. “How many times are you going to make her say she doesn’t want to be with you?!” I yell. “Go find Rachel. You might actually have a shot with her tonight.”

  Cal’s jaw hits the floor as I reach for Holly’s arm and pull her toward the back door where we came in.

  “Rose—ow!” She yanks her arm away. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, Holly, I just…” I don’t even know where to begin. My phone rings as we’re going down the stairs—it’s Robert, calling me back. “We’re leaving now,” I say, by way of answering.

  “Rosie? There was a—you have to—” His voice cuts out as sirens sound in the background, then some kind of commotion.

  “Where are you?” I put my hand over my ear as if that’s going to help me hear him better.

  “Are you guys are that party?”

  “We’re walking out now.”

  “I’m a few blocks away,” he says. “I was coming downtown and there was a car accident, a really bad one.”

  “Shit, Robert, are you okay?”

  Holly looks at me, alarmed. “Rose, what is going on?”

  “It wasn’t me—I’m fine,” Robert says, yelling into the phone now as the sirens get louder. “But I pulled over, Rosie, because I think…it’s Jamie’s car.”

  “You Know I’m No Good,” Back to Black, Amy Winehouse

  _______________________

  Chapter 18

  The ICU is a quiet, mostly still place except for beeping and whirring. The beeps are all different pitches, which is weird because they come from the same type of machine that’s in all the rooms. There’s a different type of machine that only some of the rooms have, and it whirs and whooshes like cellos underneath the beeping variations. The nurses’ voices are a distant chorus, rising and falling in pitch and volume, occasionally coming to the forefront of the music. Their footsteps, quick and light in the hallway, are the percussion.

  Deconstructing the ICU symphony is comforting me as I sit vigil next to Jamie’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. I am holding his hand. It is so cold, it doesn’t feel like his.

  The sun is coming up—I’ve been here all night. My mother comes and goes from the room, bringing me food and drinks, trying to get me to go for a walk with her, discussing things with the nurses and doctors as if she were Jamie’s mother. I won’t leave Jamie’s side unless the nurses tell me I have to, which they do pretty often because people aren’t really supposed to hang out with ICU patients—they’re too sick or injured to have guests who can sap their energy and bring infection. Plus the nurses need privacy to adjust the machines or the patients themselves.

  But some of the nurses believe that it’s the critically injured patients who need visitors the most
. There’s a big, tall nurse here named George—now that he’s on duty, I don’t have to leave the room at all. He keeps telling me that I should talk to Jamie, that Jamie can probably hear me, and it will help him to know that I’m there.

  But I’m finding it hard to say anything to Jamie.

  Jamie’s dad was here at one point, but the cops showed up and took him somewhere to talk, and he didn’t come back. He didn’t say much to me—I definitely see where Jamie gets his conversational style from—but I’m guessing he figured out pretty quickly that I’m in love with his son, based on my puffy eyes.

  Jamie’s beautiful face is a disaster, covered with gashes and stitches and bruises. His nose is broken and he has two black eyes. The Ace bandage that was on his hand is now a cast that takes up his entire arm; his leg is also in a cast up to his hip. They operated and he’s now full of pins holding his broken bones together to help them grow back the right way.

  Everybody keeps telling me Jamie is lucky. I’m guessing that means they’re surprised he survived.

  As bad as all of this is, the worst part for me is the ugly plastic tube coming out of his mouth that’s hooked up to one of the whirring, whooshing machines. It’s been breathing for him since he came out of surgery. When he wakes up, if everything’s okay, they’ll take it out.

  I want him to wake up now and see me right here next to him, looking out for him like he did for me, keeping watch as I slept after one of the worst moments of my life.

  I don’t know if Jamie was drinking last night. The fact that the cops showed up in the ICU makes me think that he had been, but then again, they could have just been his dad’s friends, checking in. I didn’t see a drink in Jamie’s hand at the party, but when you travel with your own alcohol, you don’t need to drink cheap beer from a keg. I try to think of the last time I knew Jamie had the flask on him—I guess it was Boston, although I didn’t actually see it.

  There were no other cars involved in the accident—the only person he hurt was himself. His car went off the side of the road and down an embankment, crashing into a wall. He didn’t have his seatbelt on and the car is too old for airbags—the doctor said he could have easily had more than two broken limbs, a broken sternum, collapsed lungs and a severe concussion. He was thrown around the inside of the car like clothes in a dryer.