And I hope I hope I hope it's soon. Because for me it's always been you who hung the moon. Even when she glares and stares and doesn't care, I see you up there. –Jackson Killian
Chapter Sixteen
My kitchen table was draped in an old white sheet, atop of which sat the crate of cameras Bettie had bought in Placerville a few days ago. I'd also pulled out my mother's box of old cameras from the closet. My laptop was open to a repair webpage with step-by-step instructions. I had a bottle of ROR fluid, another of acetone, a camel brush, some old wrenches, and a pile of the soft rags Quinn called shammies. My tiny weapons included a new carton of Q-tips, two boxes of toothpicks, and one of meat skewers. A pad of paper and a pen for a parts list sat ready with a teacup full of Zinfandel beside it.
The overhead fan circled slowly above me, moving cool night air in from the open kitchen window. My phone was plugged into Quinn's little iHome and quietly shuffled a sedate playlist.
I pulled out the Speed Graphic. I'd wanted one for a long time, just for the look of it, even if it never took another picture. But I thought, if I was careful, and if I recognized when I was out of my depth, I might be able to get it functional again.
I'd watched a few YouTube videos and thought I could at least handle the cleaning of it myself. I started slowly, stacking parts as I pulled them off and brushed them clean. I thought about how different this camera was from the Coolpix I'd bought at Best Buy. The Coolpix I'd used all of three times.
I just didn't feel the desire, the same way. Point and shoot was great for when Quinn was on the move or I needed a fast memory burned into forever, but I'd had no compulsion to take pictures with it. To take pictures of subjects. For that I wanted an old beast. Something you had to tease and coerce to get what you wanted.
I didn't have a place to develop anything, but I wasn't thinking that far. I just wanted to aim the Speed Graphic at something. Like a weapon of my creativity, I just wanted to feel it operational in my hands. I wanted inspiration; I wanted the surge of it. To know my ability wasn't dead, as I'd been fearing.
Using a meat skewer, I carefully scratched grunge out of a seam and blew a slim line of air into the crack. Grey-green funk fluttered down to the table. Curious, I smeared a few of the dusty nuggets into the white sheet with my finger.
The gunpowdery mess was greasy on my skin. I rubbed my thumb and index finger together, wondering what the grime was made of–what muck lingering on fingers from ages past had been scraped into the sharp creases of this small machine.
Maybe a press photographer had rushed from his lunch into the scene of a riot or a rally, ketchup or apple pie residue on his hands. Maybe a National Geographic documentarian, hidden low in a bush as the sun came up, had caught the attention of lion and took off running, savannah dirt clinging to her and her camera. Maybe...
The knock was short and soft, but it still startled me. I leaned my chair back to look out the window, knowing the porch was blocked from this angle. I glanced the other way down the driveway, but my gleaming fresh-washed Bronco blocked the view.
"Who is it?"
I knew though, before he answered, "Jack."
I brushed my hands on my jeans and opened the door. He stood sheepishly on the front step, head cocked to one side and the porch light scraping light over the sharp bone of his cheek. The rest of his face was in shadow.
"You're back."
He'd returned to L.A. after the hearing and the new custody orders were to begin this Friday. He'd emailed me his schedule and the nights he wanted to watch Quinn. I'd gone over those dates with Jeanie who had apologetically explained that watching Quinn was her full time job. It worked well for her with her school schedule and asking her to work three days a week instead of five meant she would probably have to get another job. Which meant I'd likely lose her the rest of the time.
I'd felt like an asshole. I should have considered how this would impact Jeanie. I didn't want her to have to get another, more strenuous job–one where she'd be strained to get her homework done, where she'd have to be away from her home and her horses.
I'd panicked. "What if I pay you the same? For three nights instead of five. And maybe you could be on call the other two in case Jack needs help. Which he probably will."
She'd given me a questioning look. "Really Katie?"
As soon as I'd said it though, it felt right. I could tell she'd liked the idea, too. I was relieved, but also dreading all the other possible ways Jack's return could impact the peace of my life.
Jack nodded, his head still at that odd angle. "Got a minute?"
"Yeah... you could've called first though."
He sighed, impatiently shifting his weight from one booted foot to the other. "Honestly. I thought you'd say no. To me coming over on your night off."
"That's my right, Jack." My voice was apologetic.
The hinge of the door whined as Jack stepped inside and looked around the dim living room. The glow from the kitchen spilled into it, giving soft shadows to the tidy space. "Quinn in bed already?"
"He conked out early. You want tea?"
He narrowed his eyes at me. "You're drinking wine."
I pressed my oily fingers to my lips; almost feeling the currant stains there. The taste in my mouth was rusty and red, and suddenly very large in my mind.
"Well, yeah. Would you like a glass?" Jack didn't use to like wine. He'd choke down the rare glass, the stemmed crystal fragile in his firm grip. I always used to think you could tell how he felt about something by the way he touched it. He held the neck of a beer bottle with more tenderness than a delicate glass. He poured a whisky neat with more care than champagne.
He embraced coffee mugs with both his hands, teacup edges with suddenly dainty fingers. Cigarettes were caressed into his mouth, pens pushed gingerly into a scrawl. His brute force when he held a hammer turned to dexterity when he held an instrument.
He was all hands and voice and temper. A man alive.
"I would. But no."
"Will it bother you if I drink?"
"Um. No." He scratched his temple. "I don't think so. And don't bother with the kettle. I don't want tea. I just came here mostly... to see Quinn. And to apologize." His eyes flicked to the ceiling and then back to me. "Again."
"Again? When was the last time?"
He followed me into the kitchen but didn't answer.
I turned to find his gaze lingering over the mess of equipment on the table. His eyes shifted slowly to mine. "You're right. I should've called."
I tilted my head in question.
"It's like... well." He wrapped his right hand around his left bicep and held it, a posture I'd not seen in years. It took me straight back to late night conversations where he was searching for the right explanatory words. Him thoughtful, digging deep, I'd forgotten this.
What else had I forgotten that I'd forgotten?
"It's like something crass I can't say. Shouldn't. But probably will anyway."
My brows went up with my curiosity, but he didn't see. His eyes were loose and unfocused, like a memory was playing itself out against the floor where it met the wall. "It's like... there you are. All over that table. Like the way you tap your fingers against your mouth while you're working something out. Like catching your scent or seeing your nipples go hard through your shirt when you're cold. It's raw. It's fucking... wrong. Like going through your drawers. Like remembering a forgotten dream."
He wasn't talking to me; he was talking to himself. And I let him, because my heart was in my throat beating blood right into my ears.
"Mine." He gave a short huff. "Once upon a time, mine. But it doesn't belong to me, anymore. It's like that infernal ice cube you put into my coffee. I mean, maybe I shouldn't notice, but how do you not notice it? How do you not remember the things that made you happy... when you haven't been happy in a long, long time?"
His eyes flickered and revived. He tipped his head back and looked down his nose at me. "You don't have a darkroom though."
"I do not," I whispered. I was wondering when my bra had betrayed me, trying to remember any moment when Jack's gaze had dropped—or any time he'd seemed to breathe me in. I couldn't. I was swimming through a cloud, reaching for the possibility that I wasn't alone trying to deal with him, with the variances between now and then.
"So you don't actually take pictures with that junk?"
"Not yet. But... I hope to."
"My agent would tell you that hope is a poor strategy."
"Um. Okay." I shook my head and plucked the cup from the table. My fingers resisted a real grip, and I plunked it heavily on the counter. The wine bottle was heavy; purple liquid slopped into the cup as I poured. My back to Jackson, it felt like I'd turned away from a chasm. The hairs at my neck spiked hard, as if they were being pulled.
He'd taken me to Moher Cliffs when we'd been in Ireland, and walking the edge of those insane depths had been wildly thrilling for me. Placing my foot about a yard from the drop, my heart flopped in my chest and nervous laughter had frothed out of me like float foam. I remembered pushing my whipping hair out of my face to find Jack loitering a few feet back, a contemplative smile just softening his stern eyes. He'd seemed so easy. Like it wouldn't matter if he fell, because he knew he could fly.
"You're looking at me like I'm not real."
"You don't seem afraid."
"I'm terrified," he'd said casually.
I turned from him to face the ocean. The wind came up high and blew hard into my eyes. Jack was like a roaring fire behind me. I felt him surging; somehow more courageous when I wasn't facing him. The devil searing his heat into my back, the deep blue sea beckoning me forward into madness.
I'd imagined myself walking this ledge in the night, dancing it under the stars.
My heels lifted; my head swam. I sat down fast and flopped backwards to press my whole body into the coarse grass, running my arms and legs back and forth to feel the stable Earth under me. It had been like being drunk.
I sucked in air, smelling my splattered wine instead of the sea. I wanted it suddenly. That giddy free mind madness, the security of standing on the lip of the world. I put my face in my cup and took a big drink.
"So. I wanted to sort of. Explain a little," Jack whispered. As if he knew, as if he knew his own force and tempered it. "Because. Before I left here, before I went back to LA... you and I were doing okay. I mean, am I wrong about that? We were doing better?"
"I felt like we had a truce, a tentative one at least." I faced him, feeling hollow and stale and faded against the memory of my vivid younger self. Somehow her hair was darker, her eyes bolder, her words sharper. Her heart bigger. Her fears unfounded and her dreams all over her face. Attainable. Everything for that girl had been possible. "I was surprised how quickly we went back to fighting."
Jackson's mouth pinched as if he tasted something bitter. As if he was drinking my wine.
I shrugged. "I guess I wasn't that surprised. You've always run hot and cold. You know that. But... I guess. I used to get more warning between temperature changes."
"Well. It caught me by surprise too. I left here feeling positive and optimistic... and that's when things go bad. I felt like I had to, you know, reassert some..."
"Assholery?"
"Distance. Maybe."
I spoke into my cup, like I didn't care at all. "You treated me the way your mother treats me. Like I'm nothing."
We regarded each other, and I decided to go on.
"I get why you feel that way about me. Believe me. I've felt that way about myself for a long time, Jack. But I can't any more. I have to... I have to start getting better now."
He gave a tiny shake of his head. "I don't feel that way about you. Like you're nothing. Back in L.A., well... back in L.A., I got some rather shitty advice from some rather shitty people. I shouldn't have taken it. L.A.'s a shitty place. Full of shit."
"Sounds shitty." I smothered a smile.
"So... There's a reason I keep Riordan around. You know, despite maybe... your experience of him—my fault, of course—he actually, keeps me pretty grounded. But he's on holiday now and has been since I went home. It's not that I can't be decent without him. I can. I can be. I just haven't cared... but I do. Now."
He was talking to himself again, coaching or praying or self-soothing. I didn't know.
"Someone told me that my best option would be to undermine you as a parent, otherwise I wouldn't get anything. Any, you know... of Quinn."
"That person sounds shitty."
"Well, yeah. She was. Actually, I shouldn't say that about her. She's just... she's just young."
"No offense, but I prefer 'shitty' as the adjective there." I felt sick. I could deal with this as long as I didn't have to actually deal with it.
His eyes were deep and dark and saw right into me. "We'll stick with that one then. Shitty."
"Thanks." I avoided his eyes by looking into my mug. I thought of downing the half-cup in there, but that would take me from pleasantly warm to buzzed. I didn't want to be inebriated around Jack. I might say something I'd regret. I sighed and set the cup down.
"Does that bother you?"
I gave him a no-shit look.
His eyes darted away.
"It doesn't bother me as much as you... being so hard to deal with. And before you say that it's my way and my rules and my world...I just mean. I wish we could just get along. Without you attacking me all the time. You're—"
"If I'm different, Kit. An asshole or a prick or whatever you were going to call me. Whose fault is that?" He spoke gently, but I was maxed out.
I waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mine."
I pushed myself off the fridge and leaned a hip against the cabinet next to Jack. I knew I was poking the hornets' nest but found myself unable to stop. Maybe I was being carried forward on a wave of wine bravery, or maybe I'd been empowered by the memory of not flying off Moher Cliffs into the splash and suck of the water way down below.
He looked down at me; I could feel his stare on the part of my hair. I brought my face up and caught his intensity with my determination. "You obviously still have feelings about me. Sure... those feelings might be hate. But to quote the immortal and incomparable Jack Killian. Get over it."
His face formed into granite more unyielding than my imagined springboard.
I pushed back, and folded my arms. "I'm tired of this. I don't want to fight with you anymore. I don't have the energy for it. You want me to put aside some personal residual feelings. You need to do the same. I'm sick of carrying this bag of guilt. I want to put it down. I want to focus on what's important now."
"You sure are big and brave now that you have your court order." Again, he was speaking softly but emphatically.
I barked out laughter. "You served me."
He nodded, face still clenched. "Okay. Okay, Kit. Past is past, then. Tonight we start again. That's why I came."
"Maybe we should just agree to try. You know... once upon a time—I didn't just love you. I liked you. I trusted you. Now I'm afraid of you. It's dumb."
"Funny. I'm afraid of you."
...
I closed up the boxes in the closet and shut the door. I stepped back until I hit the bed and sat on it. It had once been ours—along with all the other furniture in the room. I wondered if Jack would feel entitled to open those private drawers and sift through them. It's not like he'd find anything. I didn't keep a journal. And even if I did, I doubt he'd be surprised by anything I'd choose to write. He knew me. Still. Even though he didn't.
I stood and strode through the living room into the kitchen. A new teapot was out next to the stove accompanied by a box of Bentleys and a package of tea biscuits. I switched the crock-pot to low and tasted the black bean chili simmering inside.
Needs salt. I wrote on a sticky from the pad on the fridge and stuck it on the lid.
I stacked the Yo Gabba Gabba DVDs next to the TV and pulled some of the off-rotation toys from the basket in the mudroom. I'd started doing this after Vivian recommended it, saying that if I took a few of Quinn's toys and tucked them out of sight for a few months, when I brought them out again they would seem new to him. It worked. We had several toys on rotation. The basket contained a Magna Doodle he hadn't seen since before Christmas and a Matchbox set. That might help Jack manage him.
I rubbed my palms against my purple scrubs and checked my watch. I went into Quinn's room for the third time and sat next to the jammies laid out on the bed, my eyes resting on the picture frame I'd put on his night table yesterday.
It had two panels containing two photos. One of me and one of Jack.
Bettie had taken the one of me outside next to the camellia bush. I was smiling, really smiling, because Bettie had gotten me going on a ridiculous joke before snapping the shot.
"I want it to be a nice picture, for Quinn," I'd said.
She'd held her phone up, cigarette blazing between her fingers. "Smile." She was quiet a moment. "Oh my god, Kibbs, you smile like Quinn. Don't just show me your teeth for Pete's sake."
"You have to make me laugh, dummy."
She pinched her cigarette with her lips and spoke around it. "Can't be a comedienne on command. Okay wait. I made up a joke... it's not very PC."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No. Get ready. I'm going to snap the picture as soon as I tell it to you. Okay? Just remember... this is going to be funny."
She told the joke, and I'd blurted out laughter. Mostly because Bettie could barely get the words out without laughing herself. Her hysteria was contagious.
"So imagine Jesus at stand-up comedy night. He's in front of a mike on a stand. Okay? And he says... hey, everyone. Thanks for coming out... I'm Jesus the Savior... I just flew in from Bethlehem and boy are my arms nailed to this cross."
She was snorking back her laughter, listing slightly to one side, her arm braced over her belly. "Get it?"
I got it.
The picture of me was maybe the best I'd ever seen. Since I'd gotten married anyway. I looked happy. Free. A trick of the light had made me just a little blurry, and my complexion glowed as a result.
In the other panel was a picture of Jackson. It wasn't one I'd taken. I'd found it on the Internet. I'd wanted one where he looked about the age he was now, with his hair cropped short. One where he looked happy. I'd found it in a candid shot of him leaving a Dublin pub with a girl. I cut her out and printed it on photo paper. He wasn't smiling all the way, but he was smiling.
The only comment Quinn had made about the addition to his bedroom was to point out Jack to me.
It was a first step towards integration. I felt good about it. I hadn't felt good about a photo of Jack in a long time.
A knock came from the front door.
"It's open," I called and got up.
The first thing I noticed about Jack was that he looked nervous. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine," I told him.
He shrugged out of his coat. "I'm not worried."
He was lying. We both knew it. "Where's Quinn?"
"He's down at the ranch with Jeanie. She'll bring him up in about..." I looked at my watch. "Any time now, really."
His chest rose and fell with his breath. I caught it, faintly smoky and very minty. The mix brought with it nostalgia that didn't hurt for once. I felt bright and ready, like we wouldn't fight today. "Okay... so... I'm going to go over a lot of stuff here. You ready to soak it all up?"
"Just call me sponge."
"Okay sponge. Here's the deal. Quinn goes down at 8 pm. If he makes it that late. He usually doesn't. He won't go to bed without Uma. Don't let him misplace her, it."
"Um. Is it a her or an it?"
I waved my hand. "I don't know. Just call it Uma."
"Okay."
"Dinner is in the crock-pot, and there's strawberries in the fridge for after. He can have milk but no juice. He only gets juice in the daytime. He might ask you for juice; the answer is no. And he might ask for juice meaning milk."
"Okay."
"He already had a bath today so don't give him one. Also, you can't smoke in here."
Jackson blinked languidly at me. "For fuck's sake, Kit."
I blinked at him. It was a look that said these are the rules; you will get all of them whether or not you need them. He answered in kind, a go-on resignation in his face.
"You can smoke outside, but leave the door open so you can hear him if he falls or asks for you. He knows you're watching him tonight, and he's really excited about it."
Jack half smiled. I wished for my Pentax, my hands actually recalling its shape. He'd always been my favorite subject.
"Emergency numbers are on the fridge. MRAH is the clinic where I work. Jeanie is down at the ranch. Bettie works with me tonight, but her number is on there too. Devin is your last option, but if you can't get me or Jeanie, call him. For Quinn, he'd do whatever you needed him to do."
Jack was annoyed. "I'm not going to need to call Devin."
"Never say never."
"No, Kit... I'm saying never. Right now. Witness me."
I shrugged. "You need to understand that Devin spends a lot of time here. I don't ever want him to feel unwelcome in my house, that goes for when you're here too."
His jaw clenched and unclenched. I ignored it.
"This is his home too. I have an open-door policy for him. So, if he shows up here. Manners."
We stared at each other; I let my eye contact drive the point home. That I was serious. That this was important. Jack gave a quick brow-lift, like an invisible nod. I took it.
I had the power and I felt it. I had legal custody, at least for now. I had physical custody except for this visitation. Jack would comply with me. He wanted to comply with me. I had to hold that thought. I had to keep our resolution to get along. So did he. We were both motivated.
"Anyway, Devin knows you're here so he won't be. But he's on call if you need help."
"Grand. What else?"
"We'll need to move the car seat into whatever you're driving."
"I'm not going to take him anywhere."
"Well. Let's move it, just in case. And you should probably think about buying your own. There's other stuff you're going to need too. Later. For when Quinn... stays with you." I said it with almost no pain, but that was because it was so far in the future. I still had time.
I grabbed my keys and Jack followed me outside. A black Tacoma was parked next to my small carport. The late afternoon sun caught the swirls in the deteriorating paint and made them sparkle.
The body style had changed over the intervening years, but the view of the sturdy black lumber-rack and dinged up tailgate with the curving Toyota T in its oval took me right back to our marriage. The truck had been silver then, the interior a soft gray.
We'd gone everywhere in the truck. My mom's old Camry had almost 280 thousand miles when it finally died. We'd donated it to Kars for Kids before moving to Vegas—a place where cabs and public transit made it easy not to own a vehicle.
A soft chirp sounded and the rear lights flashed as I walked by. I unlocked the Bronco in the old fashion way, by sticking the key into its slot and feeling the rusty resistance as I turned it. It seemed to take my whole arm to crank that key over. It didn't normally take such effort.
The door swung open with a whine, and I stepped up on the runner bar and reached around to pop the backseat lock. I glimpsed Jack through the window, standing like he always did, with a ramrod up his back, feet about shoulder length apart. He was watching me. And that knowledge made me aware of every scrap of muscle moving in my body.
The way my clothes touched my body, the way my hair swished around my shoulders, my hands as they grasped the car seat, my fingers as they pried the belts free, the back of my neck where my skin crept under his scrutiny.
I backed out and hopped down, the plastic of the car seat banging against my shin as I walked over to his Toyota. He preceded me and gently popped open the small back door of the cab.
"Here." He held out his hands, like waiting for a running child to jump into his arms. His thermal sleeves were pushed up, and I was careful not to stare at the veins popping under the skin, rioting down into his knuckles.
"I better do it," I said. "It's kind of tricky."
I stuck my head into his truck, and it immediately swam. The smell. Was intense. Like warm baked Jackson, faintly tinged with ashtray. There was no organ in my body untouched by the hot green nostalgia of it. So thick, I felt my tongue pucker with the flavor of Jack's skin. My stomach flipped, my heart fluttered, my breath clung stubbornly to my lungs. My eyes didn't see anything; all my brain could process was memory after memory of history with that smell around me.
Somehow I managed to buckle Quinn's seat in. As I pushed myself back and out of the car, I noticed a bottle of nail polish in the center console. Bright candy orange.
Some girl sat in his passenger seat and did her toes or her fingers while he drove. Maybe she had her long lean leg up on the dash; maybe Jackson stole glances at the shortness of her skirt or ran his hand up her thigh. Ran just the knife edge of a puffed vein standing up on the back of his hand along the soft unblemished skin of someone glamorous, with long, lank model hair and pouty lips... and most importantly. Young. Clean. With no kid-snot smeared over her sleeve or blood staining her scrubs.
Get over it.
Get over it was right. If I had to compare myself to those types of women I'd go mad. I couldn't entertain it; I couldn't let it touch me. It wasn't as if he hadn't been living the life of a successful, attractive, passionate man for years now.
I pushed off the big black truck—harder than I thought. I wanted to see the truck rock back away from me. I wanted to tip it over, all the contents crashing inside. It was rage like acid eating away inside my bunching muscles. I understood why men punched things. I wanted that release too. I wanted to run forever, like I only could in dreams. I wanted to race and rev and by pure force of righteous energy, obliterate all the shadows clinging to my back.
I hesitated only a moment before meeting Jack's expectant gaze. "You switched to an automatic."
I could tell by his expression that he saw right through me. As he always did. His eyes told me that this was the future I'd wanted. His mouth said, "Okay. Any other directives?"
"Just the prime," I said, trying to be light. Trying to find calm.
He shook his head. "No meddling with alien culture?"
I gave a weak shrug. Maybe once—I had to stop thinking in these terms—but maybe once it would have been an okay joke. Maybe once even the stupidity and irrelevance would have made Jack crack me a smile. But not now.
I could shake him. Instead I stuffed my hands in my scrub pockets. "I think... I think that's it."
"Momma!"
Quinn ran up the path, apparently aimed for me, with Jeanie a few feet behind him. I went down to a knee for a good-bye hug when he saw Jack and changed direction.
"Jack!"
I watched as Quinn veered into his father. Soon, he'd be calling him dad. And who knew—maybe their bond would be stronger than ours. That was a possibility I hadn't thought of before. Maybe Quinn would want to be with Jack more than me.
And then what?
...
Jack didn't call. I kept checking my phone. Nothing. I thought about him constantly. I thought about Quinn constantly. I kept telling myself no news was good news.
I worked with one eye on the clock. As soon as the slowly rounding minute hand hit twelve, I was out. I squeezed Bettie's hand and she rolled her eyes at me.
I drove home too fast and pulled sharply into the driveway. The back-end of Jack's black Tacoma gleamed quietly next to the empty carport. The whole house had a calm settled aura, a flickering glow spilled out just past the living room curtain. I stood on the gravel a moment, just feeling peaceful, tranquil.
Everything was okay.
I opened the door, turning the knob slow and careful. The living room was dark save for the hushed TV repeating the menu track on a DVD. Unsteady illumination danced over the chaotic room. Toys were everywhere; CDs piled up by the stereo. Quinn's favorite books were in a toppled heap next to the couch. There was a cup in a saucer surrounded by crumbs on the coffee table.
I navigated the chaos until I reached the couch. Jack had succumbed to sleep sitting up with his elbow on the side table next to his phone and cigarettes. His head was tipped into his hand in a good grief gesture. Quinn was conked out on his side, the cowlick on the back of his head sticking up.
"Come on, baby," I whispered as I collected him.
"Momma," he said in his sleep, and the anxious coil inside me unwound entirely. I tucked him in, flipped the switch on his nightlight, and cracked the bedroom door.
Then, I stood and looked at Jack. Really looked at him. It was sort of like looking at a photo of him, because I could openly examine it without his judgment. His booted feet were planted squarely on the ground, his legs open and relaxed. His mouth lost its severity in sleep. Maybe because he wasn't cruel when he was silent. I couldn't tell if his lashes fluttered or if it was just the wild light giving that impression.
I went down to my knees at his side, hesitant to touch him.
"Jack. Jackson... I'm home."
"Mmmm." He shifted, not waking.
"Jack," I said a little louder, thinking maybe I should just let him sleep on the couch. I reached for his leg to give him a little nudge. His thigh underneath the denim was so familiar—as soon as I touched it, I realized I should have gone for shoulder.
His hand closed over my wrist. He gave another muffled groan and pulled. "Come here."
One thing I hadn't forgotten about Jack—that I should have remembered now, especially—was how he slept. Best, when holding someone close. I remembered all the times I'd laid with my head on his stomach or his chest. Feeling him breathe or laugh underneath me. I remembered the warmth of his arms when he'd wrapped me in them. The easy way he'd fit himself into my back, tucking his knees up behind mine while we slept.
He pulled with lazy strength, and my chest smushed into his knee. His eyes opened.
He looked at me blurrily for a moment, then lifted his head and looked around.
"Kit." He sounded disappointed. The hollow misgiving in his voice crushed me.
I pulled my hand back. "I'm here. You can... go home now."
He hoisted himself to his feet, and I sat back to let him pass. He grabbed his phone and his smokes from the side table and walked out the front door without saying goodbye.
I sat staring at the empty couch, listening for the engine of his truck and not hearing it. I got to my feet and went to the window. Jack was leaning against the tailgate, smoking and staring up at the stars. His Adam's apple stood out in his stretched neck, the cords too. He righted his head and smoke floated out of his mouth and nose into the cold night.
For a few minutes, I watched him smoke, his hand cupping his mouth and falling away. Again, he was easy to watch this way. I was free to just look at him. I craved my camera. I wanted this noir shot, him in near total darkness, his face pointed down, smoke spiraling from his fingers.
I was pondering my Coolpix when he abruptly met my gaze. As if he'd felt me watching him this whole time and had finally decided to acknowledge it.
I tore myself away from the window and went into the kitchen. The crock-pot was still on so I switched it off. The bottle of apple juice in the fridge was almost empty.
"Damn it, Jack," I said under my breath.
"Damn it, what?"
I turned to find Jack a few yards behind me. I shut the fridge. "I thought you left." I sounded grumpy and disappointed.
"Well, I didn't. Yet. Don't worry. I will in a minute."
"I'm not worried. About that."
He leaned against the counter, hands turned under and grasping the edge. "I drank the juice. I'll replace it tomorrow."
"You don't have to do that. I... I actually wasn't upset about that... not really. If Quinn had juice, it's not a big deal."
"Well. Just so you know. He didn't. He had milk."
I leaned against the fridge and gave him a small smile. "Thank you."
He smiled back, small in the same way as mine. "Yeah."
"So, how'd it go? I didn't hear from you... so. Did it go good?"
He made a slightly exaggerated, contemplative expression. "Yeah. We just played and watched a show. God-awful, Kit. I mean, really awful. It made me feel like I was high. Like that bad."
"Ah. Yo Gabba Gabba. I know what you mean."
"We ate dinner and played music and read stories. He didn't want to go to bed, so I let him crash on the couch."
"That's fine... Just, you know... try to get him back into his routine soon. Don't let him maneuver you because he'll never stop."
"He's ah... He's got a strong will."
The kitchen was dark, his face just barely illuminated by the light over the range. "I wonder where he got that attribute."
Jack looked me straight in the face. "From you, Kit."
I pshawed him and started to protest.
"From you. He gets it from you."
And he sounded proud of me.
...
Hey lovely readers — I am so sorry for the long time between updates. I'm trying to get this tightened up, but I just have a bajillion things going on. I can't keep the promises I made about updating. Just know that I am writing and maybe it might be a better read when it's complete.
Also — thank you to Songster51. She puts a LOT of time into making sure this is readable.
Much love to all.