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And so what if all she came back to was an empty bed, beer cans strewn across floorboards, and the long-passed smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to the walls in the autumn after-rain.
It was still home, after all, and either way, she still loved him or feared losing him enough to stay.
She kicked at the lone chair beside the door, dragged over from the kitchen table for god-knows-why. Not that any god bothered to look down on Jingletown, maybe to count the growing number of martyrs, but there was no redemption in sight for a place so forsaken.
She set her backpack on the seat. If Jimmy was gone there'd be no one to use the table tonight, the single dining chair served only as separation from whoever was still crashed on top of the mattress.
Her shoes followed suit to be removed, she kicked off the Converse she shoved beside the door and locked the deadbolt behind her. She deserved the guarantee of being alone.
Sure it was September but that hadn't stopped the bloom of sweat down her back as she walked home, the six-pack of soda from the 7-eleven only picked up as a distraction, something to fill the too-much empty time on days when she was alone and Jesus disappeared and Jimmy was nowhere to be found.
The cans gave an uneven clunk as she set them on the countertop. At first she made to brush away the crumbs and coffee grounds strewn all over the discoloured wood but Jimmy's place was Jimmy's place and not her responsibility.
If she wanted something to clean up she decided on herself, clicking on the switch of the flickering single-bulb in the bathroom and washing off the eyeliner she'd added to for three days straight.
It wasn't a hideout as much as temporary solitude, the distraction quickly fading as she was forced to examine her own expression and the inherent exhaustion she'd adopted ever since leaving home for Jingletown. She left the bathroom, cheeks reddened and eyelashes still wet as she blinked away the last of any serious thought.
Sometimes she just needed it to stop. If she understood anything about the way Jimmy was, or why Jesus was so dependent on whatever bullshit ideals he tossed out to be worshipped, that was the only reason.
She sank to the mattress at the other end of the floor, the open curtains streaming in enough afternoon sun to highlight every particle of dust in the old apartment. Briefly she considered half-asking Jimmy if he'd ever once cleaned the place but she could safely surmise a "no" all on her own.
It wouldn't have mattered, really, when she'd had no intent of staying so long in a place like this. But the way Jimmy marked everything with neglect only left her wondering how much it would take to be worth something to him. Worth something to Jesus, following in his Saint's blood-stained footsteps like the obedient disciple he was.
She wondered how long it would take until she was forgotten. If Jimmy would even bother to remember her name.