This is probably another one of those times when I should keep my mouth shut and let Jason open up when he wants to. But judging by how much I already know about him—namely, that you have to yank out any personal info like he’s holding on to it with a death grip—I take the plunge. I’ll worry about him getting annoyed later.
“Is there something I should know?” I ask.
I expect a sharp response, like I’ve gotten from my brother when I “annoy” him about his personal life. But Jason just sighs. He rubs a hand across his eyes, his shoulders slumping.
“She thinks I’m going to become an alcoholic,” he says.
Shock rockets through me, but I keep my face composed. Of all the things he could have said, this isn’t what I expected. Maybe she had a bad experience with a boyfriend who drank? She’s opposed to it in general? But I never pegged Jason as an alcoholic, even if he did get drunk that one time—I’ve never seen him drink since, till tonight.
“Okay,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice level. “Her concern can’t be completely unwarranted. Do you … have a drinking problem?”
Now his eyes sharpen, and he snaps, “No, I don’t.”
Should his defensiveness be a warning signal?
“Did something happen that would make her think you do?”
He hesitates a second, then sighs. “Before school started, back in the summer, the paparazzi got a shot of me coming out of a club. I was—okay, I was really drunk, but it had been a bad week. Mostly, it was just bad publicity, but Sophie freaked out.”
“I can see why she might,” I mutter.
But he must not have heard me, because he keeps talking. “She thinks that just because our father is an alcoholic, I’m going to become one, too,” he continues, frustration thick in his voice. “Like I can’t control myself. Like I’m going to be just like him.” He scowls, muttering, “I’m nothing like him. And, I mean, I’m nineteen. Only old people are alcoholics.”
I consider arguing with him about the last bit but hold back. My mind searches for the best way to respond, knowing I’m on sensitive ground. Without Sophie here, I can dig a little deeper, but I fear Jason shutting me off if I prick too many nerves. But the hurt that’s swallowed his eyes spurs me on.
“Why do you think Sophie’s worried?”
“I have no idea! She’s reading too much into it when there’s actually nothing there.”
I nod. “Maybe.”
He rolls his eyes. “Everyone drinks occasionally.”
“I don’t.”
We lapse into silence.
“You agree with Sophie,” he says, eyes hard. “You think I have a problem.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I have no idea. But I’ll be honest—I think you’re hiding something. There’s something else going on that you don’t want to talk about. But, whatever it is, you need to get over it. Because your drinking really upsets your sister, and it’s inconsiderate of you to do it when she’s around.”
Jason stares at me a long time. Until I squirm. But I hold his gaze, not willing to back down.
He looks away, and I give myself a mental high five.
“Maybe,” he murmurs so I almost don’t hear it.
We pick at the rest of the food, but most of it has gone cold. Jason throws away the rest of the bottle of soju, and the sound of the sloshing liquid hitting the trash can sends a shiver through me.
Sophie returns about ten minutes later, a shopping bag under her arm and her good mood returned. She clears away our leftovers, and we head back out of the market.
On our way back to the car, I slow my pace so I walk behind the twins, watching them. It’s obvious they’re close. And despite Jason’s assertions that he’s okay, I wonder if Sophie’s fears are reasonable. I know he’s reserved, but is it normal for someone to be that unemotional and detached most of the time?
I think back to Nathan before he got bad, and there are some similarities. But that could just be that creative type of brain and the moodiness which often accompanies it. Still, I determine to take more notice of his moods. I’m not going to watch another person close to me self-destruct.
As if he can feel me thinking about him, Jason slows and falls into step beside me, Sophie walking a few paces ahead of us. When we’re in sight of the car, he grabs my wrist and stops me. We stand in the middle of the sidewalk, facing each other.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says, peering at our shoes. “You—you were right about Sophie. It was stupid of me to think it wouldn’t bother her. She … took getting a stepmom a lot harder than I did. I think Sophie always hoped our father would go back to our mom.”
He looks at me, and I struggle for words. With him standing so close, his head bent down toward me, my articulation skills disappear, and all my attention diverts to the feel of his fingers wrapped around the skin between my glove and sleeve.
“You’ve been really good for Sophie.” He swallows hard, shifting uncomfortably. “And me.”
If my brain hadn’t already melted, it would have now. His gaze bores into mine, like he’s trying to communicate something he can’t with words. But my brain’s so fuzzy I can’t figure out what.
I part my lips to respond with something—anything—but no sound comes out. All I can do is stare back at him, the heat in my cheeks increasing and the feel of his breath on my face sending shivers down my back.