Chapter 89

Finally, fed up with how I’m feeling, I get up, saying, “I’ll make the coffee,” and walk off toward the kitchen without looking at either of them.

I keep my back turned as I lay out cups. I can hear my mother carrying on the conversation about the shelter, but Jake sounds only half interested. His replies are polite, yet he’s not conversing. I glance back and catch him looking at me every few seconds. He’s trying to read me and gauge what’s going on in my head. I look away and close my eyes.

This is fucked-up part of me that he doesn’t see as much in New York—old Emma rules here in Chicago. Her moods are all over the place, her temper short, and the suffocating air of this wretched apartment makes her agitated.

I carry the cups over and put them down in front of them, returning for my own before I finally sit back down. I push my uneaten food away, curbing the urge to start tapping my nails on the table. There’s growing energy of restlessness inside me, that famili