Her Melting Point

Fallout

If anything, if she ever had to pin down her preference, Jackie would say that the overly defined muscles of a gym rat like Gabe would have been her least favourite. All bodies were beautiful, of course; it was the obsessive vanity that she found least attractive. The same went for any other kind of 'pampering.' She probably had a higher tolerance for a 'natural man' than many other women - after all those dressing rooms and all-boys dorms - so as long as a man took showers and had clean nails, she was OK. Gabe's manscaping and 'curated wardrobe' had left her indifferent - which had gained her the attribute 'homey,' which decidedly hadn't been a compliment.

"Jackie."

Jackie's cheeks flushed. She'd been ogling him and thinking about her ex-husband and comparing said ex's physique to Alexander's firm young body and copious body hair!

"Oh god, I'm sorry!" She floundered, pushed the lingerie into the drawer, and opened the wardrobe. "I wasn't– I mean, I was staring, but not– not because I–" she kept mumbling and rummaging inside.

None of the pieces she found would work, and she kept throwing them behind or pushing the hangers aside, and they screeched on the rod; and it was noisy and inefficient. And the more she tried, the worst it got.

"Jackie."

She once again could hear amused laughter in his voice, and she groaned.

"You called me yesterday," he said. "You didn't explain, just told me to come. When I did, you were already sick."

She whipped her head in shock. "What? I was sick?! As in–"

"Vomiting," he confirmed, back to his usual blasé disposition. "That's why I'm undressed."

"Oh god." She stifled an anxious whimper. "Don't tell me, I–"

"On me, yes." He nodded towards her. "You took your clothes off yourself. Before I arrived."

"I probably sicked them up too." Jackie heavily sat down on the bed - and immediately jumped up, after her private parts made contact with the duvet.

"No, you threw up later. You got naked for my sake."

Silence in the room was only interrupted by a noise that Jackie in her petrified state didn't recognise.

"I started the kettle," Alexander said and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. Right, it's the whistle. "Should I make tea or coffee?"

Jackie opened and closed her mouth. After a few seconds, he must have understood that there would be no response; so he left.

Slowly, as if moving underwater, she found a pair of briefs and her old pyjama bottoms with a Scotch terrier pattern on them. She quickly brushed her teeth and gurgled with mouthwash in the ensuite, avoiding catching her reflection in the glass above the sink.

On her way to the kitchen she made a beeline to the utility room. It used to be a broom closet, which had been remodelled and housed the washer.

Jackie still hadn't decided what she was going to keep there, and for now the most random items were piled up on the shelves and the floor, including, to her mortification, the box labelled 'Baby Stuff.' The box was thankfully closed; so, when he'd been loading her and his clothes into the machine, he wouldn't have seen the content: her adult toys; the books on getting pregnant; a copy of customary What to Expect; and a teddy that her niece had sent her after Jackie's divorce. It had a tartan waistcoat on, and it had been sort of a talisman when she'd been considering an IVF. She'd kept telling herself that the two of them, Jackie and Teddy, a team of tough Scots, would be enough, and they could bring up a baby, and he or she or they would be healthy and happy. So much for that.

Jackie pushed the box behind a hoover and opened the washer.

She was struggling with the clothes horse when Alexander showed up from the kitchen.

"Do you need help?"

"No, thank you," Jackie answered instantly - and squished her finger in a 'joint' of the wobbly thingymabob.

She hissed, and he covered her hand with his.

"C'mon, let me do it," he said softly.

Jackie shook her head, fighting back pathetic tears; and he cradled her hand between his palms and placed a tiny kiss on the knuckle of the injured digit.

"I started your Sage, and I made tea," he murmured and kissed the back of her hand again. "You had water and Aleve last night, but you should eat something."

"How bad was it last night?" Jackie whispered, and her lips quivered.

He looked up at her, his face still lowered to their joined hands.

"Bad?" he repeated with a questioning intonation.

"You said that I'd– I'd stripped 'for your sake.'" She gritted her teeth and swallowed a couple of times, to stop an impending breakdown. "What did I do? Did I– proposition you?"

He straightened and scrutinised her face, with a small frown.

"It wasn't 'bad.' You were drunk and made little sense."

She assumed he was carefully choosing words not to upset her further; not that it were possible.

"But what exactly did I do?" she insisted. "I'd rather just know and apologise! Because clearly when I'm smashed, I do things that I wouldn't even imagine in my normal state– Just tell me already!"

"You have nothing to apologise for," he said. The line of his lips grew harder. "You told me that you were upset about a conversation you'd had earlier and that you were bad with drink. And then you asked me to make you feel better."

Jackie jerked her hand away from him. Clenching her jaws wasn't helping anymore, and the first sob gurgled in her throat.

"Jackie, it's alright," he said. He was visibly uneasy, he probably didn't know how to deal with women's tears. "I said we wouldn't have sex because you couldn't give sober consent. And that's when you vomited."

"I might–" she rasped out. "Again–"

"Would you like me to help you to the loo?" he asked readily - and she burst into crying.