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never know.  Jackson wasn’t talking and the only other person that might have even a tiny speck of insight into him was the one person that I would never ask—Jersey.
    I tossed and turned most of the night.  I slept in short, fitful bursts, which was probably why I was awake enough to hear the muted tones of a feminine voice bouncing around in the room next door.
    At first, I thought it was the television, but when the voice laughed, I quickly realized that it was very much a real girl.  And she was with Jackson only a few feet away.  In his room.  Probably alone.
    Something dark and ugly rose up inside me.  I climbed out of bed with every intention of walking straight into his room and demanding to know who he was entertaining.  But as I began to twist the knob that would take me past the point of no return, my pride kicked in and demanded that I do nothing.  It refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I gave a rat’s butt about what he did or with whom he did it.
    Secretly, however, in the silent privacy of my room, my insides felt like they were being pushed through a meat tenderizer.  I crawled back into bed and curled into the fetal position, hoping that would still the pain that was viciously shredding all the things that made me whole.  But it didn’t.  All the duct tape in the world couldn’t hold together what Jackson was tearing apart. 
    It was the sting of tears at the backs of my lids that saved me.  They awakened an inbred maturity, a strength of will that my parents had ruthlessly instilled in me, and it came rushing to my defense.  I reminded myself that not only did I have no claims on Jackson whatsoever, but ours was a relationship that could never be.  It was doomed before it even began, and there was no sense mourning something that never was.
    That’s what I told myself anyway, but the pain was determined.  It still tore at my guts, at my chest, at my aching heart. 
    I listened closely until I heard the dull thump of Jackson’s door closing behind the girl as she left.  At least I hoped it was closing behind her as she left.  I didn’t hear her again after that and it got so quiet next door, I assumed that Jackson was in bed, asleep.
    I didn’t get a single minute of peaceful slumber the rest of the night.  You’d think with all that thinking time I’d have come to some sort of resolution.  But instead, I had nothing to show for it the next day but dark circles, bad hair, irritability and more frustration than I’d ever had before.
    When Jersey got up to go get her shower, despite my new-found maturity from the night before, I jumped out of bed and ran to the door that adjoined our rooms and I pressed my ear to it.  I heard no sounds at all. 
    I felt the frown settle between my eyes.  Jackson should be up and at ‘em by now.  Maybe he’d left to go with the girl last night.  That hadn’t occurred to me.
    Too tired and frazzled to fend off my natural impetuousness, I raised my hand and rapped my knuckles on the door. 
    There was no answer.  So I knocked again. 
    When still there was no sign that Jackson was in his room, my heart began to pound painfully beneath my sternum, the dread and disappointment crushing.
    I wrenched the knob.  It remained unlocked at all times, per Jackson’s instruction, so I pulled the door open and poked my head around to see if I spotted him.  The room was empty, though, so I flung the door wide and stepped inside. 
    The blinds over the single window were open and light poured through the slats, shedding bright, slanted rays into the otherwise darkened room.  I looked at Jackson’s bed, which was made perfectly in a no-fuss, guy-ish kind of way.  The room was neat as a pin and stark in a militaristic way, much like the man who occupied it.
    I walked around the periphery, dragging my fingers along the empty dresser top and small desk that sat beneath the window.  There were a few odds and ends scattered across its