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leaving the decrepit pregnant woman, and the grieving widower alone. I wander down the hall and watch Bob from the doorway of Elijah’s old room. He looks haunted, and even in sleep he clutches the empty bottle like his life depends on it. I walk over, and pry it from his hand. I’ve never lost someone close to me before, so maybe his life does depend on it right now. I cover him over with a blanket, and then I switch off the light, close the door, and let him sleep it off.
    I’m sitting watching The Bold and the Beautiful —shut up, it’s my one guilty obsession since they quit playing re-runs of Friends , and I’m dying to know which botoxed-within-an-inch-of-her-life old hag Ridge chooses to marry this week—when Jackson comes sauntering in, and plonks his annoying arse down, practically on top of me. He shoves his meaty fist into my bowl of freshly-popped popcorn, and contaminates it with all his cooties.
    “Has he made a decision yet?”
    “No. He’s still stringing them along like the typical, male fucktard he is.”
    “Why the hell are they both so into him? I mean, the bloke’s like a hundred.”
    “I don’t know.” I shrug, “he’s kinda sexy.”
    “You have taste in your arse, Hols.”
    “Yeah, well, I did sleep with you,” I joke, and then remember why that is so not funny. Truthfully, the way Jackson dismissed me the other night made me feel like nothing more than a dirty slut. Yes, yes, I asked for it, sort of. I mean, if you were to ask Jackson, it’d be all my fault, because I burst into his room with all the moxy of a Vegas showgirl, and threw my little slutsky self at him, and begged him to fuck me. And yes, okay, it might have gone down not too far from that, but the fact remains that I told him we should stop, and he grabbed hold of my hand and thrust us both headfirst over the cliff-face. Where exactly are we now? Fucked if I know. Probably the same place we’ve always been: walking a very fine, and tragically ill-fated line.
    “We gonna talk about the other night?”
    “What? You mean the fact that Sammy lost his mother, and Bob lost his wife?”
    “You know that’s not what I mean.”
    “No. We’re not going to talk about it. We’re not going to have a repeat performance, and we’re not talking about it.”
    “Okay then.” Jackson snatches up another handful of popcorn, and shovels it in his mouth, chewing with it half-opened. I swear, one day I’m going to shove my fist in there, and then maybe he’ll learn to shut the hell up. “So you don’t want me to eat you out right here on the couch?”
    I drop the bowl, and popcorn spills out all over my lap. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and whisper, “I hate you.”
    “No you don’t. You want to, but sweetheart, you got all kinds of feelings for old Jack, and none of them are based on hatred.”
    “Would you please not refer to yourself as old Jack? You sound like a paedophile.”
    “Night, Hols. Old Jack’s going to take a shower before hitting the hay. I might even forget to lock the door so you don’t have to kick it down.”
    “I hate you,” I shriek as he saunters away chuckling.
    “Sure, sweetheart, you just keep telling yourself that.”
    I pick up the popcorn, and shove each piece back in the bowl, harder than I should. Then I switch off the TV and glare at the hall, as if my angry-girl, X-ray vision power can melt Jackson’s face off with a mere look. Bastard.
    I will not go into the shower.
    I will not go in the shower.
    Oh, shit, I’m going in the shower . I open the door and let the steam engulf me. I watch the water trickle over his body, down his back, and over the hard planes of his muscular hips and arse. God, it’s exactly like looking an angel in the face: frightening, powerful, and all-over forbidden, and that’s exactly why I find my feet moving towards him. I pull open the shower door, and step under the too-hot stream. My clothes are soaked, I’m probably panda-eyeing all over the