I’d sketched an outline of the painting I planned of Jack, but I wasn’t in the right place to tackle it properly yet. He was taking up enough space in my head already. Instead, I started my three-part painting of the Spiegeltent, which was a much easier subject, given the current state of my emotions. After a while I heard someone approach, and I knew it was him. It was almost like I recognised how his eyes felt watching me, which was downright weird. He sat on a folding chair with a book in his lap, quietly reading just like the last time. Was this going to become a habit?

Oddly enough, I hoped it would.

A couple of minutes passed before I asked, “Do you ever think about what your life would be like if your parents hadn’t died in the fire?”

He looked at me for a long moment, but I couldn’t read his expression. “Feeling like inflicting a little light emotional torture today, flower?” His words held both a bite and a certain level of tenderness.

“I’m just curious. I mean, I’d think about it if I were you. Don’t you ever feel like contacting your brother? Talking to him?”

“He left me. What’s there to talk about?”

I shrugged, looking at my painting because Jack’s stare was too intense right then. “I dunno. I just feel like believing the words of two random nurses and an uncle you never met before is foolish. You should hear it from the horse’s mouth. People make mistakes all the time. Perhaps the nurses got it wrong. Or perhaps your uncle was lying. You never contacted Jay directly. Not once.”

“Don’t say his name. I don’t want to hear it,” said Jack, a warning in his voice.

I went quiet for a minute, then said, “Thinking about him hurts, doesn’t it?”

Jack’s jaw tightened as he stared off into the distance. I didn’t expect him to answer me, so I was surprised when he bit out, “Yes.”

“Letting it fester won’t help anyone. Believe me, I know. I’ve spent years letting my mother’s meanness fester. All it does is eat you up inside. About a year ago, I started writing letters, telling her just how much she’d hurt me. I never intended to send them, but writing it down helped. The burden wasn’t so heavy afterwards.”

“What are you saying, Lille? That I should write my brother a letter, tell him how much I fucking despise him, is that it?” he scoffed.

I gave him the most sincere look I could muster as I replied, “If you think it will help, then yes.” I paused, summoning up the courage to whisper, “I care about you, and I don’t want you to hurt on the inside.”

His head turned, and he looked at me for a moment that dragged on forever, like my words had meant something to him. I saw a war wage within his black eyes before some of the tension went out of him in a long exhalation.

“Go get me a pen and paper,” he said, and I literally felt my heart leap. He was actually going to do it. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he told me he had a penchant for wearing women’s underwear every now and again.

Not saying a word, I went inside and checked on Lola for a minute (she was sleeping), then tore a few pages out of my notebook and grabbed a pen. Going back out, I handed them to Jack, our fingers brushing absently, then returned to my painting. He sat there for a long time, fiddling with the pen, before he began to write.

My belly was all aflutter as I watched him. I tried to focus on my painting, but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to know what he was writing. It was private, though, and I wouldn’t pry. I got lost in my painting for a while, working on the details of the stained glass windows of the Spiegeltent, and how they caught the light.

“Fuck,” Jack swore, startling me out of my concentration. I looked up to see him stand from his seat, scrunch up the paper he’d been writing on, and throw it in the bin. “This is bollocks.” He glared at me, and I felt my throat tighten. Jack McCabe was not the kind of man anyone wanted glaring at them, and I certainly didn’t relish being the recipient of said glare.

“I never said it worked for everyone. Maybe writing stuff down just isn’t cathartic for you like it is for me,” I suggested quietly.

“Why’d you even bring it up, Lille, huh? I told you about Jay because I trusted you. That doesn’t mean you have permission to start discussing it all casual like you’re commenting on the fucking weather.”

He kicked the side of the camper in frustration, which caused Violet to stick her head out the window, looking pissed. “What the fuck, man?”

Jack gave her a withering stare, and she shrank in on herself, muttering something under her breath that sounded a lot like “psycho” before she retreated back inside and shut the window tight. I stood and strode toward him, reaching out and pushing his shoulder. “Hey, that was uncalled for. I was only trying to help you.”

He grabbed my wrist, clutching it harshly, and I sucked in a breath. “From now on, my past is off limits. We don’t talk about it. You understand?”

“You’re angry. People that angry need to sort their shit out, Jack. You can’t just keep ignoring it. Burying your head in the sand just leaves you with sand in your eyes.”

He arched an eyebrow, and okay, yeah, what I’d just said sounded stupid, but I didn’t know how to get through to him. I also didn’t know why I felt it was so important that he come to terms with his feelings about his brother’s abandonment. All I knew was that it made me sad to think of what he might be missing out on. From what I’d learned about Jay Fields, he was an amazing person, and Jack deserved to have someone like him in his life.

Something about Jack’s story just didn’t ring true, and it had been niggling at me for a while.

“Stay out of my business, Lille,” he said finally, voice harsh but eyes sad, as he let go of my wrist, turned around, and walked away. I stood there even after he was gone, wondering if I’d just ruined whatever we had before it had even begun.

Then my eyes landed on the rubbish bin, where Jack had thrown his scrunched-up paper. My curiosity was about to get the better of me.

Eleven

In secret Lille stole Jack’s letter

Tears stung my eyes and ran down my face.

I didn’t know what I thought I’d find when I read Jack’s letter, but I certainly hadn’t expected to feel like someone had just buried a bullet in my chest. I was bawling as I crouched behind the camper for privacy, holding the uncrumpled sheet of paper in my hands. Even the way he wrote broke my heart. He used short, simple sentences, with frequent misspellings, and I remembered him telling me about the gaps in his education. You could tell simply from the lines he’d written.

When I woke up I wondered wer u wer 1st.

The last ting I remembered was suffocation and smoke.

Not being able to breathe is the scariest ting.

I cryed when they said Mam and Dad were dead.

I cryed when they said our uncle took u and not me.

I still hate hospitals.

Being alone feels worse when ur a kid.

Life seems endless. Endless loneliness.

U have no 1 and they give u to people and the people don’t want u but they do want u becos they can get mony for u and they want the mony and they’re all so greedy and they take everything until you have nothing and they don’t even care.

I’ve done bad tings.

I thought about u every day.

Remember u taught me how to throw plastic knives?

U were so much better than me.

I’m probably better than u now.

Sometimes I want u 2 see.

But I hate u.

I hate that I still love u.

Why didn’t u come back for me?

Why did u leave me?

Why did u leave me?