Jack Who? (Book 1 Draft Version)

CHAPTER 23

Chewing a cherry tomato, I looked longingly at the chicken strips. “How could any of that,” loosely I referred to the custody dispute, “be taken any other way?”

“From what you told me, it is open to interpretation.” The smell of Tristan's meal was getting to Olivia too, or maybe the hunger in my eyes for carbohydrates rubbed off on her, because her eyes continually strayed also to the chicken meal.

Hearing Olivia's view shed some hope in my heart, and as I tried to remember the exact conversation, my eyes landed for the dozenth time on the chicken. “Jack and Tristan will eat somewhere, I know it. Jack can't go two hours without eating.”

“Jack, Jack, Jack...” Olivia teased.

“Shut up if you want some of these!” Losing the carb battle, I broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into my salad, and scooped a few fries into my mouth.

“So what you need to do is write what he said down, and look at it.” Olivia tossed a strip onto her lettuce and with perfect etiquette cut it into cubes using her plastic knife and fork.

Considering her words, I was always amazed that she could be so wise with advice these days, when, for years, she had spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, I pulled a pen from the plastic jar, that Tristan had made into a pencil holder with stickers and glitter glue. Letting my mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, I began to jot the conversation as recalled, on the back of a junk mail envelope.

Just as I began to examine the words, Bally began an excited bark, signaling Jack and Tristan's return. Guiltily, I shoved the envelope beneath my purse, hid the container, minus chicken plus fries, inside the microwave, and hastily rolled up the cord to the vacuum that was a tripping hazard to Tristan.

Tristan was glowing with happy excitement and careful of his crutches, I wrapped him in a hug of greeting., “Did you eat sweetheart?”

“Jack had two hamburgers and I had chicken.” He announced. “Then we had ice cream and I told him you didn't eat ice cream, but, he brought you some anyway.”

“I bet she eats ice cream today,” Olivia murmured beneath her breath, and I jerked around finding my friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.

“Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, I ignored the sundae in question and shoo'd Bally outside. The dog knew enough not to knock Tristan down in welcome, but was jumping all around Jack, who was carrying in his other hand a kid sized red Fender. A shopping bag hung on the crook of his elbow.

“Why today, Mom?”

It was the first time my little boy had ever called me anything but Momma, and non-pulsed I searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, I narrowed my eyes again at Olivia.

“Because ice cream is good. But, you are right, I don't want any right now.” When Olivia quietly sniggered again, I shot her a pointed look and crossed the room, bending slightly to snatch the plastic container. “I will put it in the freezer for later.” Olivia made another sound and I ignored it this time.

Jack paused to give me an entirely different pointed look, one that seemed hot and hungry, yet dispassionate at the same time; as if I were some random girl who caught his attention for a few seconds. When I came out of this strange reverie, he and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and I felt silly. Maybe a hint to a polite introduction was all that had been behind his look.

Olivia picked up her handbag in preparation to leave. Not wanting to be alone with Jack, I strongly hinted for her to stay.

“Please stay Aunt Liv. We got an x-box and a race car game!”

Pivoting around, I saw that he was hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and my accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An x-box?!”

“Mom, wait till you see! It's so dope!”

Again, if my look could have slashed, a certain rock god would be bleeding. But, Jack seemed likewise startled at new slang from the four-year old. Olivia wisely backed slowly away from the altercation, and, once out of proximity, turned on her heels to run out the door.

“You can play first, Mom,” Tristan offered, while avidly watching Jack load the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in my face, put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.

Pulling in a calming breath, I exclaimed with enough exhilaration to match Tristan's mood, as I viewed his new guitar. Reaching for it, I lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. My father had an acoustic, and, throughout my childhood, had taught my siblings and I various chords, and keys.

In stunned surprise, Jack eyed my ability to create a short riff. Laying the instrument aside and smiling at Tristan's offer, I shook my head. “You and Jack play. I might later.”

Without a word to Jack, I sequestered myself in the bedroom for an uncharacteristic nap. Tristan was not in pain, and, without Tylenol, I doubted he would nap. Until this surgery, he hadn't in over a year. Once, I heard the heavier footsteps of Jack advancing, then the bedroom door eased completely closed, and with the happy shrieks of Tristan and husky exclamations of Jack muffled as they gamed, I dozed.

Dully, I watched father and son over supper, still keeping up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. But the shopping trip today was my newest internal objection. Never had I been able to wow my son with much more than the hot wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had me wary and jealous .

Is this what joint custody, or God forbid, full custody would entail? Everything Tristan would ever want? And was that a bad thing, after everything he had been through? He had such a good heart that it was hard to fathom the possibility of him becoming a spoiled brat.

Again, Jack left that night with barely a goodbye, and it was daunting to think of another three days and nights of this routine.

To make matters worse, my brother, residing in Florida, inboxed me on Facebook to tell me my mother was not happy with the way I had 'cast her aside.' While on the social network, I clicked over to Jack's private page. We had friended while sitting in the hospital room, among empty blizzard cups.

Jack's status read, 'Chillin on the downlow,' and there were several comments beneath it inquiring where he was vacationing, but he had yet to answer, at least not on his newsfeed.

Curiously, I clicked through his pictures, and halted, engrossed, on one of him wearing only swim trunks, posed on a beach with a female version of him. This picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and I scrutinized each person that Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv or my parents, or even my distant siblings.

Stopping on an older version of Jack, I studied the man, and the equally attractive woman his arm curved around; a couple that Tristan would soon call grandparents. Suddenly, I felt guilty for leaving my parents out of the loop and resolved to call my mother the next day.

I fell asleep on the couch and woke to the race game. Bally was stretched out with me. Only one of Tristan's crutches lay in the floor area around him, and lifting my head, I looked, finding the other near the television. Everyday he was getting stronger, less dependent on them.

Jack brought breakfast burritos, and I hungrily inhaled mine before going into the spare room to work it off. I was immersed in the music pounding from my earbuds when the prickle began. Hitching my chin, I found Jack malingering in the doorway, his eyes hungrily attuned to my every movement.

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