“Do you want me to call Bryn for you?” I ask.
Jem sits on the low windowsill. “No.”
“Then what? What did you want me for—before you forgot you asked me to come over?”
“In the kitchen,” he says flatly.
“What?”
“Go into the kitchen and do something.”
I rub my head; this man makes no sense as usual. “What? Make you a drink?”
“Shit!” Jem doubles over and wraps his arms around his head.
I freeze. He hasn’t… Heading downstairs, I halt in the kitchen doorway. Glass from a broken bottle covers the floor and a strong smell of whisky comes from the brown liquid seeping across the tiles.
Jem, you fucking idiot.
Glass crunches under my feet as I walk into the room. An empty tumbler rests on the counter and I smell the inside. Nothing. Maybe he didn’t. My first instinct is to clear this up. If Jem’s slipping, then the smell of alcohol won’t help. I pick up the largest parts of the broken glass and set them on the counter.
I can’t do this. I don’t know how to help him right now.
Stepping back out of the kitchen, I pull my phone from my pocket and search for Bryn’s number. Jem needs his friends, not me.
“Don’t call anyone.” Jem’s low voice comes from the doorway behind.
“Have you been drinking?” I demand.
“No!”
“So where’d the bottle come from?”
He swipes hair from his face. “I didn’t drink anything, but I was fucking close!”
Hesitantly, I move closer but there’s no alcohol smell on his breath. The curls hang into his reddened eyes and in them I see a suffering my heart can’t handle—something has really hurt Jem. I reach out and touch his hand, attempting to take Jem’s fingers in mine. When he snatches his hand away and tucks both beneath his arms, backing away, the rejection hurts as much as the day he told me to leave.
“So you want me here to babysit?” I ask harshly. “Wasn’t Bryn available?”
“I didn’t try Bryn. I wanted to see you,” he says in a flat voice.
“Why?”
“Because you won’t judge. You won’t push. You’ll just be.”
“I’m not staying if you don’t tell me what’s going on. You can’t randomly contact me three weeks after breaking my heart, and then expect me to be okay with it,” I say, annoyed when my voice cracks.
Jem rubs his temples. “Breaking your heart?”
“Of course, you fucking did!” His eyes widen at my shouting. “Jem, just tell me what’s going on.”
He mumbles something at the floor and I huff and step closer. “What?”
“I saw my mum,” he tells his feet.
His simple words smack understanding into the situation around us. “When? What did she do?”
He ignores my response. “And she died yesterday.”